Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The flat was too clean.

Way too clean. And not the good kind of clean.

No, it wasn't the kind that came from a lazy weekend spent half-heartedly tidying, but the kind of surgical cleanliness that screamed desperation. Hermione’s flat now looked like she’d been evicted and an army of house elves had been given unfettered access to scrub out every trace of her existence. Books were arranged in perfect alphabetical order, not a single page dog-eared (not that Hermione encouraged such behaviors, thank you very much). The laundry basket was unnervingly empty, and the coffee table gleamed as if the Chudley Cannons figurines had never gouged their way across its surface.

On the sofa, Hermione sat cross-legged, her eyes fixed on a cooling cup of tea that hadn’t seen a sip in the past hour. Next to it sat a box of Ron’s leftovers from their life together: mismatched socks, a battered deck of Exploding Snap cards, and the gaudy orange scarf he’d left behind. The scarf was sticking out at an angle that felt like it was mocking her, its brightness utterly offensive against the muted tones of her living room.

And still, she couldn't get him out of her head.

Ron.

They’d broken up two months ago.

Or rather, they’d had the chat, as Ron had so graciously labeled it in hindsight.

Hermione’s lips curled into a wry smile as she thought about it. “Chat.” What a pathetic word for the complete dissolution of a life they’d built together.

She could still hear him, pacing their flat with the same nervous energy he always carried when something was about to go sideways.

“I just don’t think we’re right for each other,” Ron had said, scratching the back of his neck like he was apologizing for breaking her favorite quill instead of her heart. His eyes darted everywhere except at her. Classic move.

Hermione had blinked, her chest tightening in that annoying, familiar way. She’d known this moment was coming for months—frankly, maybe even years—but apparently, knowing the train is about to hit you doesn’t make the impact hurt any less.

“And it took you this long to figure that out?” she shot back, arching a brow. Her replies always were quick and cutting; it was the duct tape that held her together since age twelve.

He flinched, but to his credit, he soldiered on. “You don’t have to be cruel about it.”

“I’m not,” she snapped, though her tone suggested otherwise. “I’m just trying to understand what changed.”

His face softened in that infuriatingly patronizing way that always made her want to hex him. “It’s not about what changed,” he said, his voice gentle, like he was trying to put a bow on a howler. “It’s about what didn’t.”

And there it was. The one-two punch. First pity, then truth, delivered like a poorly wrapped present she never asked for. Hermione felt her stomach drop, not in anger—no, anger would’ve been better—but in that miserable, helpless way that meant she’d still been holding out hope. Stupid, idiotic hope.

The storm between them had been brewing for ages, long before this conversation, long before they’d pretended that her endless need to climb every mountain and solve every puzzle could somehow fit into the same life as Ron’s desire to just be. Her ambition and his contentment weren’t just incompatible—they were suffocating each other. Hermione knew it; but that didn’t mean she accepted it.

At least not until the final nail in their coffin had presented itself.

And that? Oh, that had come six months ago, in the form of a magical tattoo. A shimmering butterfly, to be exact. Mocking, ethereal, and perched smugly across Ron’s chest.

The beginning of the end, really.

“I don’t think we can argue with the universe,” he’d said, gesturing to the damn thing like it was his personal Get-Out-of-Breakup-Guilt-Free card. The universe, apparently, had decided Ron’s soulmate wasn’t her. The butterfly had other plans.

Hermione stared at the little traitor—flittering softly against Ron’s skin, glowing like it was the world’s most inconvenient piece of magic. The butterfly, the mark of a soulbond, was something rare, unpredictable, and chosen by fate in its own mysterious way. Magic decided when and how it appeared, and if you were lucky enough, it meant you would be able to find your other half.

Ron, clearly, had been deemed lucky. Destiny had fluttered toward him with all the grace of a creature with wings, while Hermione? Well, she was still waiting for a sign that her own magic had any idea what it was doing. But no. She had no soulmate mark. No Patronus-shaped tattoo, that would’ve signaled a perfect match. Just a blank canvas—like the universe had given her a celestial shrug. Nothing to see here, folks.

Not that she would let him see how much it stung. Instead, she shot him a look and made sure her voice carried just the right edge to it. “Great,” she had said, her tone sharp enough to make him wince. “Glad the butterfly figured it out for us.”

And that was that. They’d ended things quietly, like civilized adults, both pretending not to notice the cracks spreading between their smiles.

Now, though? Staring at the box of his things sitting on her coffee table, Hermione didn’t feel particularly civilized. Or adult. She felt like shoving the whole thing into the back of a wardrobe and pretending it didn’t exist. But she wouldn’t. She’d promised herself she’d return it. One last loose end to tie up—or rather, cut.

With a heavy sigh, she pushed herself off the couch, muttering, “Nothing like a breakup to make you realize how much junk you’ve been hoarding.”

The stack of Ministry files wobbled on the coffee table, a paper Jenga tower daring her to tip it over. Hermione’s eyes flicked over the titles—“Regulations for Broomstick Maintenance,” “Revised Standards for Portkey Licensing,” and other thrilling bedtime reads. But one file stood out, its bold lettering practically screaming for her attention: Romania: Dragon Handler Initiative.

She plucked it from the pile, her fingers tracing the edges of the parchment. She’d looked at it before—months ago, back when it first arrived on her desk. It had stirred something in her then: a flicker of excitement, a sense of possibility. But she’d shut it down before that spark could catch. Ron hadn’t liked the idea. Too far, too dangerous, too much like his older brother Charlie, who, as Ron put it, “ran off to play with fire and forgot he had a family.”

At the time, she’d agreed—or, more like it, she’d complied.

Because that’s what you did when you were trying to make a relationship work. But now, sitting in a flat that was too clean and too quiet, she wondered what on earth she’d been thinking.

Flipping open the file, she devoured the details. A year-long post in Romania, working alongside dragon handlers to develop conservation policies and improve safety measures. It was everything she’d ever wanted: wild, purposeful, and far away from prying eyes—or, at the very least, prying reporters. Her heart quickened as she scanned the text, her mind already picturing herself surrounded by towering mountains, roaring dragons, and challenges she could sink her teeth into.

Her eyes snagged on a name halfway down the page: Charles Weasley.

She froze. Of course. Who else would be chosen as a Ministry liaison? The universe clearly had a flair for irony.

Hermione leaned back, the folder still in her lap, and let out a long, slow breath. Charlie Weasley. She’d only met him a handful of times, but he was hard to forget. All rugged charm, weathered skin, and an effortless confidence that made him seem like he belonged anywhere—except, perhaps, at a family dinner.

Molly certainly hadn’t held back her opinions on Charlie’s life choices. Hermione could almost hear her now: “Dragons, honestly. And in Romania, of all places! Why can’t he just settle down like a proper wizard?”

Hermione couldn’t help but admire him for it, though—for chasing his passion, for refusing to be boxed in by expectations. Not that she was about to start fawning over Ron’s brother. That would be... inappropriate.

Still, she had eyes.

Either way, Charlie exuded a rugged charm that practically dared anyone to hand him society’s checklist for a proper wizard in his thirties—and to watch him promptly set it on fire. And as for his mum? Well, if previous Christmases were anything to go by, Charlie had long since mastered the art of ignoring her pointed looks and biting comments about his “unconventional” choices.

And Molly Weasley had plenty of thoughts.

Hermione’s jaw tightened as she recalled their last pleasant conversation—a generous word for the verbal landmine she’d stepped on.

“You’re such a good friend to Ron, dear,” Molly had said with that tight, almost saccharine smile. “But, well, I always pictured him with someone a bit more… maternal. You know, someone who really loves the idea of raising a family.”

Translation: Why can’t you just stay home and pop out babies like a proper wife?

It wasn’t surprising, really. Fleur had received the same frosty treatment for daring to have a personality. Molly’s dream daughter-in-law probably lived in a perpetual state of barefoot domestic bliss and went into labor on cue every 18 months.

At the time, Hermione had smiled through gritted teeth and taken it on the chin. Later, though, sitting in their flat, she’d burned her tongue on too-hot tea and plotted out a detailed curse for hexing people with outdated expectations.

Now, though, with the dragon file in hand, the memory only strengthened her resolve. She didn’t want to be the version of herself that would fit neatly into Molly’s tidy expectations—or anyone else’s, for that matter.

She conjured her Patronus with a decisive flick of her wand, her silvery otter darting into existence with a playful swish of its tail. “Dear Minister Shacklebolt,” Hermione said firmly, her voice clear and unwavering. “I accept the Romania assignment. I’ll leave by the end of the week.”

The otter gave her an approving swish of its tail before darting through the wall, taking her message—and her resolve—with it.

Hermione glanced around the flat, her eyes landing on the shrunken box of Ron’s things sitting by the door. Tomorrow, she’d deliver it. One last tie severed.

“Here’s to dragons,” she muttered, raising her cold tea in a mock toast. “At least they’re honest about burning things to the ground.”

And with that, she stood and headed to her bedroom, her mind already racing ahead to the mountains of Romania, to dragons and danger and a fresh start that didn’t come with strings attached. Whatever lay ahead, it had to be better than what she was leaving behind.

Chapter Text

The Romanian Dragon Reserve didn’t believe in charm, Hermione decided the moment she stepped off the rickety cart that had trundled her up the last stretch of jagged, dirt road. She had wanted to see the reserve. Observe it, get to know it. And so, she had opted to portkey to Bukarest and make her way up from there.

It had been a good decision. The landscape was beautiful, at least until the she arrived into the dragon habitat; all raw edges, jagged cliffs, scorched earth, and skies that seemed perpetually bruised. The air smelled like smoke and sulfur, and she could have sworn she heard a distant, guttural roar somewhere beyond the tree line.

“Charming,” she muttered, brushing a stray curl out of her face as she took in the sprawling camp ahead.

Yet, it was not like she’d expected anything else. This was exactly what she needed, a fresh start.

The reserve was a mix of utilitarian structures and haphazard organization—large iron pens, towering fences reinforced with wards, and several tents that looked like they’d barely survived a dragon’s tantrum. Wizards and… at least one witch..? bustled about, all wearing thick leather gear smeared with soot and—was that blood? Her pristine Ministry robes suddenly felt embarrassingly out of place, a glaring reminder that she didn’t belong here.

A wiry man with a long scar running down the right side of his face gave her a once-over as she approached. His sneer was subtle but unmistakable. “Suit,” he muttered to the wizard next to him, loud enough for Hermione to hear.

Suit? Really? Just because she didn’t look like she’d crawled out of the belly of a dragon didn’t mean she wasn’t prepared. But instead of snapping back, she straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin, refusing to let the whispers rattle her.

She wasn’t here to make friends.

The crack of a whip split the air, followed by a furious roar that sent a shiver down her spine. Hermione turned toward the commotion just in time to see him—Charlie Weasley.

He was in the center of the chaos, wrestling with an adolescent Hungarian Horntail that looked like it wanted him dead. The dragon snapped its jaws, smoke curling from its nostrils, but Charlie stood his ground, shouting commands to the other handlers as he dodged with unnerving grace.

His hair was longer than she remembered, a fiery red that gleamed like embers in the sunlight, and his broad shoulders filled out a leather tunic that looked older than both of them combined. There was a raw, magnetic energy about him—something wild and untamed, like the dragon he was currently trying to handle.

For a moment, she just stared, mesmerized.

And then he turned and saw her.

The moment their eyes met, something shifted. His expression was unreadable at first, just a flicker of recognition before his gaze hardened. With a final command to the handlers, he handed off the whip and strode toward her, boots crunching against the gravel.

“Granger.” He said her name like it was an obligation, not a greeting. His voice was low, rough, and carried the faintest trace of impatience as he continued. “You’re the ministry rep they sent? If you’re here to observe and make notes... Do us all a favour and just stay out of the way.”

She blinked.

That was it? No “welcome to the reserve” or even a cursory handshake? Just a thinly veiled dismissal wrapped in condescension?

Hermione drew herself up, her professional mask slipping firmly into place. They’d crossed paths before—briefly, and only a handful of times—mostly at scattered Weasley Christmases, where everyone was either shouting or singing or drinking. But the one that stuck, the one she actually remembered, was Bill and Fleur’s wedding. He’d been best man, she’d been maid of honor, and they’d shared exactly one dance. But that was over eight years ago, and clearly, whatever fleeting camaraderie they might have had was long forgotten.

“Actually, I’m here to assess and improve the Ministry’s support for dragon conservation. And I assure you, Mr. Weasley, I don’t intend to stand idly by and take notes.”

Charlie’s lips twitched, almost like he wanted to smirk but thought better of it. Instead, he crossed his arms over his chest, giving her a pointed once-over. “Right. Just ‘Charlie,’ by the way—‘Mr. Weasley’ is my dad. And try not to get yourself killed. Dragons don’t care much for bureaucracy.”

Before she could reply, he turned on his heel and walked off, leaving her standing there, seething.

She watched him go, the muscles in his back flexing under the worn leather as he barked orders to a group of handlers. Her jaw clenched. Fine. If he wanted to treat her like a helpless Ministry lackey, let him. She’d show him—and everyone else here—exactly what she was capable of.

But as she squared her shoulders and started toward the main tent or cabin, by the looks of it – it was definitely a mix of both. Still, she couldn’t ignore the faint, unwelcome heat curling in her chest. Hermione shoved the thought aside, her steps firm and purposeful. She was here to work, not to get distracted by the frustrating, infuriating... completely magnetic dragon handler who clearly thought she didn’t belong.

She sighed. This was going to be a long year.

Chapter Text

Hermione hadn’t expected dragon handling to be easy, but she also hadn’t expected it to be this.

As all other days before, this one started at the crack of dawn with one of the other handlers, a lanky, no-nonsense guy with glasses named Herman, shoving a bucket of raw meat into her hands.

“Horntail’s feeding,” he barked, jerking her head toward a pen that looked suspiciously unstable. “You’ll want to move fast. She’s snappish in the mornings.”

Snappish? The Hungarian Horntail in question was the size of a small building, with jagged scales glinting in the sunlight and teeth like oversized kitchen knives. It gave Hermione a look that stated, quite plainly, You’re breakfast.

Great. Lovely, even.

Her eyes darted around, but there was no one around to be of any help. Hermione's eyes flicked from the bucket to the dragon. Merlin. She had to get a move on.

“Right,” Hermione muttered, clutching the bucket like a lifeline. “Fast. Got it.”

The morning devolved into a blur of sweat, dirt, and more near-death experiences than she’d had since the war. The handlers worked like a well-oiled machine, hauling supplies, reinforcing pens, and casually dodging fireballs as if it was just another Tuesday. Meanwhile, Hermione stumbled behind them, trying to keep up while mentally cataloging every move the dragons and handlers made, as well as every muscle in her body that was currently screaming in protest.

By midday, soot clung to her skin like a second layer, her hair had exploded into an unmanageable frizz, and her dignity was hanging by a perilously thin thread.

“You’ve really captured the ‘dragons chewed me up and spit me out’ look,” a dry voice drawled from behind her.

Hermione didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. That voice, with its slow, sardonic lilt, belonged to the man who had clawed his way up through the ranks of the reserve to become its lead handler.

“Charlie.” she said.

As she turned out, no reply came. Only a slow arch of his eyebrow and a questioning look. And, well, that certainly did not count as a reply in Hermione’s book.

Still, the corners of her mouth tugged up ever so slightly. She hadn’t the faintest why they were behaving the way they were. But she liked it. And Hermione was stubborn enough to play along; there was no way she would break first to whatever it was Charlie roped them into.

And so, her reply came swiftly.

“I’m adapting,” she shot back, swiping at the dirt streaking her official ministry robes. The effort only seemed to smear it more.

“Is that what we’re calling it?” Charlie’s lips tugged into a crooked, barely-there smile as he sauntered past her, his easy confidence born of years working in the chaos she was just beginning to stumble through. He cast a critical eye over the pen she’d been struggling with, his presence calm and commanding, like he belonged to this world in a way she never could.

He didn’t bother with further commentary, but the faint smirk on his face lingered—settling over her like the smoke she couldn’t quite escape.

Hermione dropped onto the battered leather stool in the handlers’ lounge, the weight of the day dragging at her shoulders. Her hair clung to her face in damp, tangled curls, and her hands were still smudged with ash she hadn’t bothered to wash off. The last thing she wanted to do was Floo Ron, but guilt—persistent, nagging guilt—pressed harder than exhaustion. She grabbed the powder, muttering his name through gritted teeth.

They had agreed to stay friends after everything.

Bloody friends.

Friends talked, didn’t they? Or at least they were supposed to. That’s what people always said, anyway.

The fire flared to life before she could second-guess herself, and there he was: Ron Weasley. Freshly showered, not a speck of soot or worry on him, looking maddeningly composed and just a little too smug.

Of course, he’d be fine. He’d always been fine. It was her, wasn’t it? She was the one who overthought, overcomplicated, over everythinged. And now here he was, standing there like the break-up had rolled off his back while she was knee-deep in dragon pens, literally covered in dirt, and barely keeping it together.

“You look like hell,” he said, his nose wrinkling slightly, as though her appearance might waft through the Floo and invade his pristine flat.

The words twisted something in her core, scraping along the jagged edges of her simmering frustration. She took a deep breath. Friends, she reminded herself bitterly. They were still friends.

“Wow, thanks,” Hermione said dryly, brushing at her dirt-smeared shirt like it would make any difference. “Nothing like a little constructive criticism to lift the spirits.”

Ron, as usual, missed the sarcasm. “I just don’t get it. Dragons, Hermione? Of all things? What are you doing out there?”

His voice carried that particular brand of exasperation she’d learned to circumvent over the years—a mix of disbelief and an unshakable certainty that her decisions were somehow miscalculated.

“Let’s see,” she said, ticking off her fingers. “Contributing to groundbreaking magical conservation work, addressing systemic inefficiencies in Ministry policies, preserving magical species with up and coming trials, and, oh yes, avoiding suffocating conversations like this one.”

Ron frowned, but she wasn’t done. “It’s important work, Ron. Dragons need advocates too, and this reserve is barely scraping by as it is. The species, and this place, needs Ministry support.” She paused, inhaling sharply. Hermione Granger wasn’t done yet. “And maybe I needed something different for a change. Something challenging.”

Ron’s face tightened, his brows knitting together in that patronizing way that always made her want to hex him. “Different, huh?” he said, his voice dropping into the low, almost-reasonable tone he used when he thought she was being ridiculous. “You were never this vocal about dragons of all things…”, he paused, “Charlie didn’t have anything to do with this, did he? Mum’s been on his case ever since—”

Hermione’s temper—worn thin after a day of dodging dragon fire, enduring muttered slurs, and facing the handlers’ blatant disregard for her as the Ministry’s representative—finally snapped. “Why the hell would your brother have set me up for this?” she bit, leaning closer to the flames like sheer force of will could strangle the idiocy out of him.

Ron squirmed, which was mildly satisfying. “Well… he’s there, isn’t he?” he said weakly, his ears going red. “And you—you can’t tell me Romania was your first choice just for the dragons. I mean, he’s been—”

“No,” she cut in, her voice sharp enough to slice. “You don’t get to do this, Ron. This has nothing to do with Charlie.” Her voice climbed, frustration spilling over. “This was my decision. Not your brother’s that I’ve only met a few times, not yours, mine.”

Ron’s mouth opened, then shut, his face flushing as he scrambled for a response.

Hermione didn’t give him the chance. With a sharp flick of her wrist, she severed the connection, the Floo flames sputtering out with a hiss that perfectly matched her mood.

She sat back on her stool, breathing hard, her fingers curling against her knees.

“Unbelievable,” she muttered to the empty room.

It wasn’t just his insinuation that grated—it was the realization that, somewhere back in England, Charlie Weasley was probably taking the brunt of the blame for her choices.

Choices he had nothing to do with. Choices she made for herself.

And somehow, that made her even angrier.

The next morning, the whispers started before Hermione even reached the paddock.

“She’s out of her depth,” one of the handlers muttered in English, his voice carrying over the clanging of tools.

“She’ll be gone by next week,” another chimed in, switching to Bulgarian. “She’s a Bookworm. What did she expect?”

Hermione’s grip tightened on the strap of her bag, but she didn’t break stride. Years of dealing with snide Slytherins and pompous Ministry officials had taught her to keep her face neutral, even when her blood boiled. But the Bulgarian dug under her skin like a splinter. Criticising her in English was one thing, but this? This made her blood boil. Oh, you think I don’t understand? Cute.

“She probably doesn’t even know how to hold a wand in a fight,” a third handler added in Romanian. “Granger or not, she’ll run crying back to her cushy Ministry office.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow but didn’t turn around. Instead, she called out in sharp, perfect Bulgarian:

“Maybe you should learn to pronounce ‘bookworm’ properly first.”

The sudden silence was as satisfying as a well-cast hex. When she turned her head slightly, just enough to catch their slack-jawed stares, she allowed herself the barest smirk.

They recovered quickly, though, muttering curses under their breath in Romanian and shaking their heads like she’d just confirmed every assumption about her.

Fine, Hermione thought, her jaw tightening as she strode into the paddock. Underestimate me all you like.

She wasn’t here to make friends, and she certainly wasn’t here to play at being a dragon handler. But as Hermione rubbed at the soot streaking her arms, she couldn’t deny the truth gnawing at her—drafting effective policies from the sidelines was about as useful as a paper shield against dragon fire.

Fine. If that meant learning how to wrangle a dragon without getting incinerated, so be it. She’d figure it out, and when she did, she’d prove it with reports so thorough they’d make heads spin—probably in three languages, just for good measure.

Hermione was perched on a crate near the camp’s edge, a worn Romanian novel propped open in her lap. The title, Vânătorul de Dragon (The Dragon Hunter), was scrawled in faded gold letters across the cracked spine. She’d picked it up in a dusty bookshop in the nearest town, partly for the challenge of deciphering the unfamiliar language and partly because it felt appropriate given her current circumstances.

The language was coming to her faster than she expected—helped along, no doubt, by the endless mutterings of the handlers who seemed to think she was deaf, dumb, and completely oblivious. She wasn’t, of course. Hermione Granger didn’t do oblivious.

Her finger traced a particularly tricky passage when the first shout pierced the air.

“Ce naiba?!”

She looked up just in time to see a flash of shimmering, iridescent scales dart between the pens. An Antipodean Opaleye, its sleek body coiled in distress, was thrashing against a section of fencing that looked alarmingly close to collapse. Sparks flew as the dragon’s tail slammed into the barrier, and a second, more panicked shout followed.

“Someone get Charlie!”

Hermione didn’t think—thinking in a crisis was a luxury she’d long since trained out of herself. Years of fighting in a war where hesitation meant death had honed her instincts to razor-sharp precision. She snapped the book shut, tucked her wand into her hand, and bolted toward the chaos.

“Granger! Don’t!” one of the handlers barked as she skidded to a halt near the broken fence.

She ignored him, her mind already piecing together the problem like a puzzle. The dragon’s injured leg—there, a jagged shard of metal piercing its scales. Every thrash dug the wound deeper, causing more blood to race down its skin, and its cries, sharp and keening, reverberated through her chest with a bone-deep urgency.

Hermione didn’t hesitate. A surge of adrenaline took over as she raised her wand, her movements steady and deliberate. Wandless magic would have been faster, but controlled precision was the priority here.

“Mobilicorpus!” she cast, her voice firm and unyielding. The shimmering ropes of magic spiraled around the dragon’s limb, tightening just enough to stabilize the injury. The thrashing slowed—not stopped entirely, but enough to prevent further damage.

She exhaled sharply, her war-trained reflexes already anticipating the next step. This wasn’t the battlefield, but here, like then, she knew one thing for certain: she could handle this.

The Opaleye’s golden eyes fixed on her, wide with fear.

“Shhh,” Hermione murmured, though she had no idea if the dragon could hear her over the din.

“Do you have a death wish?” came a sharp, exasperated voice to her right.

Charlie Weasley.

He moved through the chaos with practiced ease, like this was just another day at the reserve. His wand was already flicking off spells to reinforce the crumbling ward lines around the pen, the magic crackling with precision. His shirt, torn across the sleeve, revealed a glimpse of a muscled yet marred forearm and the edge of a magical tattoo—marks of both his skill and his recklessness. The absence of dragon-hide gloves and the state of his clothes told a clear story: he’d come straight from one emergency to another, with no time to prepare, likely interrupted from what little downtime he’d managed to snatch.

Hermione gritted her teeth. “Would you rather I stood back and watched it impale itself further?”

His eyes flicked to her, a momentary pause in his otherwise fluid movements. “I’d rather you didn’t get yourself killed. Though maybe that’s too much to hope for.”

She shot him a glare but kept her focus on the spellwork, ensuring the dragon’s injured limb didn’t move as Charlie barked orders to the other handlers. Within minutes, the team had sedated the Opaleye and secured the damaged fence, the adrenaline in Hermione’s veins fading into a jittery aftershock.

Finally, she let the spell drop and sagged against a nearby crate, her breath coming in short bursts.

Charlie approached, wiping his hands on a rag that was somehow dirtier than his hands. He studied her for a long moment, his expression inscrutable.

“Not bad, Granger,” he said, voice low and even. “For someone who was reading a bloody novel ten minutes ago.”

Hermione straightened, forcing a calmness she didn’t feel. “It’s called multitasking. You should try it sometime.”

His lips twitched, just barely, and for a second, she thought he might actually laugh. Instead, he tossed the rag onto a pile and leaned one arm on the crate beside her, close enough that she caught the faint scent of smoke and leather.

“Romanian, huh?” he said, nodding toward the book still clutched in her hand. “Trying to impress the locals?”

“Just keeping myself sharp,” she shot back. “Though judging by the vocabulary of your foreign handlers, I’ll make sure to outpace them in a week.”

This time, his grin broke through, sharp and fleeting. “I’ll take that bet.”

“Good,” she replied, her chin lifting slightly. “Because I’m winning.”

Their eyes locked, and for a moment, the space between them felt charged, like the Opal had set the air around them on fire. Charlie’s expression softened—just a fraction—but before she could read into it, he pushed off the crate and stepped back.

“Don’t make a habit of jumping in like that,” he said, his tone gruff again. “This isn’t Hogwarts.”

“And you’re not a professor,” she countered, though the words lacked their usual bite.

He glanced back over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised. “No, but I’m the one who’ll be scraping you off the ground if you’re not careful.”

With that, he strode off toward the handlers’ quarters, leaving Hermione alone with the quiet buzz of victory—and the infuriating realization that she’d noticed the way his shoulders moved when he walked.

Chapter Text

The main tent was quieter than usual, save for the rhythmic patter of rain against the canvas and the occasional rumble of distant dragons. Dinner had been a blur of clanking cutlery and boisterous voices, most of the men now retired to their own tents or still lingering outside, their laughter punctuating the night. Hermione was gathering her things to leave when Katya’s voice cut through her sea of thoughts like a whip.

“You stay,” the Russian handler said, jerking Hermione’s head toward the table where she sat, boots propped casually on a nearby chair.

Hermione paused, frowning. “Stay? Why?”

Katya arched an eyebrow, unimpressed with the question. “Why not?”

Hermione hesitated, weighing her options. Katya was one of the more enigmatic figures at the reserve—sharp-eyed, fiercely competent, and generally uninterested in small talk. The idea of being summoned felt odd, but curiosity won out.

“Alright,” Hermione said, setting her notebook back down.

Katya grinned, wide and toothy, and gestured to the seat across from her. Hermione sat, unsure of what to expect, while Katya leaned forward, studying her like an intriguing puzzle.

“You are different,” Katya began, her English clipped but deliberate.

Hermione blinked. “Different?”

“Yes. Not like the others here.”

Hermione snorted. “Well, I’d hope not. I’m hardly a dragon wrangler.”

“No,” Katya agreed, “but you are not useless.”

It took Hermione a second to realize that was a compliment. “Er... thank you?”

Katya laughed, a deep, unapologetic sound. “You do not take compliment well. This is funny.”

“Well, it’s not something I hear often around here.” Hermione gestured vaguely toward the empty chairs where the men had been. “I’m fairly certain most of them think I’m here to organize their sock drawers.”

Katya’s grin widened. “They are idiots. Loud, messy idiots. Think working with dragons make them big heroes. Like they are so special because dragon almost eat them. But... sometimes, they good for something.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “Useful how?”

Katya shrugged, her smirk turning sharper. “Good for carrying heavy things. And excellent for laughing at.”

Hermione let out a quiet laugh, finally relaxing. “Oh, I’ve noticed. Some of them are basically walking protein shakes with legs.”

Katya slapped the table, clearly delighted. “Exactly! But you—you are quiet. Smart. The men do not expect this. I like this.”

Hermione blinked, caught off guard again. “Oh. Well. Thanks.”

Katya waved a hand dismissively, her expression softening. “You think too much. Always thinking, yes?”

Hermione hesitated, the words lingering in the air. She couldn’t deny it—Katya had a point. Her mind was always running, a habit honed over years of problem-solving and constant analysis. But then Katya's grin widened again.

“You’ve gotten stronger, yes?” Katya said, eyeing Hermione with a playful glint. “I see muscle now. Not just brains.”

Hermione paused, glancing down at her arms, where she could feel the subtle shift in her own body. It was true. The daily work—lifting, running, dodging, all of it—had begun to show. Her arms were more toned, her legs firmer from days of trekking across the reserve.

“I suppose I have,” Hermione admitted quietly, her fingers absently tracing a new scar on her arm, a misstep while feeding one of the younglings – she had just been a second too slow. “I didn’t notice it at first, but... yeah. I guess it comes with the territory.”

Katya nodded approvingly, as if she had known all along. “You will be strong, like dragon.”

Hermione smiled. Indeed she was. Or, at the least, she would be.

Katya leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms as she studied Hermione, her eyes flicking from her to the empty chairs in the lounge. “You notice, yes? I am only woman here, with twenty-six men. Before you come.”

Hermione tilted her head, intrigued. “You’re truly the only one?”

Katya nodded, her smirk returning. “Yes. Lonely sometimes. But... also fun. Men are stupid, but there are many of them.”

Hermione arched an eyebrow. “And that’s... fun?”

Katya’s grin turned wicked. “If you want to get laid, there is always someone available. Always.”

Hermione choked on a laugh, shaking her head. “I don’t think that’s going to be a problem for me.”

With a flick of her wand, Katya conjured two glasses of firewhisky, sliding one across the table with a smirk that dared Hermione to keep up. They sipped in silence, the amber liquid burning in a way that felt almost conversational. After topping up their empty glasses—because one wasn’t nearly enough—Katya leaned back, her grin widening. “So,” she said, her tone dangerously casual, “Tell me, you not into men?”

Hermione blushed, taking a sip of the whiskey to stall. “What? No—I mean, yes, I am into men. I just...” She trailed off, waving a hand vaguely. “I don’t know. It just never quite... pulls me.”

Katya raised an eyebrow, her expression skeptical but amused. “Pulls you? What does this mean?”

Hermione groaned, covering her face with her free hand. “It means... I don’t know. Maybe I’m just not good at it.”

Katya's laugh rang out, loud enough to rattle the whiskey glasses. “Oh, Medok, that impossible. With your brains, you be brilliant.” She paused, thinking a moment. “You just... never had good partner.”

Hermione couldn’t help it—her laugh burst out, surprising even herself, loud and unrestrained. “Well, that’s reassuring,” she said, voice dripping with sarcasm as she raised her glass in a mock salute. “Thanks for the confidence boost, really.”

Katya leaned forward, her grin almost conspiratorial. “You think this is joke, but it is truth. You are too smart for bad sex. This is problem.”

Hermione shook her head, still laughing. “You’ve known me for, what is it now? Two months? and you’ve already diagnosed my entire love life.”

Katya shrugged, unbothered. “I am very smart. Like you.”

Hermione smiled, the warmth of the whiskey and Katya’s unexpected candor easing the tension she hadn’t realized she was carrying. Maybe, just maybe, this dragon reserve wasn’t so bad after all.

The rain came in torrents, turning the dragon reserve into a swamp of misery and mud. Hermione had retreated to her tent hours earlier, determined to use the storm as an excuse to finally catch up on her notes. Her quill scratched furiously across the parchment as she wrote, crossing out observations and rewriting them with sharp precision.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, she could hear Charlie’s voice—gruff and judgmental—reminding her that dragons didn’t care about her theories. They cared about food, freedom, and occasionally, setting things on fire.

She sighed, pushing her damp hair from her face. “Honestly, Weasley,” she spoke under her breath into the empty tent, “you’d think he invented dragons.”

The crash outside shattered her focus. She jolted, nearly upending her inkpot, as the sound of shouting rose above the storm. A roar followed—low, guttural, and unmistakably close.

Her stomach dropped. That type of sound could only mean one thing: trouble.

Grabbing her wand, Hermione shoved open the flap of her tent and stepped into the chaos. Rain lashed her face, the wind howling through the trees, but none of it could drown out the sight before her: handlers running in every direction and, above it all, a massive silhouette against the sky.

The dragon—an Ukrainian Ironbelly, if her memory served her right—beat its enormous wings, sending gusts of wind rippling through the camp. Sparks of fire crackled in its throat, illuminating the terror in the handlers’ faces.

Hermione hesitated for half a second before making her way toward the commotion.

Charlie was already there, of course, barking orders with the kind of authority that couldn’t be ignored. He stood in the rain like it didn’t bother him, his hair tied back, loose strands plastered to his face and his arms gesturing wildly as he shouted over the storm.

“Weasley!” Hermione called as she approached, but he didn’t look at her.

“Stay back, Granger!” he snapped, his tone sharp enough to cut through the rain.

“I can help!” she protested, stepping closer despite the mud sucking at her boots.

“No, you can’t,” he said, finally turning to her. His eyes were fierce, his expression all business. “This isn’t a classroom. It’s a rampaging dragon.”

“And you think I don’t know that?” She crossed her arms, glaring at him.

He let out a low, frustrated growl. “Listen to me, Hermione. You’re brilliant—no one’s arguing that—but this isn’t the time for theories. You don’t know what you’re walking into.”

Hermione opened her mouth to argue, but then the dragon roared again, a deep, earth-shattering sound that sent sparks raining down around them. Charlie didn’t even flinch. Instead, his attention locked onto the dragon, which was making its way to settle on the boulders at the far end of the camp.

And Charlie Weasley did not waste a bloody second.

With a slow, deliberate step, he began walking toward it, the other handlers hanging back a few paces—clearly too smart to get too close. Every step the man took was like a silent command, exuding an authority that could only come from years of wrangling fire-breathing beasts.

If Hermione weren’t busy following him and trying to keep her heart from leaping out of her chest, she might’ve been impressed. Instead, she was equally parts captivated and terrorized by the sight in front of her.

Charlie’s voice dropped to a low, almost soothing tone as he spoke to the dragon.

“Easy, girl,” he murmured, continuing to step forward with a slow, deliberate gait. The handlers stilled where they stood, watching him with the kind of reverence Hermione was barely starting to understand.

“Charlie...” Hermione started, finding herself just two steps behind him, but he raised a hand to stop her.

“Stay here.” His voice was firm but not unkind, and before she could argue, his focus fully switched to the dragon, inching toward the Ironbelly like he was walking into a storm he’d seen a hundred times before.

She froze, torn between following him and staying put. The dragon roared again, its massive head turning toward Charlie as he approached. For a moment, Hermione thought she might actually see him get roasted alive.

But then something shifted.

Charlie stopped a few paces away from the dragon, his wand lowered, his hands open at his sides. His voice was low, steady, carrying through the storm like a thread of calm. “I know,” he said softly, almost a whisper. “I know it’s too much. You are hurting. But you’ve got to trust me, girl. Let me help.”

The dragon growled, its tail sweeping the ground, but it didn’t move. Charlie took another step closer, his body loose, his movements slow and deliberate. He was soaked to the bone, mud streaking his dragon scale-clad arms, but there was a quiet confidence in the way he moved—like he belonged here, like he understood.

Hermione’s breath caught in her throat as she watched. This wasn’t luck. It wasn’t bravery, either. It was something deeper, something she hadn’t realized until now.

Charlie didn’t just know dragons—he felt them.

It took minutes, maybe hours—time blurred in the rain—but eventually, the dragon lowered its head, its growls subsiding into a low rumble. The handlers moved in slowly, casting containment spells, but Hermione barely noticed. Her eyes were on Charlie, watching as he reached out a hand to rest gently on the dragon’s flank.

When he finally pried himself away from the dragon, he turned back to her, his face was weary but calm. “You alright there, Granger?” he asked, his voice lighter now.

Hermione blinked, realizing she’d been standing in the same spot, frozen, the entire time. “I—yes. Fine.”

His eyes caught hers, and of course, he smirked—a slow, self-assured curve of his lips that practically dared her to react. As if that wasn’t enough, the man had the audacity to look like he’d just walked out of some heroic portrait, wet hair tousled and streaked with mud in a way that should’ve been illegal and those ridiculous blue eyes gleaming with a type of self-assurance that made Hermione’s insides coil.

It was the kind of sight that lodged itself in her brain, taunting her for weeks to come.

The dragon reserve’s fireplace wasn’t exactly cozy.

In all honesty, it was everything but. It was more of a “watch your eyebrows” situation, with flames that occasionally shot out in unpredictable spurts thanks to the experimental Floo powder Charlie insisted on using.

Yet, the main area was the only place with a floo-calling connection, so she had to make due.

Hermione knelt cautiously, adjusting her position to avoid singeing her hair as she threw in a handful of the glittering powder and called out, “Harry Potter’s office, Ministry of Magic.”

The flames turned green, and Harry’s face appeared a moment later, looking far too calm for someone running an Auror department. His glasses were perched on the end of his nose, and his hair—somehow—looked even messier than usual.

“Hermione! What’s wrong?” he asked, leaning forward with an immediate sense of urgency.

“Why does something have to be wrong?” she shot back, tilting her head.

Harry arched his eyebrows. “You only Floo me during a crisis. Did you accidentally get eaten by a dragon?”

“Very funny, Harry,” she deadpanned. “No, I just wanted to check-in. Is that a crime now?”

“Depends.” He smirked, leaning back in his chair. “What do you want to know? I’m still alive, Ginny hasn’t killed me yet, and the Auror department is somehow still standing. Barely.”

Hermione smiled despite herself. “How is Ginny, anyway?”

“Good,” Harry said, his grin softening into something warmer. “Still busy with the Harpies, but we’ve been managing. She’s been dragging me to Quidditch events every other week. How’s the reserve? Still raining dragons and chaos?”

“Something like that,” she muttered, glancing over her shoulder as the roar of another dragon echoed faintly outside.

Harry raised an eyebrow. “You’re not regretting it, are you?”

“No,” she said quickly. “It’s... well, it’s fascinating, but not exactly what I imagined. The dragons are incredible, of course, but the people—”

“Ah,” Harry interrupted knowingly. “You mean Charlie.”

“I mean all of them,” Hermione corrected sharply. “But yes, Charlie’s... particularly. Stubborn. Impossible, even. But he’s good at what he does.”

Truth be told, Hermione admired Ron’s older brother, and respected his dedication to dragons and his staunch belief in creature equality. But she wasn't going to say that out loud. At least, not yet.

“That’s the nicest thing I’ve heard you say about him over the past weeks,” Harry teased. “What’s next? A compliment for Malfoy?”

“Let’s not get carried away,” she shot back, rolling her eyes.

There was a beat of silence, comfortable and familiar, before Harry leaned forward again, his expression shifting. “Have you spoken to Ron lately?”

The question landed like a stray Bludger to the stomach.

Hermione hesitated, smoothing her hands over her knees. “Not for a few weeks. Why?”

“Just curious,” Harry said, though his tone suggested otherwise. “He mentioned he’s been seeing Lavender again.”

Hermione froze for the briefest of moments, but she quickly schooled her features into something neutral. “Oh,” she said lightly, though her voice wobbled just enough to betray her. “That’s... nice.”

“Nice?” Harry repeated, his eyebrows shooting up.

“Yes, nice,” Hermione said, forcing a smile. “Ron deserves to be happy. We broke up amicably, remember?”

Harry didn’t look convinced. “Sure, but you’re okay with him dating Lavender? You know, Lavender Lavender?”

“Harry,” she said firmly, “Ron and I are friends. Just friends. If he’s happy, I’m happy.”

Harry studied her for a moment, his gaze sharp and searching. Finally, he nodded, though his frown lingered. “Alright. If you say so.”

“I do,” Hermione said, a touch defensively.

Another pause. The crackling of the fire filled the silence until Hermione decided to steer the conversation into safer waters. “Enough about that. Do you want to hear about the time I nearly got roasted alive by a Ukrainian Ironbelly?”

Harry’s eyes lit up. “Absolutely.”

She launched into the story, describing the storm, the chaos, and the dragon’s escape, though she conveniently left out certain details—like how Charlie had single-handedly calmed the beast while she stood there gawking like a first-year. Harry didn’t need to know everything, after all.

By the time she finished, he was grinning. “Sounds like you’re in your element,” he said, his tone half-teasing, half-sincere.

“Hardly,” Hermione replied, shaking her head. “But it’s... different. Challenging.” She hesitated before adding, “I think I needed this.”

Harry smiled, a real one this time. “Good. You deserve to be happy too, you know.”

She felt a pang at his words but covered it with a quick nod. “Thanks, Harry. Same to you.”

There was a pause, and then Harry’s voice took on a more playful note. “You know, Ginny and I were talking... and we were thinking of visiting at the end of October. It’s been ages since we’ve seen you. What do you think?”

Hermione blinked, slightly caught off guard. “I—well, I don’t know if that’s such a great idea, by then I have only been here for a few months and…” she began, instinctively protesting, but Harry cut her off with a laugh.

“Come on, Hermione, don’t make me beg. Ginny’s already packing. You can’t leave us hanging like this.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, but a small smile tugged at her lips. “Fine, fine. You two can come. But you better not expect me to show you how to calm dragons.”

“Deal,” Harry said quickly, clearly relieved. “I’m sure Ginny can keep you distracted while I try to avoid becoming dragon food.”

She chuckled softly. “I’ll make sure to have the firewhisky ready.”

The fire flickered, signaling the Floo connection was about to close. Hermione gave him a small wave as his face disappeared, leaving her alone with the warmth of the fire and the sound of dragons rumbling in the distance.

Happy. She repeated the word in her mind as she stared at the flames. Maybe she could be. Maybe she already was—if she could just figure out what that meant.

Chapter Text

The small town’ marketplace bustled with life, a maze of cobbled streets packed with vendors hawking everything from dragon-proof cloaks to suspiciously unregulated fire whiskey. Hermione pulled her coat tighter against the chilly breeze, squinting at a stall that appeared to be selling… teeth? Surely they weren’t dragon teeth.

Surely.

Getting to town had, predictably, been an exercise in patience and self-restraint. First, they apparated to the reserve’s border—Katya landing with the grace of a seasoned athlete while Hermione felt the effects of the elevation change a bit more than she would have liked to admit. Then came the wards, a paranoid labyrinth of protective spells that could have stumped a team of methamphetamine-hyped curse breakers. And finally, the pièce de résistance: a five-kilometer trek that had her boots squelching ominously by the end. All for the privilege of visiting a town that thrived on old wives’ tales and the occasional witch-hunt aesthetic. Quaint, if you liked your charm with a side of pitchforks, but perfect for witches and wizards that wanted to shop among muggles without raising any suspicion.

“This one,” Katya said, her clipped voice cutting through Hermione’s apprehension. The Russian dragon handler was already disappearing into a narrow alley, her stride confident as ever, despite the fact that the overcast sky made everything look like the opening scene of a murder mystery. One set in medieval times at that.

Hermione jogged to catch up, muttering under her breath, “I didn’t think replacing a wardrobe required a trek through the black market.”

“Not black market,” Katya called back without breaking stride. “Just best clothes. For dragons.” She cast Hermione a sidelong glance, her lips quirking. “And for people who stop wearing silly robes.”

Hermione glanced down at what was left of her Ministry robes. The hem was little more than a collection of ragged, scorched fringes, and there was a suspiciously circular hole burned just below her hip. It hadn’t been her first pair to meet such a fiery fate since arriving at the reserve, but it had been her favorite—mostly because it had pockets.

“It was perfectly functional before Henry the Horntail decided I looked like an hors d'oeuvre,” she retorted, catching up to Katya.

“Functional? No. You wear target,” Katya said, pushing open a heavy wooden door with a grin. “Now, you wear dragon-proof.”

What Hermione walked into was less a shop and more an immersive leather shrine. The air was thick with the smell of dragonhide, magic, and maybe a little regret. Jackets, trousers, gloves, boots—if it could be skinned, tanned, and stitched, it was here, crammed onto shelves and hanging from rafters like some sort of rebellious fashion designer’s fever dream.

Hermione wrinkled her nose, trailing a finger over a particularly dramatic set of black gloves with clawed fingertips. “I’m sensing a theme.”

“Theme is survival,” Katya said, already rifling through a rack of trousers. She held up a pair of sleek, dark brown dragonhide trousers and tossed them at Hermione without warning. “Try these. And this.” She grabbed a matching jacket and threw it on top of the pile.

Hermione caught the bundle with a grunt, looking down at the intimidating outfit. “You’re joking, right? I’d look like a backup dancer for the Weird Sisters.”

Katya arched an unimpressed brow. “Improvement. Now you look like someone who gets burned. Again and again. Now, change.”

“I—fine,” Hermione huffed, ducking into the changing room, which was barely big enough to stand in without dislocating a shoulder. She wriggled into the gear, the leather fitting snugly, hugging her curves, but surprisingly comfortably. It was light but strong, a sharp contrast to the billowing impracticality of her beloved but undeniably flammable robes.

When she emerged, Katya was waiting, her arms crossed and a smirk already forming.

“Ah,” she said, circling Hermione with an appraising eye. “Now, you look like handler. Maybe even badass.”

Hermione glanced down at herself, the sleek black leather catching just enough light to make her look, dare she think it, capable. “I don’t know if this is a compliment or a warning,” she said dryly.

“Both,” Katya replied with a grin.

Before Hermione could come up with a suitably snarky reply, the door creaked open, and Charlie stepped in, his boots heavy against the wood floor. He stopped short when he saw her, his brows lifting ever so slightly. His gaze flicked over her—jacket, trousers, boots—before landing back on her face.

“Didn’t think leather would suit you, Granger,” he said, his tone dry but his expression slightly… off. “But it’s… not bad.”

Hermione crossed her arms, fighting the heat creeping up her neck. “Thanks, but don’t get used to it. I’m not here to impress anyone.”

Charlie shrugged, his mouth quirking in a faint grin. “Shame. You’re halfway there.” And with that, he turned and strode back out into the street, leaving the store without buying anything.

Katya’s low chuckle broke the silence. “He likes you.”

Hermione scoffed, pulling at the jacket’s sleeves. “No, he doesn’t.”

“Hmm.” Katya tilted her head, her expression annoyingly knowing. “Maybe not ‘like like’—yet. But he thinks you’re hot. How could he not when you look like this.” She gave Hermione a final once-over before turning to the wizardly shopkeeper. “We take this. She is handler now.”

“I didn’t agree to that,” Hermione muttered under her breath.

But who was she kidding? There was no arguing with Katya once she had set her mind to something.

The hum of the reserve had finally quieted in the dead of night, replaced by the muffled snores of handlers—loud enough to defy silencing charms—and the occasional low rumble of slumbering dragons in the distance.

Hunched over a mountain of parchment, she squinted at her own handwriting, which was starting to resemble ancient runes more than English. The lantern beside her flickered ominously, casting shadows that made her feel vaguely judged by her own notes.

Outside, the rain drummed relentlessly on the canvas roof, a drizzle that had been threatening to turn into snow for weeks now but couldn’t quite commit.

Not that it mattered. While the rest of the camp slept soundly, Hermione worked on, scribbling through the night. Her notes on the dragons sprawled before her, each observation and trait meticulously detailed. From the fiery tempers of the Hungarian Horntails to the elusive nature of the Swedish Short-Snouts, every dragon had its place in her growing catalog. The sheer volume of her work should have felt like an accomplishment, but with so much left to do, rest wasn’t an option.

It soon would be time for the next phase: cross-checking her findings with literature.

The stack of research books in front of Hermione had officially reached a height that would make even a librarian wince, and her notes stacked beside that were starting to resemble the tower of Pisa. With every flick of a page, she added another parchment of notes to her chaotic system.

Most of the available literature on dragon conservation wasn’t just unhelpful—it was downright frustrating. One school of thought championed “aggressive containment,” which Hermione thought was just a polite way of saying, “Stick them in a cage and hope for the best.” Another suggested relocation, which ignored the minor detail of where exactly one relocates a fire-breathing beast.

“Balancing conservation with not dying,” she muttered, jabbing her quill into the inkwell like it had personally wronged her. “That’s the real challenge, isn’t it?”

How she was supposed to start drafting trials to test the anticipated policies was beyond her. There was still a mountain of groundwork to wade through, as if she hadn’t spent enough time already becoming an expert on dragon temperaments. Nothing actionable could happen until she could predict whether a Swedish Short-Snout preferred its fire-roasted or grilled—because those details could make or break the experiments.

Not to mention the other threats. The literature was sparse, but the effect of poachers on local ecosystems and conservation efforts was hinted at more than once. Apparently, they were vicious.

Her hands ran through her hair, as an exasperated sigh left her lips.

Her current task felt less like research and more like trying to decipher ancient spells written in runes while someone kept switching the dictionary. The theories didn’t match, the numbers didn’t add up, and the only thing anyone seemed to agree on was that dragons were both magnificent and terrifying.

Thanks, experts. Very helpful.

And just when she thought her day couldn’t get more convoluted, there was the matter of the bloody eggs.

Charlie had dumped the assignment on her earlier the day before with the same casual indifference one might reserve for handing someone a grocery list. “Here,” he’d said, thrusting a battered clipboard at her. “Hatchling records. You’re good at lists and details and all that. Keep track of the progress for the next batch, your first task as a Dragon Handler.”

“Next batch of what?” she’d asked, already suspicious.

“Eggs,” he replied, as if this were obvious. “A clutch is due to hatch soon, and someone needs to monitor the incubation charms, feeding schedules, and environmental conditions.”

She’d opened her mouth to argue—to remind him that she wasn’t here to play dragon midwife—but he was already halfway across the yard, shouting something about an ill Swedish Short-Snout.

So now, in addition to deciphering a century’s worth of bad conservation theories, she was also responsible for babysitting dragon eggs.

And not just any dragon eggs—high-maintenance dragon eggs. The kind that required constant monitoring, precise temperature control, and, apparently, an ongoing debate about whether to charm the shells against poachers.

It was early morning, the first rays of sunlight lazily stretching over the treetops of the reserve, when Hermione finally snapped out of her internal rant.

She was so deep in her muttering about “who even lets eggs this fragile just sit out in a reserve” that she didn’t hear the tent flap rustle until a shadow crossed her desk.

“Hermione!” Katya’s cheerful voice sliced through her concentration with vigour.

Hermione glanced up, blinking. The Russian handler was leaning against the tent pole with her usual lopsided grin, her dark hair tied back in a haphazard braid.

“Busy, yes?” Katya asked, her accent curling around the words like smoke.

“Define ‘busy,’” Hermione replied, gesturing at the chaos around her. “If you mean drowning under an impossible workload while slowly losing my sanity, then yes, quite busy.”

Katya laughed, a deep, throaty sound that made Hermione’s stress seem faintly ridiculous. “Good. Means you are fitting in.”

“Fantastic,” Hermione said dryly, shoving a particularly unhelpful book aside. “Do you need something, or are you just here to bask in my misery?”

“Both,” Katya said with a grin. “Came to check if you want coffee. Or vodka. For work.” She gestured at the clipboard, her smile softening into something closer to sympathy. “Charlie give you egg job, yes?”

“Yes,” Hermione said, dragging the word out. “Which seems unfair considering I didn’t sign up to be a glorified dragon doula.”

Katya snorted. “Better than dragon dentist. Trust me.”

“Noted,” Hermione said, fighting a smile despite herself.

Katya’s eyes scanned the books and papers strewn across the desk, her brow furrowing.

“You do too much,” she said simply.

“That’s the general consensus,” Hermione replied.

“No,” Katya said, her tone serious now. “Is true. You think, think, think. All brain, no rest. You burn out like candle.” She tapped the edge of Hermione’s clipboard. “Dragons, they don’t care about your notes. Eggs don’t care. You try too hard.”

Hermione stared at her, unsure how to respond. Katya wasn’t wrong, exactly, but the idea of not trying hard felt alien—like asking her to stop breathing for a bit and see how that worked out.

Katya smiled again, this time with a teasing glint in her eye. “Come. I show you something.”

“Unless it’s a way to magically finish all of this,” Hermione said, gesturing at the mess, “I think I’ll pass.”

“Better than magic,” Katya said, holding the tent flap open. “A bottle of vodka and a nice morning view. Trust me, you need a break.”

Hermione hesitated, then sighed and grabbed her jacket. What the hell, it was not that she felt it was the appropriate time of day anyway. And, if nothing else, it might buy her a reprieve from the stash of papers, and, hopefully, some fresh inspiration.

As she followed Katya into the crisp morning air, Hermione glanced down at her outfit. New trousers and jacket—check. Comfortable Uggs? Definitely not part of the dragon-fighting uniform. Merlin.

Why hadn’t she put on her leather boots as well?

She shot a look at her feet and muttered under her breath, “If this ends with me chasing a dragon in these boots,” Hermione muttered, eyeing her cosy footwear with disdain, “I’m going to be very upset.”

Katya's laugh rang out, bright and unapologetic, her eyes gleaming. "Oh, I’m sure we find way blame Charlie for that."

The Romanian countryside sprawled out in every direction like nature’s way of reminding everyone it was in charge.

Snow dusted the ground, the weather finally committing to winter a few days after Katya and Hermione’s so-called day off—though Hermione was pretty sure dragging a bottle of vodka up a hill didn’t count as a holiday.

She glanced around, the raw, untamed wildness of the place pressing in on her. It wasn’t hard to see why the dragons loved it; the landscape practically screamed no rules, no limits, just vibes.

And though she’d never admit it out loud, Hermione was starting to love it, too. Not that it felt natural—she still wasn’t exactly blending in with the rugged wilderness—but there was something about the chaos that made her feel strangely alive. Like she was finally part of something bigger, even if it now occasionally came with the risk of frostbite.

Anton, naturally, looked perfectly at home, his blond hair catching the wind like he was posing for a portrait. Whistling tunelessly, he twirled his wand between his fingers with the ease of someone who thought of himself as Adonis reincarnated. A German wizard with a love for all things scaly, he strode ahead like the wilderness existed solely to complement his aesthetic.

“You really should take a break from your books and parchments more often, Granger,” he said over his shoulder, grinning. “Those dragon eggs will still be there for the next few days – at least. And not everything is about work, you know.”

“Some of us don’t have time for whistling and posturing,” Hermione replied, stepping carefully over a tangle of roots.

Anton chuckled. “You wound me. But seriously, it’s good that you’re here. We could use someone like you.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “Someone like me?”

“Yeah, smart. Organized. Not bad to look at either,” Anton added with a wink that probably should’ve made her gag but only made her roll her eyes.

She didn’t rise to it. No point. Anton had barely registered her existence a few weeks ago, too busy strutting around like he owned the reserve. That changed after her quick thinking saved his thumb from becoming a dragon’s midday snack. Now, he was all smiles and charm—and it unnerved Hermione.

Yet, to her surprise, he was one of the few handlers she’d at least partially won over, though most of the others still kept their distance, either out of skepticism or sheer stubbornness. She supposed saving limbs was an effective way to make friends, but apparently, not everyone was lining up for that type of experience. Shocking, really.

“You seemed to be managing just fine before I got here,” she said, keeping her voice flat.

Anton paused, as he turned to look at her. Then his smile was gone, replaced by that serious tone of his. “Well,” he said, dragging out the word like it cost him something, “most of the time, yeah. But it’s not just dragons we have to worry about out here.”

She finally glanced at him, raising an eyebrow. “Oh? What is it, then? Your impeccable taste in clothing?”

Her eyes drifted down to her own dragon leather jacket, boots, gloves, and trousers. She’d mocked the handler uniform with Katya more times than she could count, but even she had to admit—it had its perks. Functional, durable, and annoyingly flattering. Turns out, dragon leather had a way of making everyone look like they belonged on the cover of Witch Weekly's "Most Rugged" edition.

Anton’s lips quirked, but he didn’t answer right away. Instead, his eyes darted to the horizon, where the pen’s edge met the foggy morning light.

For a second, she almost believed he wasn’t just talking about dragons, and she was beginning to wonder if she could push him to elaborate.

“Let's just say,” he said, his voice low, “there’s more than just fire-breathing lizards that can burn you out here.”

Hermione glanced at him, her interest piqued. “What do you mean?”

“These lands are old. Ancient even, there are many tales and legends that speak of what lurks in the north", Anton's hand ran through his hair.

Simple ghost stories. Those didn't frighten Hermione. What he said next though, well, that did.

"Not to mention poachers, or worse.” Anton continued, his voice dropping a notch. “They don’t come often, but when they do, it’s bad news. They’re not like us. They’re not here to work with dragons—they’re here to kill them and run off with the parts. Or worse, to take them alive and sell them on the black market.”

Hermione frowned, the weight of his words sinking in. “That’s awful.”

“It is,” Anton agreed. “And it’s dangerous. The handlers are trained to deal with dragons, but people? That’s a whole different game.”

Hermione nodded slowly, her mind already racing with questions. “What do you do when they show up?”

Anton shrugged, his nonchalance not entirely convincing. “We do what we can. Try to scare them off, call for backup if it gets bad. But they’re clever, and they don’t play by the rules. You never know what you’re up against until it’s too late.”

As soon as she had returned to the civilization of the camp, she made a beeline for the main tent. She needed to crosscheck Anton's story. Pronto.

As the warmth of the tent enveloped her, she found Charlie, his long hair falling over part of the parchment as he pored over a map of the reserve with an intensity that almost looked like brooding.

He looked up when she entered, his icy blue eyes flickering with a hint of surprise before settling back into his usual stoic mask.

“Granger,” he greeted, his back straightening at once.

“Charlie,” she replied, crossing her arms as her foot tapped rhythmically. “Can I ask you something?”

He inclined his head, while one of his eyebrows arched up. His eyes took her in, scrutinizing over every detail, before he gave a quick nod.

Hermione decided to dive straight in.

“Anton mentioned something about poachers,” she said, watching his face closely. “He said they don’t come often, but when they do…”

Charlie sighed, running a hand through his hair. “When they do, it’s a bloody mess,” he admitted. “They’re ruthless. They don’t care about the dragons, the reserve, or the people working here. They just want their prize, and they’ll do whatever it takes to get it.”

Hermione felt a chill run down her spine. “And what do you do when that happens?”

Charlie’s jaw tightened. “We’re supposed to call the authorities, but by the time they get here, it’s usually too late. So we handle it ourselves.”

“Handle it?” Hermione echoed, her voice sharp. “You’re equipped to deal with dragons, not armed criminals!”

Charlie met her gaze, his expression unflinching. “We don’t have much of a choice. It’s not like we can just let them walk in and take what they want.”

“That’s insane,” she said, shaking her head. “You could get killed.”

“Yeah, well,” he said, his tone wry, “we’re dragon handlers. Risk comes with the territory.”

Hermione stared at him, torn between admiration and exasperation. “You’re all mad, you know that?”

Charlie smirked, leaning back against his chair, his gaze drifting over her once more, lingering on her new leather clothes. “You’re one of us now, aren’t you?”

She huffed, trying to ignore the warmth creeping up her neck. “I’m here to work, not to throw myself in front of a poacher’s wand.”

“Good to know where you stand,” he said, his smirk softening into something almost… approving. “But if it ever comes to that, Granger, we’ll be glad to have you. You’re an extraordinarily capable witch, and not bad at handling dragons either.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow, crossing her arms. “Flattering, really. Next, you’ll tell me I’m extraordinarily capable at cleaning up after them, too.”

Charlie chuckled, but his gaze lingered for a moment too long, a flicker of something unspoken in his eyes.

Hermione didn’t know what to say, her brain much too occupied with the man in front of her. So, she remained quiet, the weight of his words settling heavily in her chest, as she went back to her own quarters.

Chapter Text

Over the next few weeks, spending hours with Charlie over dragon eggs had become its own kind of torture. Between his relentless teasing and her stubborn need to prove she wasn’t some clueless bookworm out of her depth, their time together had turned into a masterclass in barely restrained banter.

Charlie, of course, had taken great joy in teaching her the finer points of dragon egg incubation—his arms flexing entirely too much for someone just turning an egg—while Hermione had tried (and failed) not to notice.

By now, six days after the eggs had started to occupy most of their days and at least part of their nights, the air between them felt thick and charged. It was ready to crackle and spark at the slightest push. At least, that is what Hermione assumed. She couldn’t be sure, though. Maybe it was all in her head, a side effect of spending too much time around someone whose confidence and easy charm seemed designed to short-circuit her brain.

But today wasn’t the day to unpack that particular mental disaster. The eggs were finally hatching, and the entire reserve was holding its breath. Hermione had buried herself in research for the past week, desperate to get the conditions right, and yet one unsettling fact kept circling her mind like a vulture: the first thing the dragons saw? That’s who they’d imprint on.

And naturally, the first thing they were going to see was Charlie. Of course it was. He stood close to the eggs, sleeves rolled up and wand in hand, calm and ready, while she kept a careful distance, monitoring the spells she’d layered around the nest. She wasn’t a permanent fixture here—just a guest in their rugged world—so she stayed on the sidelines. Yet a strange, lingering disappointment flickered in her chest, no matter how much she tried to push it away.

Charlie picked up the fire charms while Hermione focused on her notes, forcing herself not to stare at the sweat glistening on the back of his neck. She scribbled furiously on the parchment to distract herself, though none of it made much sense. Her brain was far too preoccupied with the man in front of her—fuck, it was like he was born for heat. Born for fire.

She wasn’t even pretending to be professional anymore. He had her completely off-balance.

“Taking notes, Granger? Or just staring at me?” Charlie’s voice sliced through the thick air, sharp with that familiar, damn near obnoxious, cockiness. He didn’t even look up, but she could feel the smirk in his words.

She didn’t miss a beat, “Oh, I am. Fascinating subject matter. Great observations. Though I’m not sure the ego on display here counts as a scientific anomaly.”

Charlie raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying her discomfort. “Observations, huh? Maybe you should spend a little more time on the eggs.”

“I’m perfectly focused, thanks,” Hermione cocked an eyebrow while she refused to bite. If there was one thing Charlie excelled at, it was pushing her buttons. And right now, she was trying her best to ignore the heat rising in her cheeks as her eyes moved to the white and black-speckled shells.

To be completely honest, she was a bit worried about the process, especially with Charlie standing that close to a pair of almost-hatching dragon eggs.

It seemed as Charlie could read her thoughts, not bothering to hide his grin.

“Relax, Granger, this body’s not going anywhere.” he said with a wink, gesturing to himself like he was the eighth wonder of the world. “Besides, these little ones can’t do worse than a few scratches.”

His tone was almost casual as he summoned a flickering orange flame, coaxing the eggs like it was just another Tuesday. Pain, it seemed, wasn’t something he avoided; it was an old friend he swapped war stories with over a pint. The scars crisscrossing his arms told the tale—dragon bites, burns, probably the occasional ego-driven misstep, and Merlin knows what else—a chaotic roadmap of survival that he wore like trophies.

“Been through worse,” he added, as if being gnawed on by dragons was a charming quirk.

Hermione wasn’t sure if it was his reckless confidence or the way his calloused hands moved with such purpose, but something about it made her want to reprimand him—and melt into the ground—at the same time. He was infuriating.

But then, as the heat of the flames died down to smoldering embers and the moon brushed the sky, her attention snapped toward the two eggs in the pen.

A sharp, high-pitched crack split the air, followed by the faintest hissing—an almost eerie sound, like steam escaping from a kettle. Hermione held her breath as the shells splintered, pieces tumbling onto the nest’s bed of enchanted embers. Two tiny forms emerged, wriggling free with surprising grace: one was as dark as the midnight sky, its scales glinting faintly in the firelight, while the other shimmered like molten silver, translucent and almost ethereal. Both blinked, their enormous purple eyes wide with curiosity, and for a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath with them.

Then, as if a lightning strike had just hit them both, they turned toward her.

Not Charlie. Her.

They moved so quickly Hermione barely registered the blur of talons and wings before their tiny claws were scrambling up her legs. She froze as their warm, scaly bodies nestled against her, one curling into her hair, the other settling on her shoulder. Their purring, soft and rhythmic, vibrated through her like a wave of warm water, and her breath hitched in her throat. Were they… bonding with her?

Charlie cursed softly behind her, breaking the spell.

"Not possible," he muttered, scratching at the back of his neck like it was going to solve the problem. “They’re supposed to bond with the first person they see...”

Hermione froze, her fingers instinctively brushing one of their tiny claws out of her hair as the second one clawed its way up; mumbling a protective charm before they could set her curls alight. Her pulse was racing for a moment, but as the dragons nestled safely into her locks, she let out a laugh; a chuckle, light and half disbelieving. “Well, I guess you’re not the one getting burned for once.”

Charlie didn’t say anything right away. Instead, he just looked at her—really looked—his gaze shifting between the dragons and her, like she was some riddle he hadn’t quite cracked. The intensity of it was maddening, and the fact that he didn’t seem the least bit rushed about it? Even worse.

Then, of course, that infuriatingly smug smile of his crept onto his face, slow and deliberate, like he knew exactly the effect it had. And damn it all, Hermione couldn’t even try to deny it anymore. Those eyes and that mouth did something to her that she wasn’t ready to name.

The dragons chirped, tearing her from her thoughts, cooing like tiny mischief-makers as they nestled deeper into her hair, and Charlie’s grin grew wider.

He stepped closer until they were standing toe to toe, his eyes locked on her head, clearly amused. One of the creatures, still purring, tapped its tiny paws forward, then, without hesitation, it hopped onto his shoulder, the other curling up in his arms as though they’d always belonged to him, before nipping at his neck.

“Well, they’re definitely a handful,” he remarked, his voice carrying a flicker of something—tenderness, maybe? It was hard to say, especially with that grin still tugging at his lips.

“So, what are you going to call them, mister Dragon Wrangler?” she asked with a grin.

Charlie smirked, his reply smooth and low, and without hesitation. “Salt ‘n Pepper.”

Hermione couldn’t hold it in anymore. “Salt and Pepper? Really?” she laughed, unable to contain herself. “That’s the best you could come up with?”

Charlie shrugged, the glint in his eyes never leaving her. “Small, feisty. They’ve got the colouring. Figured it fit.”

She rolled her eyes but couldn't hide the smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “Better than Nobert, I can give you that.”

It was a playful jab, but it wasn’t enough to mask the warmth spreading in her chest. She didn’t really mind the ridiculous names—didn’t really mind anything when he looked at her like that. Like she was part of the joke, part of his world, even if that world felt a little too wild for her sometimes.

The air between them shifted, though. Hermione watched, part exasperated, part fascinated, as the dragons now both nested onto Charlie’s shoulders, settling in like they were on the world’s most comfortable perch.

“Well,” Charlie drawled, scratching Pepper’s chin with a tenderness that took her by surprise, “looks like they’ve changed their minds.”

“Traitors,” Hermione muttered, her voice soft but tinged with amusement. She tried not to let the sight of him—grinning, carefree, with two baby dragons draped across him—do things to her chest. It didn’t help. Damn it all, even the dragons couldn’t resist him.

Charlie glanced at her, his expression softer than usual. Then, with maddening ease, he tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. His fingers lingered just long enough to make her pulse stutter.

Pepper nipped at Charlie's ear. He smiled. “Yup, those two are definitely going to be trouble,” he murmured, his voice low and thoughtful, before stepping back with a grin. “But we can handle it.”

As if on cue, the dragons squirmed a little more and gave a cheerful chirp, clearly settling into their new spot with Charlie.

With the moment gone, and without a second glance at Hermione or even a proper goodbye, he straightened up, turned on his heel and marched off.

Hermione rolled her eyes, exhaling sharply. Of course, dragons first, manners optional.

But then, entirely unexpected, Charlie tossed a smirk over his shoulder. “Well, I’ve got a tour to run with these little troublemakers, but don’t worry, Granger. Get some sleep tonight—there’s plenty of time for more notes and cuddles tomorrow.”

He gave her a wink, then strode off, the dragons looking just as smug as he did.

She watched him disappear, the dragons perched on his shoulders like they belonged there with him under the ethereal moonlight. Maybe they’d recognized something she hadn’t—yet. Because dragons weren’t the only ones drawn to Charlie Weasley. And if Hermione wasn’t careful, she’d fall under his spell, too.

Chapter Text

The morning began as most did on the reserve. The sun barely cresting the mountains and the unmistakable stench of dragon dung wafting through the air. Hermione had long since stopped wrinkling her nose at it. In fact, she was starting to think she might miss the smell, once her year would be up.

And just like every other day on the Romanian dragon reserve, her routine unfolded with practiced ease. First, she inspected the dragon enclosures, ensuring the iron barriers stood strong against the occasional clawed swipe or fiery breath. She moved to the feeding stations next, restocking them with fresh carcasses, a task that had long since lost its charm but remained necessary. Afterward, she had a list of ever-growing ad-hoc things to get to to. But still, Hermione had to admit that every wmoment away from her ever-piling paperwork was heaven; she was grateful for every one of the brief distractions the reserve granted her, even if it was only temporary.

Salt and Pepper, the two baby Antipodean Opaleyes that had adopted her like she was their long-lost mum, were currently engaged in a spirited attempt to gnaw on the hem of her dragonhide coat.

“You’d think I starve you,” Hermione muttered, plucking Salt off her shoulder as his teeth came perilously close to her collar. Pepper took the distraction as an opportunity to swat at her hair with her tiny, iridescent claws.

She shot Charlie a look over the squirming dragonet in her hands. He leaned casually against the pen fence, arms crossed, watching her struggle with what could only be described as infuriating amusement.

“Got it under control there, Granger?” he drawled, his voice carrying that infuriating mix of laid-back charm and just enough teasing to make her hackles rise.

Hermione huffed, juggling the wriggling dragons into the crook of her arms. “I’ve got two adorable menaces, some shit to clean up, a short-snout to give his meds, and a mountain of research to finalize, and precisely three hours of sleep. So yes, Charlie, everything is perfectly under control.”

He chuckled, pushing off the fence and strolling toward her. The sunlight caught on his hair—more auburn than red, she noticed—not that she was paying attention. “You’ve got the knack for it, though. Even the big ones like you.”

Hermione glanced down at the dragonets in her arms, now contentedly chewing on the sleeve of her coat. “Is that why they keep trying to eat me? Because they like me?”

“Dragons don’t bother with people they don’t respect,” he said, his tone unusually serious. “You’re not just a Ministry suit, Granger. They see it.”

The words settled in her chest like warm embers, but she didn’t let it show. Instead, she smirked. “So you’re saying if I survive the hatchlings, I’ll survive the rest of you?”

“Exactly,” Charlie said with a grin that could have melted iron. “But I’d still keep that anti-hair-burning charm fresh. Salt’s getting ideas.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, though she did reflexively cast a quick renewal on the spell under her breath. Salt chirped innocently, his tiny tail flicking against her wrist.

It was late October when Harry and Ginny showed up at the reserve, both looking a bit windblown from the long trip but still radiating that familiar warmth. Ginny had hugged Hermione and talked about a hundred and one things at once, before she was swept away by Charlie, who had just finished his latest round of dragon handling; this time strong-arming a baby horntail, with a bit of help from Hermione. Harry, on the other hand, had waited patiently for his turn to talk to Hermione, looking almost apologetic as he gave her a quick hug.

“Sorry we’re late,” Harry said, running a hand through his hair. “Ginny insisted we stop by that ridiculous cafe in town. She was so fond of everything I think they were afraid she would buy out the entire shop. You’d think she’d learned better by now.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been with her how long, and you still don’t know the way to Ginny’s heart is through her stomach?”

“Apparently not,” Harry said, shaking his head with a grin. “But, anyway, Ginny wanted to catch up with Charlie before hanging out with you tonight." Harry's eyes caught a sudden interest in his shoelaces, as he continued, "You two... well, you looked good together for a moment there, when you were both handling that dragon.”

Hermione snorted, glancing over her at Charlie and Ginny. The two siblings were chatting animatedly, Ginny's arms moved around wildly, illustrating her story, while Charlie’s listened with usual casual stance albeit an amused and brotherly smile.

She looked back at Harry with a smile on her face. “Good? Is that the word we’re going with? Not ruggedly handsome? Fearless?”

Harry laughed. “I’m trying to be diplomatic. You know, with you two being a thing and all...”

“Not a thing,” Hermione interjected, rolling her eyes. “We just happen to be in the same space a lot, with him being the lead handler and Ministry liaison. No big deal.”

Harry looked like he was about to argue but thought better of it. Instead, he changed the subject. Subtle as always, it seemed he had decided to immediately rip off he band-aid. “I’m guessing Ron’s still living in his own little world. Last I heard, he and Lavender are getting pretty serious. He told me they were going to dinner at the Burrow next week. Special announcement, apparently.”

Hermione’s only reaction was a faint shrug. “I’m sure that’s lovely for them,” she said, voice dripping with mock enthusiasm. “I’m happy for Ron, really. Lavender's a... delight.”

“I’ll take that as a ‘no comment,’ then,” Harry chuckled. “But hey, no one’s expecting you to cheerlead for them.”

“Good thing, too,” Hermione said dryly, then leaned back, folding her arms. “Anyway, let's move past Ron's life choices. How's your life going? Settling down anytime soon, Harry? Starting a family with Ginny?”

Harry shot her a quick, amused look. “You think I’m ready to settle down?”

“Not unless Ginny has a magic spell I don’t know about,” Hermione replied with a smirk. But as she eyed her best friend, she continued in a more serious tone, “I’m just saying, you’ve got that serious look on your face lately. Your auror job is going well, and all you talk about is Ginny and the future. I might have just assumed it would be the next big step.”

“A bigger step than marriage?" Harry blushed, "Well, I’m not ready for that,” Harry admitted, then turned to her with a more thoughtful expression. “What about you, Hermione? You think about... settling down? Back to London, maybe?”

Hermione shook her head, a wry smile tugging at her lips. “Not really. The reserve... it’s refreshing. Fresh air, no Ministry dragging its feet over every decision. Sure, there are a few rules—don’t get eaten by dragons, don’t annoy the handlers—but compared to London? It’s practically freedom.” She shrugged casually, though there was a flicker of something uncertain in her eyes. “I’ll finish this assignment, and then I will have to leave Romania… but... London? Not sure it’s calling my name anymore. I have some time before I need to make that decision, anyway.”

Harry studied her for a moment, his gaze flicking from her hair—now messy with the day’s work—to the exposed skin on her forearms, a few scars that were barely visible unless you knew where to look. His expression softened slightly. “You look good,” he said, almost absentmindedly. “Fit... at ease, beautiful, even. But most of all, happy… content.”

Hermione froze for a moment, not quite sure how to respond. She hadn’t expected him to say that, especially not in that casual tone. Before she could muster a reply, Harry continued with a grin.

“You know, if there’s ever any guy you’re sure about, I could always give him a friendly talking-to, as your brother. Let him know he better take care of you, yeah?”

Hermione rolled her eyes, though her lips twitched. “Oh, please. I can handle it, Harry. But thanks for the offer.” Her eyes wandered to Charlie, still deep in conversation with Ginny. A small smile played on her lips before she quickly turned her attention back to her best friend.

Harry caught the glance and raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment. Instead, he shifted the conversation, his tone a little softer. “You’re still part of the family, you know. Ginny’s been adamant about that. No matter where you are, or what, or who, you might be doing.”

Hermione couldn’t contain her laugh. “Harry!” she admonished, before her expression softened.

As she looked her friend over, she nodded, almost imperceptibly. “Thank you. It’s nice to know I still have family… somewhere. I might not be frequenting Sunday dinners the Burrow anymore, but they still make sure I feel like I’m part of them.”

“Yeah, well,” Harry chuckled, “Ginny doesn’t let anyone forget it. And if anyone does, they get a lecture.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Hermione said with a grin. “I’m lucky she’s around, really.”

Harry smiled back. “And anyway, you always have us.”

And that little piece of knowledge, did warm her heart.

Ginny, having finished her conversation with Charlie, made her way over to them, her usual fiery energy surrounding her. “Well, well, what have I missed?”

Hermione gave her a look, then smiled. “Nothing much, just talking about Ron’s upcoming ‘special announcement.’”

Ginny shot her a playful glare. “You’re a menace, you know that?”

“I try,” Hermione said, raising her glass in a mock salute.

The next two days, they toured around the dragons and spent their days drinking and chatting. Hermione, for the first time in ages, let her guard down fully. Glad for the familiar banter, the shared warmth, and the quiet certainty that her place, no matter where she was, would always be part of this family.

Two weeks later, Hermione found herself ankle-deep in mud near the nesting grounds, scribbling notes as Charlie worked on calming a particularly irritable Norwegian Ridgeback. The dragon had decided she didn’t like the position of her eggs and had taken out her frustration by scorching half the nearby brush.

Charlie’s voice was calm but commanding, a low murmur that somehow cut through the Ridgeback’s growling. Hermione stood back, her quill poised over her notebook, taking notes on the improvements that had to be made in order to prevent these outbursts in the future.

“Hermione,” Charlie’s voice cut through the air, sharp and focused. “Move two steps to the left.”

Without hesitation, Hermione shifted, her feet obeying the command as instinct took over. Just as she settled into the new position, a roar of flames tore through the air where she’d been standing

“Not bad, Granger,” he said, giving her a quick glance. “Some people freeze up their first time that close to a nesting mum. You didn’t even flinch.”

“Please,” Hermione shot back, tucking her notebook into her coat. “I’ve faced worse. I went to the Yule Ball with Viktor Krum.”

That earned her a bark of laughter. “Out of all the adventures, that is the one you decided to go with to make a point?”

Hermione laughed. “Yeah, it might have scared me the most”

When the Ridgeback finally settled, Hermione stepped closer, her heart still racing but steady enough. Charlie tilted his head toward her, his expression half-amused, half-impressed. “You’re fearless, you know that?”

“Not fearless,” Hermione replied, brushing mud off her gloves. “Just good at faking it.”

By the time Hermione trudged back to the main cabin, the adrenaline had worn off, leaving her with sore muscles, an ink-stained shirt, and an insatiable craving for tea.

Dinner was a quiet, utilitarian affair—a slice of bread and a hunk of cheese she barely tasted as she scribbled furiously in her notebook.

The conservation paper was finally coming together, as she was in the last stages of writing out the different trials. And for once, her optimism wasn’t immediately crushed under the weight of bureaucracy. With a bit of luck (and perhaps an exorbitant amount of groveling), Kingsley and the Wizengamot might actually green-light her proposal. Of course, that meant securing funding, and securing funding meant proving to a room full of stodgy wizards why dragons deserved a line item in the Ministry’s budget. The irony wasn’t lost on her. Save dragons, wrangle people. One of these was clearly more dangerous.

She sighed as she looked at her papers. She would just have to be here for a little while longer. She had a meeting, after all. And not one she was looking forward to.

She was halfway through reorganizing her findings—again—when the Floo roared to life in a blaze of green. Ron’s face popped into view, looking slightly singed around the edges. Typical.

“Hey,” he began awkwardly, one hand already at the back of his neck, the universal sign for this conversation will be uncomfortable for everyone involved.

Hermione sighed, setting down her quill. “Ronald.”

He shifted, looking anywhere but at her. “Mum wanted me to invite you to the Burrow for Christmas.”

She raised a skeptical eyebrow, leaning back in her chair. “Did she now?”

“Well, Harry and Ginny might’ve suggested it,” Ron mumbled, his ears turning a particularly Weasley shade of red.

“Ah,” Hermione said, crossing her arms. “So this is a group effort.”

“Yeah,” he admitted, glancing down like he’d rather be facing an angry Hippogriff than her mildly amused expression. “Also, uh… Lavender and I are engaged. Thought you should know.”

Hermione froze for half a second before her brain kicked back into gear. Engaged? They’d only been together for a few months, and they weren’t exactly the slow and steady wins the race type. That train hadn’t just left the station—it had barreled through every red light on the way to the altar.

Still, she swallowed whatever gut reaction was bubbling up and forced her tone into something resembling sincerity. “Congratulations, Ron. Really.”

His shoulders relaxed as if he’d been bracing for impact. “Yeah, thanks. It’s been quick, but… you know.”

Oh, she knew. Hermione plastered on a smile that she hoped didn’t look too much like a grimace. “Of course.”

“And, uh…” Ron hesitated, which was never a good sign. “You might want to tell Charlie about the Burrow thing. I’d rather not have that conversation.”

Hermione arched a brow. “Afraid of your older brother, are we?”

“Not afraid,” Ron said quickly, though the flush on his face said otherwise. “It’s just… you know how he gets.”

“Grumpy and covered in soot?” she offered.

“Kind off, yeah,” Ron hesitated, yet clearly relieved she wasn’t arguing. “So you’ll tell him?”

Hermione’s tight smile didn’t waver. “Oh, I’ll tell him.”

Ron nodded once, eager to escape, and disappeared with a whoosh, leaving Hermione alone with the quiet crackle of the fire and the faint scent of Floo powder.

She leaned back, exhaling through her nose. Lavender. Engaged. Charlie. The Burrow.

What a delightful pile of awkwardness she’d been gifted tonight. “Merry bloody Christmas,” she muttered to no one in particular, before picking up her quill again.

At least dragons, and their bloody behaviours, were predictable.

On an early late autumn morning, with Salt perched on one shoulder and Pepper on the other, Hermione tracked down Charlie in the paddock. He was bent over a section of busted fencing, his sleeves rolled up, muscles flexing as he hammered away at a stubborn nail. Salt chirped in what Hermione swore sounded like approval, while Pepper attempted to nip her ear.

“Behave, we have to speak to your dad” she muttered to the small babies before raising her voice. “Charlie, a word?”

He glanced up, his eyes immediately narrowing on the tiny dragons clinging to her shoulders. “Those two are going to burn your hair off. Probably your eyebrows, too.”

“They wouldn’t dare,” Hermione replied crisply, brushing ash off her sleeve. “My charmwork is solid, thank you. Besides, I think they’ve grown attached to me.”

Charlie leaned back, surveying her with a grin that was infuriatingly amused. “Attached to you, or your hair products?”

“Both,” Hermione said dryly, before cutting to the chase. “I wanted to ask—are you coming to the Burrow for Christmas?”

He gave her a look that screamed why would I do such a thing?. His words mimicked the sentiment.

“I was planning to stay here. Less chaos, more dragons.”

Hermione crossed her arms, ignoring the twinge of disappointment his answer sparked. “Right. Because no one at the Burrow has a penchant for setting things on fire.”

“Exactly,” he said, smirking.

“Well,” Hermione said, tilting her chin up. “Kingsley wants us to present the conservation findings together, in London, and it’d be easier if you were there. But if you'd rather spend the holidays chatting up dragons instead of dealing with your family, I suppose I’ll manage.”

Charlie snorted, pausing in his work to rest a forearm on the fence. “You’ve been here long enough to know dragons are easier to handle than a Weasley holiday.”

“True,” Hermione admitted. “But if I have to endure them, so do you.”

His smile faltered just slightly. “What’s the angle here, Granger?”

She took a deep breath, deciding to play the honesty card. “Look, we both know the Burrow’s a minefield of awkward conversations. But we could take Salt and Pepper and use them as shields—unleash them near anyone who starts prying too much. Why aren’t you married yet? When are you coming back to England?“ Her voice turned mockingly high-pitched, earning a bark of laughter from Charlie. “Between the dragons and the two of us, we could probably deflect the worst of it.”

Charlie grinned, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “And remind me again why you’re still putting yourself through all that?”

Hermione hesitated, caught off guard by the flicker of concern in his voice. “Because I’ve got a masochistic streak?” she quipped, but when Charlie didn’t let up, she sighed. “I have the bloody proposal to make, and when I am already in the bloody country it is not like I cannot not go…” she paused, “It’s not all bad. Molly’s Christmas pudding is reason enough to go. I just thought... that like a buffer, would be nice. You know, someone who is not trying to antagonize anyone at the table… and it’s not like Harry or Ginny are volunteering for the job.” After all, they had their own conversations to worry about.

“Or maybe,” Charlie said, straightening and fixing her with a pointed look, “you’re trying to prove you’re not falling into the same traps as the rest of us.”

“Oh, please.” Hermione rolled her eyes, though the sharpness of his words stung more than she’d expected. “Trust me, Charlie, I’m not about to trade dragons for a different kind of hazard.”

“If you say so,” he said, raising his hands in mock surrender. “But don’t forget don’t have an escape plan this time. Salt and Pepper have to stay here. They are not just props to take with you.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Yeah, Mister Weasley. I have you know that I am not an idiot, you know.”

Charlie grinned, showing his perfect teeth and dimples. “Good. I was beginning to doubt that.”

Hermione sighed, as a small smile tugged at her lips. “But still, seeing everyone is fun. I miss Harry, Gin, Bill, Fleur, and the twins. Don’t you?”

“You make a compelling case,” Charlie admitted, leaning against the fence. “Still not sold, though.”

“Fine. Let’s talk work,” Hermione said, shifting gears. “Kingsley got us slot with the Wizengamot on the 24th.”

Charlie frowned. “That’s in two weeks. So soon?”

“Yes,” she said, nodding. “And with a bit of luck, we’ll get the initial funding for conservation trials. We can test which habitats and policies actually work before proposing universal rules. But to get that money, we need to convince the Minister of Magic.”

“And the Wizengamot,” Charlie added knowingly.

Hermione sighed. “Exactly. And while I am one-third of the Golden Trio, having a field expert backing me up—especially one with your pureblood status—would be a significant boost.”

His eyebrows shot up so fast they might have hit his hairline. “That’s still a thing?”

“Unfortunately,” she said with a grimace. “Eight years after the war, and it's still a thing”. Hermione sighed, before continuing with renewed confidence. “Not that it matters if you attend, though. In that case they’ll eat it up. Rugged dragon tamer, pureblood family name, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with the brightest witch of her age—it’s practically propaganda.”

Charlie groaned but nodded, the dragon argument seemingly convincing him to travel back to Britain over the holidays. “Alright. You’ve got me. I’ll go.”

“Brilliant,” Hermione said, smiling for the first time that day. “Now, one more thing.”

Charlie arched a brow, wary. “What?”

“You’ll need formal robes for the Ministry, obviously,” she said, feigning nonchalance.

“And a proper suit for Christmas,” Hermione said, brushing a bit of hay off her leather jacket. “I know dragonhide’s your thing, but the occasion calls for something less… rugged.”

Charlie’s smirk appeared like clockwork, sharp and infuriating. “You think I look good in dragonhide?”

Her answer was immediate and silent—a slow pivot on her heel, followed by a dry, “Don’t make me hex you, Weasley.”

His laugh chased after her, warm and unbothered, the kind of sound that made it impossible to stay annoyed. It mingled with the soft chirping of Salt and Pepper, who were still treating her shoulders like prime real estate.

“Right then,” Charlie said, grinning as he leaned casually against the paddock fence. “In for a knut, in for a galleon. First, we take on the Wizengamot. Then… the Burrow.”

Hermione stopped mid-stride as she turned around, her eyes locking onto his, steady and sharp as ever.

“Thanks,” she said, the word softer than her expression. “Although I’m not entirely sure which one terrifies me more.”

Charlie’s grin widened into something almost devilish. “Oh, I am,” he said, a spark of mischief lighting his blue eyes. “Not even a contest.”

Chapter Text

Hermione found Katya perched on a stack of crates near the paddock, flicking dragon scales off her gloves with the kind of ruthless efficiency that made Hermione’s earlier attempts feel like a toddler scribbling with crayons. Katya was chaos distilled into human form: her braid hung by a thread of defiance, soot smeared across her cheek like war paint, and the unmistakable tang of brimstone clung to her clothes like a badge of honor.

“You survived another day,” Katya said without looking up, her tone laced with dry amusement. “Dragons not eat you yet. Surprising.”

Hermione sank onto the nearest crate with a groan, her muscles already threatening mutiny. “Not for lack of trying,” she grumbled. Salt and Pepper chirped from their enclosure, the sound equal parts adorable and accusatory, as if they were personally offended by the show she had just put up.

Her notes for the day floated up in her mind unbidden. Hours earlier, she and Katya had tackled the arduous task of cleaning the injured backside of a particularly irate Horntail. Hermione’s enchanted quill had dutifully logged every agonizingly specific step, from “neutralize flame sacs” to “don’t stand there unless you like singed hair.” The Horntail, naturally, had made its disdain for the entire process known, thrashing with enough force to knock over half the paddock’s fences and nearly sending Hermione into a pile of dung.

The procedure had been textbook efficient—if the textbook was written by someone who hated logic and common sense. Despite Katya’s help and Hermione’s spellwork, the policy dictated they only clean the injury itself, leaving the rest of the Horntail untouched. Now, someone else would have to return tomorrow to scrub the Horntail’s neglected sides, burning through time, resources, and whatever microscopic shred of goodwill the dragon hadn’t yet turned into ash. As for Katya’s patience? Well, that was a lost cause, anyway.

“I’m guessing you’ve already written down how this was waste of everyone’s time,” Katya said, catching Hermione’s exasperated expression.

“Of course I did,” Hermione snapped. “Brilliant idea, really—spend hours cleaning one spot while ignoring the rest. It’s like patching a sinking ship with chewing gum and leaving the hole for someone else.”

Katya’s laugh was low and unimpressed. “Welcome to dragon policy. Created by people in suits who’ve never stood next to dragon in life. It is good you solve this, now. We need it.”

Salt and Pepper chirped in unison, before nipping at Hermione’s earlobe. The two of them seemed to agree with the sentiment.

Katya glanced toward the dragonets, one eyebrow arched. “And how are the little monsters today? Still glued to you and Charlie like chewing gum to shoe?”

Hermione sighed, rubbing her temple. “You have no idea. It’s like sharing custody of two very energetic toddlers who breathe fire and think my hair is a chew toy.”

Katya snorted. “Good parenting builds character. You are doing fine job.”

“Great. I’ll add ‘dragon co-parenting’ to my CV,” Hermione joked, her tone light but her mind elsewhere.

Over the past few months, she’d grown surprisingly close to Katya. The other woman’s sharp humor and straightforward nature had been an anchor amidst the chaos of the reserve. Katya had a knack for cutting through nonsense, and while Hermione initially found her brashness overwhelming, it had grown on her. Now, they shared a rhythm—a friendship forged in fire, both literal and metaphorical.

Katya tilted her head, studying Hermione’s unusually quiet demeanor. “You are thinking again. What is it this time?”

Hermione hesitated before looking at the dragons that had climbed down and now curled at her feet.

“Honestly, it’s strange, isn’t it? That they imprinted on both of us. That doesn’t happen often, does it?”

“Rare, yes,” Katya agreed, finally setting her gloves aside and turning to face Hermione. “But not impossible. Dragons are smart. Very smart. They see things we do not.”

Hermione frowned, glancing back at Salt and Pepper, who were now squabbling over a rock like it was the most valuable treasure in the world. “What things?”

Katya shrugged, her expression unreadable. “Connections. Bonds. Friendship. Dragons do not care about logic. They care about instinct. Maybe they see something between you and Charlie.”

Hermione blinked, heat creeping up her neck. “There’s nothing between me and Charlie. We’re... colleagues.”

“Hmm,” Katya said, her tone heavy with skepticism. “Colleagues who share dragons, talk not often, but when they do you bicker like old married couple. Yes, very convincing.”

Hermione opened her mouth to argue but thought better of it. Instead, she changed the subject. “So, what’s your theory about conservation?”

“Ah,” Katya said, her face lighting up. “You mean balancing keeping dragons alive and not letting them burn down world?”

“That’s the gist of it,” Hermione replied, fighting back a smile.

Katya leaned back, crossing her arms, the corner of her mouth twitching in a half-smirk. “I think we need less people and less rules. Too many handlers, too many instructions, it confuses dragons. Stress them out. Like bad orchestra where everyone playing wrong instrument.”

Hermione frowned. “Fewer people? But isn’t a team safer? Less likely to make mistakes?”

Katya snorted, shaking her head. “Safer for people, sure. Not for dragon. Big teams make dragons anxious. Too many smells, too many voices, too many hands poking and prodding. Dragon doesn’t know who to trust, so dragon trusts no one. One handler—maybe two if one gets sick or dies,” she added with a nonchalant shrug, “is better. Build bond. Dragon learns who is safe, who feeds them, who cleans their wounds. Less stress. Better for everyone.”

Hermione blinked. “That’s… an interesting idea. But what about emergencies? A single handler can’t possibly manage a dragon on their own if—”

Katya cut her off with a sharp laugh. “Emergencies? You think dragons wait for committee meeting to decide if they burn you? No, emergencies happen because no one listens to dragon. You build trust, you get less emergencies.”

She gestured toward Salt and Pepper, who were now playfully gnawing on each other’s tails, Salt having conquered the rock conquest succesfully. “Look at them. They trust you because you treat them like dragons, not houseplants. You don’t stick twenty strangers in their paddock, shouting orders and waving clipboards. One or two handlers. Simple. Less drama. Dragons are happy, handlers are not dead. Win-win.”

Hermione bit her lip, both impressed and slightly exasperated. “It does make sense, but it sounds… impractical.”

Katya shrugged again. “So is dragon with trust issues.”

Hermione nodded slowly, filing the insight away for later. “That’s actually... a good point.”

Katya smirked. “Of course it is. I am very wise.”

“And humble,” Hermione added, earning a laugh.

As they made their way back to the edge of the enclosures, where they had a view of the mountains, for a drink, the day’s tension slowly unraveled. Katya had set up a small place, the space was cozy, the air carrying a mix of pine, leather, and something herbal. Katya grabbed a battered crate, pulling out a bottle of something amber and promisingly potent.

“Sit,” Katya said, waving Hermione toward a low stool. She shrugged off her jacket and pulled her shirt over her head, leaving only her bra as she took for a fresh sweater from her bag.

That’s when Hermione saw it—a glint of black shifting fluidly on Katya’s ribs. Her gaze caught and held as the tattoo came to life: a polar bear, its massive form prowling gracefully across her side, each movement slow and deliberate, like it was stalking prey.

As Katya moved, the bear turned its head, almost meeting Hermione’s eyes with an unnervingly intelligent gaze before continuing its silent, endless hunt.

“You like?” Katya asked with a smirk, clearly catching Hermione staring.

“Is that a…?” Hermione asked, gesturing toward the bear as it stretched lazily across Katya’s ribs before flopping down, covering its face with its massive paws like it was done with the world.

Katya glanced down and smirked. “Soulmark,” she said simply, grabbing the tank top and pulling it over her head with practiced ease. “Polar bear. Lazy thing. Hibernates half year, does nothing.” She rolled her eyes, her finger tracing his silver fur as the bear let out a yawn and tucked itself tighter against her skin. “Typical bear. Big, strong—mostly sleeps.”

Hermione couldn’t help but laugh softly. “It’s beautiful, though.”

Katya shrugged, a sly grin tugging at her lips. “Eh. When awake, very stubborn. Like me.”

Hermione leaned closer, fascinated. “Do you know who it’s for?”

“No,” Katya said, her voice light but certain. “But I will meet him. Or her. One day. Or not. Magic has its own timing.”

“You don’t seem worried about it,” Hermione said, half-admiring, half-confused.

“Why should I be?” Katya replied with a shrug. “Soulmark is not destiny. It is... hint. Suggestion. Life is too short to wait for magic to tell you what to do.”

Hermione let that sink in, glancing down at her own bare arms. The absence of a mark had never bothered her—not really—but there was something oddly comforting in Katya’s nonchalance.

“Sometimes,” Katya added, her tone turning playful, “it is more fun not to know.”

“Fun,” Hermione echoed, rolling her eyes. “You and I have very different definitions of fun.”

Katya laughed, clapping her on the shoulder hard enough to make Hermione stumble.

“That is why you need me. To teach you how to live a little. And how to keep dragons from eating your face.”

“Both equally important,” Hermione deadpanned, though a small smile tugged at her lips as she glanced back at Salt and Pepper, now tangled in what looked like a wrestling match.

Before Katya could fire off another quip, a faint sound drifted through the air—sharp, metallic, and out of place. Katya froze mid-laugh, her eyes narrowing as she tilted her head, listening.

Hermione followed her gaze toward the enclosure’s edge, her brow furrowing. “What is it?”

Katya didn’t answer right away. She stood, brushing soot off her trousers, her movements slower now, more deliberate. Her hand instinctively went to the knife strapped to her thigh, her fingers grazing the hilt.

Hermione frowned. “Katya?”

Still no answer. Katya walked to the edge of the clearing, staring into the dimming light. Her sharp gaze swept the treeline, every muscle in her body taut.

The air was silent except for the soft rustle of leaves in the breeze and the occasional chirp from the dragonets. Nothing moved.

“Katya,” Hermione pressed, her voice quieter now.

Katya finally shrugged, stepping back inside. Her expression was unreadable as she shut the door with a faint click. “Is nothing. Maybe wind. Maybe stupid bird.”

Hermione didn’t look convinced. “You sure?”

Katya shot her a crooked grin, though the edges of it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Of course. I am always sure.” She clapped Hermione on the back again, harder this time. “Come. We go eat. Let little monsters tire themselves out.”

Hermione hesitated, glancing one more time toward the enclosure’s perimeter. But Katya was already moving, her stride casual—too casual—as she headed for the main tent.

Hermione shook her head, following reluctantly. But the tension in Katya’s shoulders lingered, like the ghost of a storm waiting to break.

A few days later, the air buzzed with tension as Hermione finalized her research in preparation for the Wizengamot hearing. The conservation proposal was solid, but nothing was ever simple in the political arena. The Ministry was known for dragging its feet when it came to funding anything that didn’t directly benefit the wizarding elite.

Katya had warned her as much over breakfast. “You think dragons are stubborn? Wait until you try convincing old men in robes to care about something that does not have tits, serve them, or shines.”

Hermione sighed, rubbing her temples as she murmured into the air. “I’ll just have to shine brighter, then.”

Charlie, who had been leaning against the doorframe, smirked. “Careful, Granger. You’re starting to sound like me.”

Hermione glanced at him, eyebrow arched as a small smile tugged at her lips. “If I start quoting dragon wisdom at people, just Avada me. I’ll be beyond saving.”

Hermione wrapped her scarf tighter around her neck as she slipped through the quiet reserve toward Charlie’s tent. The first rays of dawn were still a while away, leaving the camp shrouded in deep shadows. Her breath puffed in small clouds as she approached the familiar structure, where Salt and Pepper had taken to roosting every now and then.

It was almost comical—like they were the products of a shared custody arrangement. And now she was here, to pick up her kiddo’s once again.

Pushing the flap open, she found them perched on Charlie’s desk, nestled among a mess of charts and old parchments. Pepper chirped in greeting, stretching her tiny wings, while Salt barely cracked an eye open. Hermione chuckled, reaching out to coax them onto her arm.

“Come on, you two,” she whispered. “Morning run. And yes, you’re coming with me this time.”

Salt climbed onto her shoulder with a sleepy grumble, while Pepper darted into her hair, settling like a feathered crown among her curls. Hermione paused, glancing around Charlie’s tent. It was bigger than most, a perk of being the lead handler, with enough space for maps and tools to clutter every available surface. She’d been here often enough when he wasn’t around—usually to retrieve the two tiny dragons, who seemed to prefer his desk to their perch outside of his tent.

The familiar smell of leather, ash, and something distinctly Charlie lingered in the air. Her gaze drifted, almost unconsciously, toward the entrance to his sleeping quarters, where she could just make out the edge of his bed. For a moment, she stood there, her thoughts running around like they had been doing all night.

She hadn’t slept—again. The parchments for the Wizengamot still lay unfinished in her own tent, a stack of meticulous work she couldn’t seem to shut her mind off about. But she couldn’t sit still any longer; the restless energy had bubbled up until she felt like she’d explode. She needed to run. To move. To do something other than think.

With a quick shake of her head, she tore away her eyes and straightened her scarf; stepping back into the chilly predawn air, Salt and Pepper snugly in tow. The reserve’s paths stretched out before her, dark and quiet, and exactly what she needed to clear her buzzing mind.

By the time Hermione reached the southern border—or as far south as one could get without apparating—the sky had shifted to an eerie shade of gray. The faint light bled across the horizon, turning the landscape into a ghostly expanse of blurred outlines and long shadows. Her lungs burned from the run, her heart pounding in sync with the rhythmic crunch of her boots against the uneven ground.

She hadn’t meant to come this far. The path had pulled her forward, each step compelled by a growing unease she couldn’t quite name.

The air felt wrong. Heavy. Thick with an acrid tang that made her throat tighten. It clung to her skin, a faint chemical bitterness she couldn’t ignore, no matter how hard she tried to rationalize it as early-morning dew or lingering smoke from a distant campfire.

Her steps slowed, the quiet around her unnerving. The usual hum of the forest was missing, and even Salt and Pepper had gone silent, holding onto her hair without a peep. There was no birdsong, no rustle of small creatures in the underbrush. Just stillness. Oppressive and absolute.

Then she saw it.

A glint of metal, barely visible under a cluster of brambles. Her breath hitched as she crouched, brushing the foliage aside to reveal jagged iron jaws smeared with dried blood. A trap.

Hermione’s stomach twisted as her gaze darted around the clearing. Nearby, scorch marks scarred the ground, the blackened earth still warm under her fingers. Dragon scales—some dull, some gleaming—were scattered like confetti, catching the pale light in a way that made her chest constrict.

She rose slowly, every nerve on edge, her wand slipping into her hand without thought. This wasn’t just an abandoned poacher’s camp; it was fresh. The acrid tang wasn’t the morning air—it was the stench of fear, blood, and desperation.

Her heart raced as she scanned the area, her grip tightening on her wand. She knew she should leave, but the thought of turning her back on this—on the evidence of someone hunting dragons in their sanctuary—made her stomach churn.

Hermione exhaled sharply, forcing herself to focus. She had to alert someone. Immediately.

Raising her wand, she whispered the incantation, and a bright, silvery light burst forth. Her otter Patronus emerged, its delicate paws tapping impatiently as it glanced back at her, waiting for instructions.

“Anton,” she murmured, her voice steady despite the cold dread spreading through her. “Southern border. Tell him to come quickly.”

The otter darted off into the graying dawn, its glow vanishing into the mist. Alone again, Hermione tightened her grip on her wand, her ears straining for the slightest sound. She wouldn’t leave, not yet. Not while the scent of blood still lingered in the air.

Hermione didn’t have to wait long; less than a minute later, the sharp crack of Apparition startled the quiet. Anton appeared, his shirt barely buttoned, his hair tousled, and his boots mismatched.

“You,” he said, voice heavy with sleep, “are very lucky I like you.” But his expression changed the moment he saw the scene in front of him. “Merlin’s—what is this?”

“Poachers,” Hermione replied, her voice tight. “I found the camp just now. They’ve been here recently. Katya is away on paid leave for a few days, and Charlie has a meeting with the director this morning… and I… well I wasn’t sure what to do.”

Anton’s wand was in his hand before she could finish the sentence, and he cast a series of detection spells, his movements quick and precise. The magic shimmered in the air before fading, confirming the worst.

“They’re gone,” Anton said, his voice grim. “But not by much. Likely within the last few hours.” He turned to her, his expression hardening. “You head to go back to the camp. Drop Salt and Pepper off somewhere safe.”

Hermione crossed her arms. “I’m not leaving you here alone, Anton.”

“You’re not staying,” he said firmly, gesturing to the tiny dragons nestled in her hair. “If they come back and you’re here with them… that’s a risk we can’t take. Think about them, Hermione.”

She opened her mouth to argue but stopped.

The thought of putting Salt and Pepper in danger twisted her stomach. With a sharp nod, she relented. “Fine. But you’d better not do anything stupid while I’m gone.”

He gave her a small, reassuring smile. “Stupid? Me? Never.”

As she turned back toward the camp, Anton raised his wand, his own Patronus—an imposing eagle—bursting into existence. The sight of it always gave Hermione pause; the sharp wings and piercing gaze suited her friend perfectly.

“Find Charlie,” he said to the bird, his tone sharp and urgent. “Tell him... this can’t wait. Whoever is warming his bed can be stood up. He needs to come. Now.”

The eagle soared off into the morning mist, its silhouette disappearing over the horizon.

Chapter Text

Unfortunately, the poacher problem wasn’t exactly going away.

Charlie had doubled patrols, assured everyone they were doing everything possible—and, surprise, surprise, nothing had changed. The threat still coated the air, the unwanted visitors still to be found.

Hermione hated the way he sounded so resigned, but deep down, she knew Charlie was right. For now, they were stuck waiting. And waiting? Not exactly Hermione’s forte.

Katya had read the exhaustion on her face the moment she returned. No words, just a drink. A silent gesture that screamed, "Shut up and relax." Hermione didn’t protest. She let Katya’s steady presence soothe her as they sipped away the tension. They drank, they chatted. And by midday, three hours after her otter had summoned Anton, Hermione was passed out in her tent, snoring like the dead.

When she finally woke, the world outside looked exactly the same. The reserve lay still—serene, picturesque, almost staged. Trees swayed. Animals moved through their morning rituals. And yet… something was wrong. The air was too still. Too quiet. Too quiet. It was like everyone was holding their breath, but no one could remember what for.

It wasn’t a storm. Not yet. But Hermione couldn’t shake the feeling that it was coming. And for now, all they could do was sit around, twiddle their thumbs, and wait for whatever mess was next. Which, of course, was exactly what they were doing.

After almost five months of running around on the reserve, the change in the air was palpable. A mix of anticipation and relief, with the holidays marching ever closer.

The snow that dwindled down in the reserve served as a perfect reminder that Christmas was just around the corner, and most of the handlers were packing up to head home to their families. It should’ve been a relief—a little peace, no dragons for a week—but no. Not for Hermione. Because she would have to leave these lovely creatures.

Yes. Katya and Anton were staying behind, having taken their holidays early. Some others were sticking around to avoid family drama, or because they couldn’t tear themselves away from the dragons.

Hermione and Charlie, though? They wouldn’t be back until after New Year’s. A whole week without dragons. A whole week with a bunch of Weasleys instead. And yet, that was the problem. The idea should’ve felt like a holiday, but instead, it sat in her stomach like a rock.

A week of quiet, aware from the everlasting dragon roars. A week of unending questions, if the letter she had received of Molly was anything to go by. And mostly, a week to let her mind spin in circles while the storm brewed, thinking about the poachers, and what their goals could be.

No. It wasn’t the kind of break she had in mind. It was the kind of break where the world holds its breath, and you start wondering when it’ll let out the scream.

Now, as they stood on the Portkey, heading back to the UK, Hermione couldn’t shake the feeling that she was leaving something unresolved behind. And Charlie, by her side, still seemed lost in thought, his usual clarity buried under an unspoken weight.

So, their trip back to the UK was off to a fantastic start. Totally smooth sailing. No awkwardness whatsoever. Why do you ask?

It wasn’t made better by the fact that neither of them had bothered to inform anyone they were coming, which, in hindsight, probably wasn’t the most diplomatic choice. Hermione had totalky forgotten to answer to any of Molly’s probing inquiries, including her arrival time. It seemed that Charlie hadn’t done so either.

So, by the time they landed at the international Portkey station, Hermione’s nerves were frayed, and Charlie’s mood seemed as opaque as the gray December sky.

So the two of them did the most logical thing possible. Instead of rushing to the Burrow, they’d detoured.

“You want coffee?” Hermione asked, mostly as a way to break the heavy silence between them.

“Depends,” Charlie replied, adjusting his duffel bag on his shoulder. “Does this coffee come with a guarantee of not seeing Mum until absolutely necessary?”

Hermione smirked. “Starbucks it is, then.”

The café was warm, bustling with Londoners seeking refuge from the biting cold. Hermione stood in line, ordering her caramel macchiato with the kind of precision that only came from frequenting the chain far too often during late-night Ministry sessions.

Charlie, on the other hand, stared at the menu like it was written in runes.

“What’s a frappuccino?” he asked, his voice low.

“Not what you want,” Hermione said, suppressing a laugh. “Try the mocha latte. It’s not overly sweet, but has hints of chocolate. You’ll like it.”

He raised a skeptical eyebrow but went along with it, grumbling something about trusting her “fancy muggle taste.”

They found a table by the window, the city bustling beyond the glass. Hermione pulled out her notes, the scratch of her pen filling the silence as she fought to focus, doing her best to ignore the tension rolling off Charlie. He stared out the window, his fingers wrapped around the paper cup as if he were holding onto it for dear life.

Charlie sighed after a beat, his shoulders sinking with the weight of the sound. He set his cup down with a soft clink, his lips curling into a wry smile. “This year will be another round of Mum’s matchmaking. Just what I need.”

Hermione glanced up, raising an eyebrow. “I’m guessing you’re still not interested?”

Charlie smirked, looking at her for a second before shifting his gaze back to the street below.

“Not in the slightest. I'm perfectly content being single. I’ve had my share of... interested parties, but I’m not looking for anything serious, let alone a marriage and kids.”

Hermione studied him for a moment, tapping her pen thoughtfully on the table. “Doesn't it get lonely, though?” She hadn’t meant to sound so probing, but the words slipped out before she could stop them.

Charlie’s lips quirked, a teasing glint in his eyes as he glanced at her. “Lonely?” He leaned back in his chair, taking a sip of his latte. “I keep myself busy. Plenty of company when the need arises. No shortage of people to take the edge off.”

Hermione smirked, trying to keep her expression neutral, but she couldn’t help but feel a flicker of something at his words.

“Good to know,” she said, with a playful lift of her eyebrow. She didn’t press the matter further, even though the idea of Charlie as a perpetual bachelor made her wonder just how “busy” he kept himself. She wasn’t sure she was ready to admit why that thought unsettled her.

Charlie didn’t seem to notice her thoughts spiraling as he continued, his eyes fixed on the view outside the window. “You know,” he said, his voice quieter, more thoughtful, “sometimes I think the Burrow’s chaos sounds like the perfect escape. But then I remember... it’s really just a different kind of stress.”

Hermione chuckled lightly, thinking about Molly’s endless matchmaking attempts. “I get it. The Burrow can be... a lot sometimes. God knows, this year will be an interesting return.”

Charlie just looked at Hermione as if he saw water burning for the first time. His eyes wide and eyebrows furrowed, as if he didn’t entirely understand why she would be so against visiting his home. She cocked her head, a stray curl falling across her face, before she continued a bit more invigorated, a new idea springing to mind.

“But hey, if you’d rather skip the chaos for a bit, we could stay in a hotel for the night. We’ve got the Wizengamot hearing in London tomorrow anyway, so it makes more sense to stay within the city, then head to the Burrow afterward.” She hesitated for a beat, before adding, “More efficient, right?”

Charlie blinked, surprised, before a small smirk tugged at his lips. His eyes shifted, considering the suggestion. For a moment, Hermione could have sworn she saw a flicker of relief, but it was gone so quickly that she wondered if it was just a trick of the light.

“You really wouldn’t mind?” he asked, leaning back and looking at her with a half-amused expression. “Skipping out on a night at the Burrow for a hotel? That would be... surprisingly practical.”

Hermione met his gaze, surprised by the intensity in his eyes, and nodded. “Why not? Less stress for both of us. We transfigure the couch into a bed, one of us sleeps there, and hey, problem solved.” She gave him a smile that was a little too wide to be entirely casual, but her heart was racing a little at the idea. She wasn't sure why, but something about the suggestion felt oddly… right.

Charlie didn’t speak immediately. Instead, he let out a long exhale, his shoulders relaxing as though a weight had lifted from them. He looked at her for a beat longer, before the smile that tugged at his lips softened. “I wouldn’t say no to that.”

Hermione’s grin widened, her fingers drumming lightly on the table. “Perfect. I know just the place.” She leaned back in her chair, her thoughts momentarily drifting as she considered the practicality of the idea. A small part of her was relieved, another part... well, she wasn’t sure what that part felt just yet.

Charlie looked at her with something like amusement mixed with uncertainty, and for a fleeting moment, Hermione could swear she saw something else in his eyes—something that seemed to question her words more than he was willing to let on.

But just as quickly, he shook his head, his expression falling into something more familiar and easygoing. “Well, that’s settled then,” he said, his voice back to its usual casual tone. “The crazy burrow antics will start on Christmas eve. Perfect.”

Hermione gave a light laugh, the sound a little brighter than she intended. “Perfect indeed.”

Charlie had no idea what the Shard was, let alone the Shangri-La Hotel. As they rode the elevator to one of the highest floors of the glass-pyramid building, his brow furrowed as he glanced at the sleek, modern interior.

“This is your idea of a hotel?” he asked, his tone both impressed and wary.

“It’s been on my list for ages,” Hermione admitted, her excitement slipping through her otherwise calm demeanour. “The view is supposed to be incredible.”

When they reached the reception desk, the attendant—a polished woman with a sharp smile—barely batted an eye at Hermione’s hurried booking. That is, until Hermione pulled out a stack of Muggle cash. The woman’s eyes flicked between them, her smile growing slightly conspiratorial.

“Booking a night for your honeymoon?” the attendant asked, her voice syrupy and just a touch too knowing. She tapped delicately on her keyboard, the soft clicks blending with the faint hum of the hotel lobby.

Hermione’s cheeks flared hot, and she opened her mouth to protest. “No, we’re—”

Snap.

Charlie’s fingers flicked with the kind of effortless wandless magic that was so absurdly impressive it made Hermione want to hex him on principle. A glint of gold appeared on her finger. She glanced down, blinking, at the delicate wedding band now snug around her left hand—and another on his.

“Yes,” Charlie cut in smoothly, his arm sliding around her shoulders like he’d been doing it for years. “Just married.”

Hermione turned to him, her eyebrows launching halfway up her forehead. Excuse me?!

He met her incredulous look with a wink so cheeky it could’ve powered an entire fireworks display.

Heat crept up her neck. Was she embarrassed, annoyed, or—God help her—slightly impressed? She refused to dwell on it.

“Well, congratulations!” the attendant gushed, her smile growing wider by the second.

“In that case, let me upgrade you to one of our premier honeymoon suites! And you’ll have access to our couples’ massage package, of course.”

Charlie’s grin widened, the lines around his blue eyes crinkling. “That sounds absolutely perfect.”

Hermione bit the inside of her cheek, a sharp comeback bubbling up but getting caught somewhere between exasperation and, annoyingly, amusement. “Honey,” she said finally, her tone sugary sweet but laced with daggers, “don’t you think we’re being a bit... indulgent?”

“Indulgent?” Charlie turned to her, his expression a picture of mock concern. “Darling, we just pledged our undying love and survived the treacherous contract called marriage vows. We deserve all the perks.”

She stared at him, deadpan. “Treacherous contract?”

“Your speech about maintaining both equality and the magic in long-term partnerships was very moving,” he replied, completely straight-faced. “And very long.”

Hermione inhaled sharply, trying to fight the twitch in the corner of her mouth. “That wasn’t our wedding, you dolt. That was Fleur and Bill’s—at which you got so drunk you passed out in the gazebo.”

“Details,” Charlie dismissed with a wave, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “The important thing is, we’re here now, starting our magical journey together. Isn’t that right, Mrs. Weasley?”

Hermione’s lips parted in outrage, her voice stuck somewhere between a squawk and a rebuttal. “Oh, you are not—”

The receptionist, completely taken by the act, typed away with renewed enthusiasm.

“You’re going to love the suite,” she said, passing over their keycards. “It’s on the 48th floor with a panoramic view of London. And, of course, room service is available 24/7, and the finest champagne will be ready for you in the mini-bar.”

“Champagne!” Charlie said, his voice tinged with mock awe as he gave Hermione’s shoulder an affectionate squeeze. “Hear that, love? The finest champagne, just for us.”

Hermione’s jaw tightened, her eyes narrowing as she tilted her head up to him, perfectly remembering the cash she had just flaunted at the receptionist. “And just who do you think is footing the bill for this little escapade?”

Charlie smiled at her, his expression warm and sincere. Leaning in slightly, he lowered his voice, ensuring the attendant wouldn’t overhear.

"Relax," he murmured, his grin softening. "It’s already covered. You’ll have it in your Gringotts vault before you know it. Consider it a thank you for agreeing to this. You just saved me a full day of awkward questions and unwanted attention."

Hermione blinked, caught off guard by the sudden sincerity in his tone. For a split second, the teasing veil between them lifted, and she saw the faint traces of exhaustion in his eyes—the same ones she knew mirrored her own.

She sighed, her shoulders loosening just slightly. “Fine,” she muttered, though her glare remained intact for appearances. “But don’t think for a second this means you’re off the hook.”

Charlie straightened, his grin returning to its full mischievous glory. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

As they turned back to the desk, the attendant was looking at them with a soft smile. Then, she handed over a pair room cards to Charlie, her face glowing. “Congratulations again! Enjoy your stay.”

“Oh, we will,” Charlie said smoothly, giving Hermione a sideways glance that could have set the room on fire.

Hermione took one of the keys from her husband, her fingers brushing his just a bit too long. He placed a hand on her back, guiding her toward the lift with a casual, almost affectionate touch that made her heart skip a beat and fire climb up her spine. With a tight smile, she muttered, “I’m either yelling at you or hexing you later.”

Charlie’s grin only widened, that dangerous glint in his eye making it clear he was enjoying the tease. “I’d expect nothing less,” he drawled, his voice dropping low. “Just make sure you scream my name when you do.”

His laughter echoed behind them as they headed toward the lift. The warmth of his hand on her back lingered, and Hermione felt the familiar heat spread across her chest and into her cheeks. She fought it, but the corner of her mouth betrayed her, twitching upward despite her best efforts to keep it neutral.

The suite was beyond ridiculous. Hermione Granger felt like she’d stumbled into someone else’s life—a far more glamorous one. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed London, the city sparkling below like scattered diamonds. Dropping her bag by the door, she forced herself not to gape at the opulence. This wasn’t her world, yet here she was.

Charlie Weasley, naturally, looked perfectly at ease. He wandered over to the window, hands tucked casually into his pockets. “Not bad,” he remarked, his voice carrying the kind of calm confidence that could make anything sound like an understatement.

“‘Not bad’?” Hermione repeated, incredulous. “This is the nicest room I’ve ever seen.”

Charlie turned, his lips quirking in that infuriating smirk. “Guess I’ll have to take you on more honeymoons then.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, but amusement tugged at her lips. “You’re insane.”

“True,” he agreed with a shrug, completely unbothered.

As he strolled toward the minibar, Hermione caught herself watching the fluid ease of his movements. Everything about him seemed so natural, so completely at home, as though this luxury suited him better than dragon pens and singed clothes.

“Booked us massages for tonight,” he said, pulling out a bottle of champagne and setting it on the counter. “All this dragon work is murder on the shoulders. Figured I’d do us both a favor.”

“And… it’s just what you need,” he added with a smirk, popping the cork with practiced ease. “A little relaxation.”

Hermione shook her head, biting back a smile. “You’re ridiculous,” she muttered, brushing past him to the enormous bed. It was plush and impossibly inviting, practically begging her to sink into it.

Unable to resist, she hopped on and leaned against the headboard with a contented sigh.

“You know,” she said, pulling a stack of papers from her bag, “as tempting as it is to indulge in all this luxury, I think I’d rather get some work done.”

Charlie raised an eyebrow, two champagne flutes in hand as he sauntered over. “Work? On a honeymoon? And here I thought you’d be fun.”

“Work can be fun,” Hermione replied dryly, taking the glass he offered. She sipped the champagne, the alcoholic buzz and its accompanying fizz a welcome distraction from his teasing grin.

Charlie settled onto the bed beside her, handing her the bottle with a wink. “Well then, Granger. Let’s make this productive.”

Hermione shot him a sly look, flipping through her parchments. “Alright. If you’re going to sit there, let’s test your dragon knowledge. I hope you’re prepared.”

“Oh, I was born ready,” Charlie replied, leaning back as he took a sip of his flute.

Their banter flowed easily as Hermione quizzed him on everything from conservation policies to dragon behaviors, their glasses of champagne refilled twice—once by Hermione, the second time by Charlie with a subtle flick of his wrist.

“That’s impressive,” Hermione said, watching as the champagne poured itself into their flutes mid-air. The bottle hovered for a moment before lowering itself neatly onto the bedside table. “Wandless magic, huh?”

Charlie raised his glass, his grin unrepentant. “I heard you’re quite proficient yourself. Cheers.”

“To dragons, paperwork, and a honeymoon no one believes in,” Hermione quipped, raising her glass from the comfortable bed towards his.

As the champagne warmed her, the tension between them softened, replaced by an easy rhythm of teasing questions and shared laughter. But even with the lighter atmosphere, Hermione couldn’t ignore the undercurrent that coursed through her, the way his gaze sometimes lingered too long or his smile carried something unspoken.

After a while, Charlie stretched with a lazy grin. “Alright, Granger. As much as I enjoy being interrogated, I need a shower.”

Hermione tried, really tried, to focus on the stack of parchment in front of her, but the sight of Charlie—standing in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, peeling off his shirt in one smooth motion—made that impossible.

Her eyes betrayed her as they roamed, following the ink etched across his chest. Dragons, so lifelike they seemed to almost flicker with a breath of fire, coiled around his torso, their scales shifting with a faint magical shimmer. They flew, shifting position, their wings catching the light before disappearing, only to reappear on another part of his body once more. Hippogriffs, majestic and proud, were etched across his shoulder, and the ghostly forms of Thestrals hovered just beneath the curve of his ribs. It was nothing short of captivating, like the tattoos had a life of their own.

"Like what you see?" Charlie’s voice slid in, smooth and teasing, breaking her reverie with the precision of a bludger to the chest. He flashed her that smug grin that made her heart stutter.

Hermione snapped her eyes back to her papers, pretending she hadn’t been staring. “I wasn’t looking,” she said, too quickly to be believable.

Charlie leaned against the doorframe, his smirk curling even higher. “Uh-huh. Not looking at the guy you’re practically staring at, right.”

“I am working,” she shot back, her voice a little higher than normal. The evidence of her flustered state was all over her face.

He cocked an eyebrow, stepping closer. “Working or working on mentally undressing me?”

She rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t stop the smile that tugged at her lips. "You’re impossible, you know that?"

“Impossible?” Charlie said, voice lowering as he slowly undid his belt, letting the fabric of his trousers fall to the floor. “You say that like it’s a bad thing, Granger.”

Hermione shifted in her seat, trying to ignore how her pulse quickened at the sight of him in nothing but his boxers. “I said impossible, not irresistible,” she quipped, her attempt to be cool faltering when her gaze inevitably found the tattoos, a range of magical creatures that apparently also covered his left leg entirely, again.

Charlie didn’t miss a beat. He strolled toward the bathroom, throwing a teasing look over his shoulder. “You keep saying that, but the way you’re looking at me says otherwise. But hey, who am I to stop you from admiring the view?”

The door clicked shut behind him, leaving Hermione to curse her inability to focus on anything other than him. She could still picture the dragons, their wings flicking from his chest to his biceps as he moved, alive with magic. She was suddenly very aware of just how good Charlie Weasley looked—how effortlessly confident he was in his own skin. He’d never looked more at ease, even with all that teasing. She couldn’t deny that she liked it.

As the water started running in the other room, Hermione breathed in deeply, trying to reset herself. She could hear Charlie singing under his breath—something ridiculously off-key—and the sound of water cascading over his shoulders. The stupid thing was, she knew it was just a matter of time before he came out and did something else to make her lose focus again. And the worst part? She kind of liked it.

Focus, Granger.

So, she dug out another pile of papers—because clearly, the universe thought she needed more dragon-related paperwork in her life.

Thirty minutes later, the bathroom door swung open, and there he was—damp, fresh from his shower, his hair still dripping; wrapped in the hotel bath robe, and his complimentary muggle pyjama trousers and hanging so low it should’ve been illegal.

He leaned casually in the doorframe, that same lazy, confident grin on his face, eyes glinting with mischief as he observed the parchments scattered around her.

“You really do work on everything,” he said, voice smooth as honey. “Impressive.”

Hermione swallowed hard, trying to maintain some composure. “Someone has to keep this holiday productive,” she said, but her tone was slightly breathless, betraying her attempt to stay aloof.

Charlie stretched then, like he had all the time in the world. The bathrobe slipped slightly, revealing a glimpse of a dragon’s wing inked on his bicep. The tattoo fluttered for a brief moment, the dragon’s wings moving with a magical grace before settling again. Hermione’s breath caught, and before she could stop herself, her eyes flicked back to him.

“Maybe you’re working on the wrong thing,” Charlie murmured, his voice dropping into a deeper register that made her pulse spike. “I mean, you’re missing the best part of the holiday, Granger.”

She forced herself to look away, but the sound of his voice lingered in her chest. “And what, exactly, would that be?”

Charlie raised an eyebrow as he sauntered toward the bed, his movements unhurried and almost deliberate. “Well, we’ve got massages booked,” he said, his grin turning wicked. “But I’m starting to think, judging by the tension in your shoulders and the dangerous way you bite your lip, you could use a lot more than that.”

Hermione nearly choked on her own breath. “This isn’t a honeymoon, Charlie,” she managed, though she couldn’t hide the warmth spreading across her skin.

Charlie’s grin only deepened. “Not if you’re behaving like that, anyway,” he said, his tone laced with a challenge, as he threw himself onto the bed beside her. His robe shifted again, revealing some more of his tattoos and muscled skin. The dragon on his bicep swirled as if it was trying to fly off his skin, and Hermione had to forcibly tear her eyes away.

She cleared her throat, trying to focus on the work in front of her, but the heat between them was almost tangible now. “Well, I’ve got a lot to catch up on,” she muttered, flipping the parchment over and pretending she was immune to his charm. "I thought we agreed to make the best of this holiday."

Charlie looked at her with a soft, amused smile, reaching for a glass of champagne. “Oh, we’ll get to that. I’m all for mixing business with pleasure.”

“Oh trust me, Weasley . This outing is purely business related.” And with that, she took her papers and moved from the bed to the desk, putting as much distance between them as physically possible.

Chapter Text

The morning sun had barely crept over the horizon when Hermione stood in front of the bathroom mirror, smoothing down the front of her robes. A satisfied smile tugged at her lips as she remembered the massage from last night. It was nothing short of divine, easing the tension in her shoulders that had built up over weeks of dragon wrangling and late nights bend over her desk to write up the proposal.

The couch was incredibly comfortable. Sleeping in the same room as Charlie, though, was a different matter. His soft breathing, so near yet so distant, oddly reminded her of Salt and Pepper, the comforting sound of her two dragons settling down for the night. It wasn’t exactly bliss, but it was… familiar.

But like a lot of thoughts over the past few weeks, she shrugged it off while pulling her robes tighter around her. The couch had been great, her night phenomenal. Five Star hotel quality. No need to make it more complicated.

And so, she moved through the familiar motions; applying eyeliner with a precision that would make even the most practiced makeup artist jealous, followed by a quick sweep of mascara. Her hair, of course, was another matter. The smoothing charm she cast tamed her curls into something vaguely resembling order—thank Merlin for that. She wasn’t about to let her hair be the first thing anyone noticed, especially not when her muggle-born status was already giving her enough to work with.

Her fingers absently traced the scar on her arm, the one she always kept hidden, as if it would somehow vanish if she didn’t think about it.

Charlie’s voice rang out from the other room. “Ready to face the circus, Granger?”

Hermione rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress the smile. Yes. Yes she was.

She adjusting the sleeve of her robes as she left the brightly lit room. Charlie stood by the window, the early light casting a warm glow on him as he pulled on his formal robe. His red hair looked more tousled than usual, but there was something effortlessly captivating about him—his broad shoulders, the way his robes fit him just right, the sharp angle of his jaw.

“Well, don’t you scrub up all respectable,” Charlie drawled, his grin doing nothing to hide the teasing lilt in his voice. Then, he narrowed his eyes, seemingly disagreeing with the archaic words that were about to leave his mouth, but uttering them nonetheless. “Someone might even mistake you for a Pureblood.”

Hermione snorted, taking the compliment as she knew he meant it while adjusting her sleeve. “And you look like you’ve just strutted off the cover of Wizards Weekly: Dragon Wrangler Edition.”

She hated to admit it, but damn, he looked good. Really good.

Charlie turned with a casual shrug, his formal robes somehow managing to look both effortless and perfectly tailored. “This old thing?” he said, shooting her a wink. “Guess I’ve still got it.”

“Humble as ever,” Hermione shot back, her tone flat, though the traitorous twitch at the corner of her mouth betrayed her.

Charlie opened his mouth to retort, but she didn’t give him the chance. Straightening her robes, she shook off the moment, her expression sharpening into something focused. There wasn’t time for banter—not with the Wizengamot meeting looming just an hour away.

By the time they reached the grand atrium of the Ministry of Magic, Hermione’s thoughts had snapped into formation, every errant emotion locked away where it couldn’t trip her up. Each step on the gleaming marble floors carried her further from Charlie’s infuriatingly charming smirks and closer to the chamber where hesitation would be eaten alive.

And just like that, it was showtime.

She strode into the room with Charlie at her side, her head high and shoulders square, meeting the whispers and curious stares with a practiced indifference. Let them look, let them speculate—she wasn’t here to be underestimated. She wore authority like a second skin, and she had memorized every shred of research and policy to the point of obsession.

This wasn’t just about winning over the Wizengamot. This was about dragons. About the reserve. And—though she’d never say it aloud—about proving to Charlie that she wasn’t just some clipboard-wielding bureaucrat.

She adjusted her robes, her resolve unshakable. The funding was as good as theirs.

She quickly moved to the front, setting her papers down with a deliberate gesture, her eyes scanning the room. She could feel Charlie’s steady presence behind her, like a constant source of reassurance, though she didn’t let herself linger on that.

The head of the Wizengamot called for attention, and Hermione took a deep breath before speaking.

“Ladies and gentlemen, honoured witches and wizards of the Wizengamot, thank you for your time today. We are here for one purpose: to discuss and greenlight a series of carefully crafted trial policies designed to improve our approach to dragon conservation, focusing on the establishment of new guidelines that will protect endangered magical creatures while enhancing the sustainable management of dragon populations.

I trust you have all carefully read the prepared documents, and so you will be keenly aware that what we are proposing today are not mere ‘theories.’ These trials are the culmination of years of research, and have been put to the test during my recent months of work in the field. We are seeking approval to conduct these trials in the controlled, confined environments of the Romanian reserve, so that we may evaluate these policies before rolling them out across Wizarding Britain—and eventually, hopefully, they will become a best practice that will be adopted by the rest of the world.

Dragon conservation cannot be a mere afterthought, nor can we afford to risk ineffective, piecemeal approaches. By testing and refining these policies now, we ensure that the magic of the dragons—and the safety of those working with them—can thrive for generations to come.

The trials will not only assess the policies themselves but also how best to allocate funding for them. The future of our magical ecosystem, and by extension our economy, depends on it. So, I am here today to request the necessary backing—and, more importantly, your trust in these trials.”

She paused, allowing her words to settle over the room, her gaze steady, confident.

“And, of course, we will need appropriate funding to ensure the success of these trials. We cannot afford to move forward without the resources necessary to carry out this research effectively. I trust that you will see the merit in that as we move through today’s discussions.”

The murmurs in the room quieted. Hermione was in control now.

The first question came swiftly—a skeptical inquiry into the financial viability of the project. Hermione didn’t hesitate.

“The allocation of funds is more than reasonable. The research I’ve outlined has accounted for every variable, every aspect of dragon conservation, and every logistical detail. The numbers are sound,” Hermione replied, her voice unwavering. “To suggest otherwise would be to ignore the incredible potential for scientific progress and environmental protection that this funding would provide.”

The Wizengamot members shifted, their eyes flicking between each other like they were trying to decide if she was an inconvenient fly or a serious threat. Hermione could practically feel their skepticism radiating off them. Dragons? Fine. But a Mudblood proposing something revolutionary? That? That, even years after the war had ended, most of these prominent wizards could do without.

She could practically hear the old prejudices clicking into place, but she wasn’t about to give them the satisfaction of seeing her flinch. No, she was here to do more than just talk about dragons. She was here to show them what real expertise looked like. And they were going to have to deal with it.

Her voice was full of confidence and control as she continued, “Additionally, the funding is not only for the trials. It will directly support our teams, our dragon handlers, and their ongoing training. Without proper support, we risk compromising the welfare of the creatures we aim to protect.”

The questions that followed were no less challenging, but Hermione answered each one with calm, assured precision. She defended the importance of dragon handlers’ roles, explained the methodology behind the research, and argued fiercely for the necessity of long-term funding. By the time she had finished addressing the last question, it was clear—the Wizengamot had been swayed.

The votes were tallied—Ayes against Nayes—and for a moment, it felt like the room held its breath, waiting for the inevitable.

And then, with all the weight of a thousand unspoken opinions, the head of the Wizengamot gave a sharp nod. “We approve the initial funding for the trials and endorse the proposed research. Your initiative may move forward. We will see you in six months for a first debrief of your preliminary results.”

Hermione nodded, as she turned onto her heel. Until she made her way down the corridors and into the main hall, she didn’t allow herself to show the relief that flooded her chest, but she could feel the weight lifting.

Under the lights, the glow of the towering Christmas tree casting a soft halo around them, Hermione turned to Charlie. He had been a constant presence throughout the entire meeting, a silent sentinel behind her, offering steady support for the last six hours. But now, as the buzz of victory started to settle, his eyes met hers, and for a moment, something unspoken passed between them. A flicker of pride, of acknowledgment—gone in a second, but enough to make her heart skip.

“You did it, Granger,” Charlie said, his voice lower, almost a quiet murmur amidst the noise of the Ministry lobby. There was a soft admiration in his tone that she hadn’t expected. “And I didn’t even have to jump in once.”

Hermione smirked, the flush of success still warm on her cheeks. “I know how to hold my own,” she replied, the sharpness in her voice masking the subtle glow of satisfaction inside her. She couldn’t help it. It felt good to win, to be the one they had underestimated.

But even as the victory lingered, her mind was already racing ahead—planning, strategizing. The work wasn’t done. The trials would begin, and there were a hundred things left to finalize, a hundred more battles to fight.

Still, for this brief moment, she allowed herself to savor it.

Charlie gave a small chuckle, his expression shifting back into its usual mask. “What now?”

She looked toward the exit, already feeling the tension in the air. “We Floo to the Burrow.”

The words hung between them for a second too long. Christmas at the Burrow—her first one without Ron. She wasn’t exactly looking forward to the awkward questions or Mrs. Weasley’s well-meaning interrogation.

Charlie shifted beside her, his gaze flickering to hers with an unreadable expression. “I’m not sure what’s worse, getting roasted by a dragon or Mum’s questions.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow, her tone light. “I’m sure you’d survive both, Weasley.”

Charlie shrugged, the easy confidence of earlier slipping. “Every year, it’s the same routine: settle down here, marry this witch there. I just wish she’d get the hint,” he grinned at her, “And don’t think you’re escaping it. I’ve apparently converted you to the ‘dark side.’ Expect to be dragged into the speech too.”

“Well, we’ll survive it,” she said, the corner of her mouth tugging upward.

Charlie flashed her a small grin. “Braver than I am.”

Hermione gave a tight smile. Truthfully, Molly Weasley’s probing questions were the least of her worries. But facing Ron and Lavender? Although she was definitely over him, it was still going to be a whole different kind of torture.

Chapter Text

Charlie slouched back in the creaky hotel chair, glaring up at the ceiling as though it held all the answers to his spiraling thoughts. The room was too nice—too plush for someone who spent most of his days covered in soot and dragon spit. The soft linens, the faintly floral scent wafting from the bathroom—it was all background noise to the chaos in his head.

Hermione Granger.

He was in trouble. Big, stupid, fire-breathing trouble.

Charlie had been around. He’d had his fair share of flings—some fleeting, some memorable, and some whose names he couldn’t recall if his life depended on it. It was all part of the deal: dragon wrangling was risky work, and life was short. But for months now, his bed had been colder than a Romanian winter, and for one ridiculously obvious reason.

Hermione. Bloody. Granger.

And it was swiftly evolving into becoming quite the problem.

She was with Ron. His little brother. And sure, there hadn’t been any sign of him in her life lately—no visits, no letters, not even the occasional mention in passing. But that didn’t mean anything, right? They were together. They had to be. Otherwise, what the hell was Charlie supposed to do with the fact that every time he saw her, his stomach flipped like a bloody idiot teenager’s?

Not that he’d let her know any of that. Charlie Weasley might have been reckless, but he wasn’t stupid. Hermione deserved better than being some fleeting thought for a man who lived his life one dragon-related accident away from death. And anyway, Ron was her boyfriend. Maybe. Probably.

“Git,” Charlie muttered to himself, shaking his head as he looked onto the London rush hour. By the looks of it, Ron hadn’t even protested when Hermione had taken the assignment in Romania. Who the hell lets their girlfriend—Hermione Granger, of all people—fly halfway around the world to work with a bunch of dragon handlers?

And that’s what really got under his skin. She’d shown up, armed with her lists and her confidence, and turned the entire reserve upside down. At first, the handlers had grumbled about “ministry interference” and “desk workers sticking their noses where they didn’t belong.” But that had lasted only a few months. Maybe less. Hermione had them eating out of the palm of her hand by the time she’d solved her first logistical nightmare. Now, they talked about her like she’d been wrangling dragons her whole life.

Not that Charlie blamed them. She was brilliant. Annoyingly so. And it wasn’t just her competence—though watching her predict a dragon’s move before it even twitched was mesmerizing. No, it was the way she was. The way she carried herself. Strong. Solid. Like she could take on the whole damn world and still have time to sort out your paperwork afterward.

It didn’t help that she was so damn good at everything. Dragons loved her. Dragons. Even the grumpiest Norwegian Ridgeback seemed to mellow out when she approached, like she had some sort of secret dragon-whisperer gene no one else possessed. And Merlin help him, barely six months in, she’d earned every ounce of respect from the crew thrice over, although she was still oblivious to most of it.

But in reality, half of them were terrified of her—the other half wanted to date her.

And that’s where Charlie came in. The Hermione Granger Anti-Flirting Task Force.

He’d spent more time running interference than he had wrangling dragons. “No, she’s spoken for,” he’d tell them, gritting his teeth as he waved off yet another hopeful suitor. It wasn’t a lie, exactly. Just a protective… embellishment. She was spoken for. Just not by him. And wasn’t that a kick to the gut?

It was maddening. She wasn’t supposed to be this… magnetic. This brilliant, sharp-tongued, frustratingly beautiful distraction. The way she looked fully clad in dragon leather… damn, that girl was bloody fit.

And that? Well, that posed some problems. Charlie had always thought of her as his little brother’s clever friend—annoying, maybe a bit of a know-it-all, but harmless. Now? Now she was a bloody hurricane. Unstoppable. Unyielding. And absolutely, one hundred percent not his to think about this way.

And then there was last night.

She’d been sprawled on the bed, parchment everywhere, biting her lip in concentration. Charlie had tried—really tried—not to notice, but that lip bite had nearly unhinged him. So, like the mature, responsible adult he was, he’d decided to distract himself. Peeling off his clothes had seemed like a reasonable option at the time. It was hot in the room, wasn’t it? He needed a shower, right? Completely justifiable.

Of course, it hadn’t been justifiable at all, and he knew it. He’d felt her gaze on him, lingering just a little too long before she snapped it back to her notes. Her face had flushed, a telltale pink that sent an absurd jolt of satisfaction through him. She might’ve pretended not to notice, but Charlie knew better. The flicker of her eyes, the way her quill paused mid-sentence—it was all the proof he needed.

And then he’d pushed his luck. Strolled past her, slow and deliberate, tattoos shifting restlessly under his skin. He had teased. Pushed his luck. Enjoying the way her breath hitched, her cheeks growing an impossible shade of red. By the time he’d ducked into the bathroom, he’d felt like the king of his own ridiculous little game.

Now, the morning after, sitting in this stupidly comfortable chair, Charlie groaned and scrubbed a hand over his face. He was doomed. Completely, utterly doomed. Hermione wasn’t just a passing thought. She was a full-on storm, roaring through his head, refusing to be ignored. And he had no idea what the hell to do about it.

Unfortunately, the ceiling refused to offer any answers. Typical.

Hermione’s antics at the Wizengamot? Well, that did absolutely nothing to damper Charlie's views on the witch in front of him.

The disdain of some of the members was palpable; and a bloody surprise. Who knew that even after the demise of You-Know-Who, there was still such an archaic system in place regarding purebloods? It was a bloody shitshow.

Charlie had been taken aback. This was one-third of the golden trio, the brightest witch of her bloody age. And, they were prejudiced against her.

Honestly, his opinion of the Wizengamot hadn’t been high before, but now he found them to be about just as useful as a chocolate teapot.

But Hermione had been fiery. Strong. Everything that she had needed to be, and damn it if that hadn’t turned him on. The way her eyes blazed as she spoke would be something he would think about for years to come.

But now, as they exited the lobby, relief and happiness written on both their faces, it was time to face the music.

The Burrow.

He had made a joke of Hermione now being part of the dark side. He was sure his mum wouldn’t let it go that she was so far away from Ronniekins.

But somehow, she had just ignored it. She didn’t seem happy to go home. To see the family again. To see Ron again.

And Charlie? Well he hadn’t questioned it. He took every inch she gave with both hands. And deep down, he hoped it was a sign. Maybe Ron and her were over. Possibly.

Charlie pinched his nose. It couldn’t be anything else, right? Why would his idiot brother not come down and sweep her into his arms the moment she set foot back on the island.

But no, he didn’t want to hope.

Until someone told him differently, he would make no assumptions.

Not just because he didn’t want to, but most of all, because he didn’t want his mind to run astray with the possibilities of it all.

After all, there were plenty.

Chapter Text

Hermione stood back and let Charlie step into the Floo first. Of course, she did. It was his family, after all.

The last thing she needed was a scene where she, the ex-girlfriend, barged into the Burrow ahead of their golden and semi-estranged son, the dragon-wrangler. Besides, she wasn’t exactly bursting with holiday cheer. Christmas had felt more like an obligation than a celebration this year, and no amount of mince pies or Weasley fun was likely to change that.

Her pulse was still racing, though, a delicious fire coursing through her veins. That proposal had been a masterpiece—her masterpiece. She’d secured the funding, and laid out the blueprint. Now it was Charlie’s and the sanctuary’s Director Thomas’s job to make the implementation a reality.

But that was work. And not applicable currently. The rest of today wasn’t for dragon-saving logistics; today was for… enduring holiday cheer.

She sighed, scanning the Ministry atrium like it might magically provide an escape route. No such luck. The Floos roared and sparkled around her, ready to spit her out into a sea of ginger hair and well-meaning questions. She groaned inwardly. There was a reason she’d made Charlie go first—it bought her two extra minutes to stall.

And thinking about it, she really needed a whole lot more than just a few meager minutes. So, her decision was swiftly made.

Her otter patronus burst into existence with a flick of her wand, graceful and shimmering, far too cheery for her current mood. "Katya," she murmured to it, rolling her eyes at herself, "fancy a Christmas chat?" The otter darted off, leaving her alone with her thoughts and the oppressive cheer of enchanted garlands dangling overhead.

Barely two minutes passed before a silvery arctic fox came bounding back, practically vibrating with energy. "Yes, yes, yes!" Katya’s voice squealed in reply.

Hermione smirked despite herself. Trust Katya to turn a simple invitation into a caffeine-fueled exclamation point.

"Perfect," Hermione muttered, already striding toward the Floo. She barely paused to shout her address before stepping through the flames, grateful to put off facing the Weasleys for just a little longer. Christmas could wait — it was only just past midday after all — she needed her friend.

Katya’s eyebrow arched so high Hermione feared it might vanish into her hairline. “So, no Christmas dinner?” she asked, her accent curling around the words like smoke.

Hermione snorted, leaning closer to the flames. The absurdity of her situation caught her suddenly off guard.

“Oh, there’ll be Christmas dinner,” she said, waving a hand. “Eventually.”

“Ah,” Katya said, her grin sharp enough to cut glass. “You stall.”

Hermione mirrored her arched eyebrow, silently daring her to elaborate. The nerve of her friend. Somehow, she could read Hermione like an open book.

“Why?”

The question hit Hermione unexpectedly. Why, indeed? Her mind scrambled for a clever retort, but all she managed was a vaguely guilty shrug.

Katya didn’t wait for an answer. She pressed on like a russian bloodhound on a scent. “Is no matter. You dress up.”

Hermione frowned, throwing Katya’s question back in her face. “Why?”

Katya’s laughter bubbled through the fire, bright and unapologetic. “Because, my little dragon tamer, you go Christmas with Charlie. You dress nice, make impression, get family to like you.”

“Are you joking?” Hermione threw her hands up. “We’ve talked about this, Katya! I dated his brother! This is going to be a disaster! His mother hates me, and—”

Katya cut her off with a wave of her hand, her expression full of exaggerated patience. “Da, da, I hear this before. But Hermione—” Her grin turned wicked. “He likes you. Everyone knows. Except maybe him. Men are dumb.”

Hermione spluttered, her cheeks heating. “He doesn’t know because I don’t—”

Katya raised a hand to silence her. “Hermy, please. How you look at him? Like cat at fish market. Obvious to everyone.” She leaned forward conspiratorially. “You wear black dress I put in magic bag. He loves it.”

“Wait, what black dress?” Hermione blinked, then groaned, already reaching for her beaded bag. Of course Katya had smuggled contraband into her possessions. “You’re insufferable.”

“You love me,” Katya said, beaming.

Hermione rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress a laugh as she muttered, “Accio black dress.” It zipped into her hand, sleek and snug and... dragon leather? “Katya, this is—”

“Perfect,” Katya interrupted. “Tight. Short. Make him drool.”

Hermione inspected the dress, her eyebrows climbing. It was elegant, the hem skimming just above her knees, and the leather was buttery soft yet fierce. “You’re ridiculous,” she grumbled, but she was already digging for a cardigan to tone it down.

She stepped away from the Floo, glaring at the dress like it had personally insulted her, then slipped it on. The leather clung perfectly—annoyingly so—and she could practically hear Katya’s smug “I told you so” in her head.

With a huff, she yanked out her wand and aimed at her hair, muttering a charm that dragged her curls into something halfway presentable. Another flick darkened her lashes just enough to make her eyes pop, and she paused to assess herself in the mirror.

The reflection staring back at her was annoyingly good. The dress hugged her in all the right places, the cardigan added just the right amount of modesty, and the smoky eyes were more “effortlessly sultry” than “trying too hard”. When she caught her reflection, she had to admit it, grudgingly, that Katya knew what she was doing.

Five seconds later, she was back on her knees telling the woman as much. “Okay, you might be onto something.”

Katya smirked. “Da, Hermione. Always listen to Katya. You look amazing. Now, go make Charlie dumb with love.”

Hermione laughed despite herself. “Fine. But if this goes horribly wrong, I’m blaming you.”

“You already blame me for everything. Go!” Katya waved her off with a triumphant grin, and Hermione couldn’t help but feel a little more confident as she hung up the call, and prepared herself for an evening with the entire family.

“Oh, Hermione, thank Merlin—you’re here!” Harry practically dragged her out of the Floo, his grip firm and his urgency palpable. He was already steering her toward the hallway, the one that led to the kitchen and sitting room—the belly of the beast.

Hermione braced herself, every step like walking toward a firing squad. She hadn’t even made it halfway when Ginny appeared, all sharp eyes and even sharper wit, forever one step ahead of her husband.

Ginny’s gaze swept over Hermione’s outfit like a hawk assessing its prey. Her lips twitched into a grin, and then came the low whistle. “Bloody hell, Hermione. Romania’s really working its magic, huh?”

Hermione smirked, brushing imaginary lint off her cardigan. “Had to change, didn’t I? Couldn’t exactly rock up in my formal robes. Too much, even for this crowd.”

Harry, predictably, turned pink. He opened his mouth to say something—probably an attempt at a compliment—but whatever it was died a flustered, stammering death.

Ginny didn’t miss a beat. She smacked the back of his head with the precision of someone well-practiced. “What my charming husband meant to say, Hermione,” she said, her grin positively wicked, “is that you look absolutely stunning. And honestly, I can’t wait to see the look on Lavender’s face.”

Hermione couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled out of her. “Ginny!”

“What? you look absolutely gorgeous,” Ginny shot back, winking. “Now let’s get in there and cause some chaos, shall we?” She paused, her grin sharpening. “Oh, and by the way—Charlie’s been pacing like a caged dragon since he arrived and you didn’t. Serves him right, the git.”

The mention of Charlie sent Hermione’s heart into a tap dance, but Ginny gave her no time to process it. In the blink of an eye, Hermione was swept into the kitchen, a glass of firewhisky magically materializing in her hand, and then shoved unceremoniously toward the sitting room.

The noise hit her like a tidal wave. The entire Weasley clan—and their various spouses, clad entirely in home knitted sweaters, filled the room, voices overlapping in a chaotic symphony of holiday cheer.

Charlie, perched near the back, was deep in conversation with Katie when his eyes landed on Hermione. His words stalled mid-sentence, and his mouth fell open like a rusty hinge.

Katie, ever observant, followed his gaze. “Bloody hell,” she muttered, loud enough for the people around her to hear.

George, who, despite only having one ear, had the hearing of a Kneazle when it came to gossip, turned immediately. His eyes widened when he saw Hermione, and without hesitation, he launched himself out of his seat and marched straight over.

“Hermione, love!” George declared, pulling her into a bear hug that smelled faintly of butterbeer and mischief. He pulled back just enough to give her a once-over and smirk. “Well, don’t you look bloody smashing. And a very merry Christmas to you, too.”

Behind him, the rest of the family stayed seated, but a chorus of agreement rang out. Percy even adjusted his glasses to get a better look, which was as close to scandalous as Percy ever got.

But Hermione barely noticed. She could feel Charlie’s eyes on her like a physical thing, heating her from head to toe. When she dared to meet his gaze, her breath hitched. He didn’t look away. Instead, he lifted his glass, a crooked smile playing on his lips, and mouthed, Merry Christmas.

And that’s when the temperature in the room shifted.

Ron shifted awkwardly in his seat, Lavender’s nails dug into his arm like she was staking a claim, and it seemed that Molly’s smile had frozen halfway through the conversation she was having previously, a vein in her head visible and throbbing. It was the kind of silence that could only mean trouble.

The moment Ginny whispered, “Oh bloody—brace yourself,” Hermione knew she’d walked straight into a den of chaos. Still, nothing could have prepared her for Molly Weasley’s opening salvo.

“Hermione,” Molly said, her tone sharp enough to slice steel. “We weren’t exactly expecting you, were we, dear?” she added, shooting a look at Arthur.

Hermione blinked, caught completely off guard. “Uh… it’s Christmas? And Ron invited me?”

The room collectively held its breath as Molly’s gaze snapped to Ron. Poor Ron, who immediately shrank into his seat like a scolded schoolboy. He gave a weak shrug that screamed, Don’t blame me, I’m just a middleman here.

Molly turned back to Hermione, her expression stormy. “I just thought… after everything that’s been said and printed in the Prophet and Witch Weekly, perhaps it wasn’t the right time. For your sake, dear. Not just Ron’s.”

Hermione tilted her head, genuinely baffled. “What was printed?” she asked, her tone caught somewhere between confusion and mild amusement.

She hadn’t read the Daily Prophet in ages. Honestly, why would she? Rita Skeeter’s drivel was still as bloated and barely literate as ever—tabloid trash dressed up in sparkly adjectives and half-truths. Hermione could feel her IQ hemorrhaging just thinking about it. And unfortunately, she'd become some sort of twisted muse for Skeeter’s quill—and, apparently, for Witch Weekly as well.

Over the past years, she had been in those pages more often than she’d like to admit, even when she wasn’t paying attention to what was written exactly. Eventually, she’d learned to tune it out—like background noise you stop hearing until someone turns up the volume.

Still, the sheer gall of Molly’s implication caught her completely off guard. Her confusion must’ve been obvious

“Mum,” Ginny interjected, her voice dripping with exasperation. “For the last time, that article was utter bogus! Rita Skeeter is a bloody cunt and nothing—nothing—she writes is remotely true. Stop believing that shite, for Merlin and Morgana’s sake!”

“Ginevra Weasley!” Molly roared, turning on her daughter with the fury of a thousand howlers. “Watch your language. I will not have that kind of filth spoken on Christmas eve!”

Ginny rolled her eyes, utterly unimpressed. “Filth? You’re believing Rita Skeeter’s filth, Mum. Priorities.”

Molly, undeterred, refocused her attention on Hermione. “And what exactly do you have to say for yourself?” she demanded, her finger pointing accusingly like it had a life of its own.

Hermione blinked, feeling distinctly like she’d wandered into an alternate reality. “About what?” she asked cautiously.

That was Lavender’s cue to pounce, her voice slicing through the room. “Honestly, Hermione,” Lavender began with a mock-laugh, “do you ever stay put? One minute you’re at the Ministry, the next you’re off in the wild with dragons and… whatever it is you do with those men... what were they called? Salt and Pepper?"

She smiled sweetly as her hand squeezed Ron’s arm. “Some of us prefer stability to spectacle, I suppose.”

Hermione stared at her, utterly gobsmacked. The sheer absurdity of it all was so overwhelming that she almost laughed. Almost.

She took a sip of her whisky, her brain reaching out for the first thing it could think of. “Salt and Pepper are dragons,” she said calmly. "And, quite frankly, they're still more evolved than certain people in this room.”

Lavender, however, was already on a roll, assuming her role as if it had been specifically created for her.

“Oh, don’t play coy, Hermione,” Lavender drawled, tossing her hair back with an air of smug superiority. “You think you’re so clever, don’t you? if you're going to parade around Eastern Europe with a new bloke every week, you should at least have enough grace to face the consequences of gallivanting with—” she paused, her lips twisting with disgust as Ron’s face became just a tad redder, “—Romanian cowboys!”

“Cowboys?” George muttered, his voice dripping with disbelief. “Is she serious right now?”

Fred chimed in from the couch. “Cowboys and dragons? Sounds like a solid novel idea to me.”

Yet, their jokes didn’t help. The tension in the room was palpable, the collective disbelief hanging in the air and the atmosphere getting heavier by the second. Hermione, however, remained stone-faced, though her grip on her glass tightened slightly.

Across from her, Hermione caught the way Arthur’s hand twitched, like he wanted to speak but couldn’t bring himself to. That silence stung worse than any of Lavender’s outrageous barbs.

“And yet,” Lavender continued, her voice dropping into an almost conspiratorial whisper as she turned to Ron, “he still picked me, didn’t he? Because we’re soulmates, aren’t we, Ron?” She fluttered her eyelashes, her tone saccharine and smug. “He saw through all your manipulation, all your pathetic little attempts to cling to him, and came back to where he belongs. With me.”

Ron shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his face turning an even more alarming shade of crimson. Still his mouth didn’t open. Hermione scoffed internally, it isn’t like she’d expected anything else. Lavender, emboldened by his silence, pressed on.

“And honestly,” she said, her voice gaining an edge as she turned back to Hermione, “after everything you’ve done, after all those stories have been published—your little escapades, parading around with God-knows-who—it’s good riddance, isn’t it? Ron deserves better than to be dragged into your mess, or into anyone you affiliate with, for that matter.”

The disdain dripped from every single syllable—measured, syrupy, and weaponized. And somehow, as if she hadn’t just insulted half the room, Lavender turned back to Ron, her voice dipped in faux-concern.

Hermione didn’t look at her. She looked past her—toward the corner where Charlie sat, half in shadow. He hadn’t moved, but something about him had shifted. His shoulders had gone still in that particular way she recognized from the Reserve—right before a dragon lunged. One hand sat loose on his thigh, but the other curled tighter around his glass, knuckles pale.

Hermione bit her lip,

Lavender, continued.

“But, darling,” she said sweetly, resting a possessive hand on his arm, “I do think you should get tested. You know, just to be safe. Who knows what kind of diseases she’s picked up out there? Like the filthy little mu—”

She didn’t finish.

She didn’t have to. The word hung there—half-born, sharp-edged, and hideous. Louder for having never been said.

Hermione’s pulse kicked like a startled bird. Not from the insult—it was almost laughable, in its desperation—but from the quiet, brutal certainty that something had shifted. That even here, even now, in a room full of people she’d once called family, she was still a guest. Still being measured. Still being found wanting.

Molly flinched. Just barely—but Hermione saw it. Her eyes flicked toward Hermione and away again, a brief, unsettled flicker of guilt. Her hands twisted in her lap, but she said nothing.

And then the room erupted.

Fred let out a string of expletives, his fist slamming against the coffee table. George shot up, face twisted in disbelief. Bill muttered something low and vicious, his hand tightening on Fleur’s shoulder to keep her from drawing her wand.

But it was Charlie’s reaction that truly silenced the chaos.

With a sharp crack, his fist shattered the glass he was holding, shards scattering across the table. All eyes turned to him as he stood slowly, his face a mask of barely contained fury.

Charlie set the remnants of his glass down with quiet precision. “That’s enough.”

The silence that followed was worse than shouting.

He rose slowly, deliberate and dangerous, and for a breathless moment, Hermione could only watch as the room shrank around him. Fury radiated off him—not loud, not wild, but sharp and focused, ready to let go at any second. He looked like he was back at the Reserve, wrangling something ancient and fire-breathing with nothing but raw will and a steady hand—and Merlin help her, but she liked it. That low, coiled control. That heat just under the surface. It wasn’t the time, but at that moment, it didn't seem like her body particularly cared.

“Enough,” he repeated, his voice now carrying an unmistakable edge of authority. His gaze locked onto Ron, who visibly wilted under the scrutiny. “Get your lowlife of a fiancée out of here. Now.”

Ron’s mouth opened and closed, resembling a fish gasping for air. Yeah, he had never been good in these situations. Still, before he could stammer out a reply, Ginny stepped in front of Hermione, her wand already in her hand.

“You,” she snapped, her eyes narrowing at Lavender, “Go. Move. If you don’t leave my sight this second, I will permanently hex that smug look off your face. I’m not kidding, Lavender. Out. Now.”

Lavender’s bravado faltered, her hand tightening on Ron’s arm as she glanced nervously at Ginny’s raised wand. “Ron?” she pleaded, her voice suddenly small.

But Ron was frozen, caught between Lavender’s grip and the judgmental stares of his family.

“You heard her,” George added, his voice deadly calm. “Take the banshee and go.”

Lavender’s face twisted with indignation. “I don’t need this!” she spat, releasing Ron and tossing her hair dramatically. “You’re all insane! Come on, Ron, let’s go.”

Ron hesitated, glancing helplessly at Charlie, who was now directing his anger elsewhere.

“Don’t look at me, Ron,” Charlie growled, his tone colder than ice. “You’re the one who brought this rubbish into our home.”

Ron flinched, muttering something unintelligible, and finally followed Lavender as she stormed toward the door, her heels clicking furiously against the floor. The room remained silent until the sound of the front door slamming shut echoed through the Burrow.

Then, Charlie turned his attention to his parents.

“I expected better from the both of you,” he began, his voice quiet but no less powerful.

His gaze lingered on Molly, whose face was a mixture of shock and shame.

“I know you’ve never agreed with my choices—the dragons, the traveling, the independence. But this? This is something else entirely.”

Arthur shifted uncomfortably, looking down at his hands. “Charles, we didn’t mean—”

“Didn’t mean what?” Charlie cut him off sharply. “To insult one of the brightest witches this family has ever known? To humiliate her in front of everyone? To let someone like Lavender Brown call her a that and say nothing?!”

Molly opened her mouth, but Charlie wasn’t finished.

“She’s been like a sister to us for years,” he said, his voice rising. “She fought in the war alongside us. She’s risked her life—more than once—for this family. And you let her walk in here and get attacked like that? By her?” His hand flicking back to the door through witch Lavender and Ron had just dissapeared.

Molly’s lip trembled, but she said nothing.

Charlie shook his head, his disappointment palpable. “I don’t know what’s worse—the fact that you allowed it to happen, or that you seemed to believe it. You talk about family, about loyalty, but you’ve just proven that it’s conditional.”

He looked around once, jaw set. “And if that’s what family means now… then maybe I don’t recognize it anymore.”

The silence after Charlie’s words was thick enough to drown in. No one moved. No one breathed. Then, quietly, Ginny slipped an arm through hers, the gesture soft but solid—anchoring her like a boat in a storm. Hermione didn’t look at her. Couldn’t. If she did, the weight of it all might finally split her down the middle.

“Have a bloody joyful Yuletide,” Charlie said, grabbing the still unopened bottle of firewhisky from the table, raising it in a mock toast.

“But I’ll be damned if I’m sticking around for this kind of slander against one of the best witches to ever grace this family.” He glanced at Katie, Angelina, and Fleur with a small grin. “No offense, ladies.”

“None taken,” Fleur replied softly, her accent laced with sympathy.

Charlie turned back to Hermione, his expression softening. “Come on,” he said gently, holding out his hand.

Hermione, still too stunned to argue, slipped her hand into his. Without another word, he led her out of the sitting room, leaving the rest of the family in a stunned, guilty silence.

As the cold night air hit her face, Hermione exhaled a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. The weight of the evening still pressed against her chest, but the warmth of Charlie’s hand around hers was grounding, steadying. Maybe this Christmas wasn’t what she’d hoped for—but it wasn’t entirely a loss either.

Hermione finally found her voice. “Well,” she said, her tone laced with disbelief, “that was… short.”

Charlie let out a dry laugh, still holding her hand. “Short but memorable,” he said, glancing at her with a grin. “Come on. Let’s find somewhere with fewer banshees and more whisky.”

And with that, Christmas with the Weasleys was officially over.

And somehow, Hermione didn’t feel like she minded it much.

Chapter Text

Well, that certainly hadn’t gone as expected.

Fuck.

Charlie’s calloused hands tightly held onto Hermione’s, afraid that if he would let go for even a second, all hell would rain down upon them once more.

Bloody hell. He’d weathered dragon rampages with less stress than this family gathering. And he would it all again in a heartbeat.

When Charlie had arrived back at The Burrow, he’d been greeted by a familiar cocktail of emotions: warmth from the sheer coziness of home, an unrelenting fondness for his eccentric family, and—inevitably—the suffocating urge to facepalm so hard he might break his nose.

Stepping out of the Floo had been simple enough. He brushed the soot off his clothes and looked around. That part was fine. Ginny and Harry hugging him the instant he had met their eyes, and, well, that was lovely even.

But the older he got, the less long those feelings tended to stay. This time, the change was coming from none other than his youngest brother. Ron’s raised eyebrows, paired with his suspiciously clipped, “Where’s Hermione, then?” started the rumblings of Charlie’s agitation.

And the first real hints that something wasn’t allright with the two of them.

Hermione wasn’t with him because Hermione, unlike Ron, was a functioning adult capable of arriving on her own without someone chaperoning her through the bloody fireplace. Charlie had bitten back his first sarcastic remark—progress for him, really—but Ginny, sharp as ever, had seen the small twitch of his eyelid; she jumped in before things could escalate.

She smiled at her brothers once more, guided them over to the living room, talking about some random things that happened at her latest quidditch match.

Ron had just begun to thaw into a slightly less sulky version of himself when he made the introduction.

“This is Lavender,” he’d announced proudly, puffing his chest out like a rooster parading its favorite hen. “My fiancée.”

Fiancée.

What the hell? Things definitely weren’t allright with Hermione in that case.

Charlie suppressed his smile at the news, while his brain hiccuped at the word. He glanced at the woman in question and gave her a polite nod, doing his best to size her up in a manner that wouldn’t immediately alienate her, while low key shooting Ginny a look that said nothing less than When we’re you gonna update me about this juicy piece of gossip.

Lavender Brown had a look that could be described as determinedly bubbly—the kind of energy that could wear you down in under five minutes. Her hair was golden and bouncy, her smile so saccharine it should have come with a warning label, and her giggle… well, after hearing it too many times within the span of thirty seconds, Charlie decided it was best to avoid that entirely.

And then there was the way she looked at Ron. Not in a “you’re my equal” kind of way, but in a “you’re my personal doll and I own all the accessories” sort of vibe. It wasn’t hostile, exactly, but it wasn’t comforting either.

A bloody fiancée, indeed.

“Well, hello,” Lavender purred, stretching out her hand with the kind of flair that suggested she thought herself the star of the show.

Charlie clasped Lavender’s hand in a quick, no-nonsense shake. “Charlie Weasley,” he said smoothly. “Dragon handler, second oldest, and, of course, the one that snagged all the good looks in the family. Nice to meet you.”

Lavender’s grin stretched wide, her teeth practically sparkling in the glow of her self-importance. She looked at him as if he’d just handed her a tiara and pronounced her the queen of Christmas.

Ginny, lounging nearby, rolled her eyes with dramatic flair. “Don’t let him fool you, Lavender. He’s not just handsome—he’s a bloody badass. Got the scars to prove it.” She smirked at Charlie. “Not that he ever shuts up about them.”

“Oh, those?” Lavender’s voice turned icy as her eyes flicked over Charlie’s exposed forearms, skipping over the little dragonlet tattoo that was swirling around, straight to the pale, jagged lines and burned patches that marred his skin . Her expression twisted in distaste, as though she’d caught a whiff of rotting flobberworms. “Well,” she said, her voice dripping with saccharine judgment, “if those scars are anything to go by, you’d be coming dead last in the handsome department, wouldn’t you?”

The room went still for half a beat. Ginny, who had been sipping her tea, choked violently, muttering something suspiciously like “Say that again, I dare you.” Charlie merely raised an eyebrow, a slow, sardonic smile curling at his lips.

“Well,” he said casually, “it’s a good thing I don’t rely on my looks to wrangle dragons—or hold polite conversation.” He shot Ginny a look that screamed What the bloody hell did Ron bring home this time?

As if on cue, Ron, oblivious to the tension brewing around him, decided to pipe up. “She’s got the tattoo to prove it,” he said with a grin so proud it could have powered the entire Burrow for a week.

Charlie blinked. “The what now?”

“Our soulmate tattoos!” Lavender exclaimed, practically bouncing on the spot. Her eyes lit up like she was sharing the news of the century. “Look!”

Without waiting for permission—or any indication that Charlie cared—Lavender grabbed the collar of her blouse and yanked it. Subtelty apparently really wasn’t this girls strong suit.

There, just above her bra line, was a tiny terrier wagging its tail. It might have been endearing if it weren’t so thoroughly unnecessary—and awkwardly close to making the entire room her audience.

Charlie recoiled, looking anywhere but at her chest. “Right,” he said, his tone flat. “Soulmates. That’s… something.”

Lavender didn’t seem to notice—or care. “It’s so romantic, isn’t it? And so special” she gushed, shooting Ron a simpering look before adding, “We’re the only ones in the family who have them, you know. Truly one of a kind.”

Charlie arched an eyebrow, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing outright. The only ones? Sure, love. Except for Bill—and himself, for that matter. Not that he’d tell this bizarre girl that. The last thing he needed was for her to start asking questions about his own mark and the unfound and unwanted soulmate it referred to.

Ron, clearly bolstered by her enthusiasm, decided to up the ante. With the finesse of someone undressing for a particularly awkward medical exam, he began unbuttoning his shirt.

“We got them at the same time,” he said proudly, revealing a butterfly flapping lazily across his chest. “When you know, you know.”

Before Charlie could formulate an appropriate response—something neutral but loaded with enough subtext to make Bill proud—Lavender seized Ron by the collar and yanked him into what could only be described as a full-body assault masquerading as a kiss. There was slurping. There was humming. There was… tongue.

Ginny made a strangled noise that was halfway between a gag and a groan. “Dear Merlin, get a room!”

“Or a hose,” Charlie muttered, staring at the spectacle like it was a particularly grotesque magical mishap. He vaguely considered setting a small fire in the corner, just to see if it would distract them.

Harry, the only one with an ounce of self-preservation, had apparently vanished the moment Lavender had announced herself. Smart lad. Charlie made a mental note to ask him for tips on stealth exits.

If they were really engaged, well, he would need those tips as soon as possible.

Charlie stared at his younger brother, his expression somewhere between disbelief and pity.

“Right,” he said slowly, biting back every sarcastic remark itching to leap off his tongue. Ron has a bloody fiancée, he repeated internally, filing it away under Reasons Hermione Clearly Avoids Talking About Ron.

Ginny, for her part, looked like she might combust on the spot if she had to spent a minute longer with the two of them sucking face. “I’ve gotta find Fred and George,” she muttered under her breath, her fingers twitching dangerously toward her wand.

“Absolutely terrific idea,” Charlie deadpanned, glancing at Ginny with a look that conveyed intrigue, wonder, and disgust; and definitely not in equal measure.

Ginny smirked as she slipped out of the room, leaving Charlie in her wake although he wasn’t far behind, his mind still grappling with the sensory assault of Lavender and Ron’s display. Before he could make it to safety, a heavy hand clapped down on his shoulder.

“Thought you might need this,” Bill said, holding up a bottle of Ogden’s Old Firewhisky as it held the answers to life itself. Without waiting for a reply, he steered Charlie toward the garden, the brisk December air biting at their faces.

“They’re a bit much, aren’t they?” Bill added, as his voice softened, “And knowing Mum, well… you’ll be getting the ‘settle down’ speech the moment you enter her peripheals.”

Charlie groaned. “Right. Nothing changed then? She’s still on that, is she?”

“Perpetually. And she will, unless you bring home a bird or mention that damn tattoo of yours.” Bill grinned, leaning against the garden fence.

“You and I both know there are plenty of reasons why we haven’t told her about those. Besides, you got lucky with yours.” Charlie answered with a straight face.

To the select few who knew the truth, Bill’s ocelot tattoo had shown up on his ribs the same night he’d been nursing a hangover in Cairo and absolutely not doing anything to warrant a spontaneous soulmate mark. Fleur’s wolf had appeared on her lower back right after Greyback’s attack. Subtlety, it seemed, wasn’t destiny’s strong suit.

Bill’s grin turned into a smirk. “Though, I must admit, by keeping quiet, you’ve set the bar nice and low for the rest of us.”

Charlie chuckled, letting the whisky warm him as he glanced back toward the house. No Hermione. Still. Odd. He had half-expected her to emerge by now, maybe with that sharp wand of hers aimed squarely at Lavender’s jugular. Instead, she was nowhere to be seen, and that… bothered him more than it should have.

Bill raised an eyebrow, his sharp gaze catching the flicker of something—something Charlie had no intention of explaining. But Bill didn’t press. Instead, he took the opened bottle from Charlie’s hand and grinned.

“To your and Hermione’s dragon proposal,” Bill said, lifting the whisky in salute and taking a swig. “A fine Christmas miracle that our adoptive sister constructed there. Merry bloody Christmas.”

Charlie snorted, “Merry Christmas”, he said before taking the bottle and drinking a long sip. She’s definetly not a sister of mine, Charlie added mentally.

Bill’s eyes narrowed slightly, amusement flickering at the edges. “What was that?”

Charlie froze. Fuck.

Had he said that out loud? Surely not. He covered quickly, coughing into his hand. “Nothing,” he said, a little too fast.

“Right,” Bill drawled, his smirk deepening as he took the bottle back. The gleam in his eye said he knew far more than Charlie wanted him to, but he mercifully let it drop.

The two of them stood in silence, the crisp winter air biting at their faces while the whisky worked its magic. But for Charlie, no amount of Firewhisky could drown out the traitorous thoughts circling his mind—or the fact that Bill definitely knew. Damn older brothers.

The conversation with his mum had been a disaster, though, to be fair, Charlie had expected nothing less. It had started innocently enough—Molly shoving a Weasley jumper into his hands the moment he stepped into the kitchen.

“Go on, change into this, dear. That old t-shirt is definitely not Yule attire,” she’d said, clucking like one of her hens. The sweater was warm. Loving. Cozy, even. And for a moment, that was the only feeling he associated with the Weasley Matriarch.

But, after more than fourteen years living abroad, Charlie knew there was no delaying the inevitable. And his mother’s speech came down as swift and precise as it was simultaneously cutting and vague.

“You’re not getting any younger, you know,” she’d said, eyes narrowing as she set a plate of mince pies on the counter. “You’re nearing your mid-thirties, and are tattooed to the high heavens! How long are you planning to gallivant about with those dragons? Can’t exactly bring one to Christmas dinner, can you?”

Charlie bit back the urge to point out that a dragon would probably fit in better than Lavender bloody Brown. “Nice to see you, too, Mum,” he’d replied dryly, tugging the jumper over his head.

“Oh, don’t start,” she’d said, brushing his comment aside with a wave of her hand. “You know what I mean. Look at Ron! Engaged! And Bill! Married! Even Percy has mentioned dating someone! Not to mention Katie and Angelina—"

“And I am happily single,” Charlie interjected, a small glint in his eyes. “And really, I think that matters the most”

Molly ignored him, her focus sharpening like a hawk on prey.

Charlie cocked an eyebrow. He knew his Mum, as well as any of her kids. And well, any one of the seven Weasley siblings could tell you that that look spelled trouble. She had something on her mind, and Charlie, for once, wondered what it had to do with him.

He didn’t have to wait long for an answer, although it didn’t necessarily clear anything gup.

“What about Hermione?” she asked, in a tone that made Charlie feel he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t.

“What about her?” Charlie replied, a little too quickly.

Molly’s lips pursed, her disapproval subtle but unmistakable. “She’s a lovely girl, of course,” she began, in the same tone people used to describe boiled cabbage. “But I do worry about her. Her love life is tumultuous at the least, and the things she is getting into…”

Charlie stared at her, dumbfounded. This was Hermione Granger she was talking about. The same Hermione who had practically lived at The Burrow since she was eleven. The same Hermione who had helped save the wizarding world. The same Hermione who, not five hours ago, had stood in front of the Wizengamot and pulled off what all his colleagued deemed unobtainable. And the same Hermione, who, according to Bill, broke up with her younger brother a mere few months ago.

“What are you on about, Mum?” he asked, genuinely baffled.

“Oh, nothing,” Molly said breezily, which was Mum-speak for absolutely something. “I just think you could do better, that’s all.”

“Do better? We aren’t doing anything!” Charlie repeated, his voice rising in disbelief. “And even if we were… She’s brilliant, Mum. Clever. Brave. Hasn’t she saved all our arses enough times to get a pass?”

“Well, of course,” Molly said, flustered now. “As I said, she’s a lovely girl. I just… well, I’m not sure if it’s right that you’re so close to her now. The both of you being in Romania and all.”

Charlie blinked at her, utterly lost. Since when had Hermione become a point of contention? It didn’t make sense. She was practically family, had been for years. And yet, there was something in Molly’s tone, a quiet disapproval that he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

But before he could ask more, Ginny – who he presumed knew a bit more – took him by the shoulders and steered him to the living room.

As his eyes roamed the cozy warm atmosphere, he wished all his family members a very happy Christmas as his sister brought him another Whisky, before settling into a nice conversation with Katie about Quidditch.

Not an hour later, all hell broke loose.

Hermione’s hand felt soft and steady in his, but Charlie’s sharp eye caught the faint, raised line along her palm—a small battle scar courtesy of Pepper and their first attempt at dragonlet bath time. He stifled a laugh, the corner of his mouth twitching upward at the memory of Pepper launching out of the tub like a tiny, wet, fire-breathing comet.

He’d apparated them to the Sparkling Unicorn, a quiet gem tucked into the corners of wizarding London. Far removed from the chaos of the Leaky Cauldron, it catered to the sort of clientele who’d had enough of people for one day. No loud conversations, no bustling crowds—just good food, better drink, and an unspoken agreement to mind your own business.

Charlie had spent many evenings here with Bill when family life back home became too much—usually after Mum had cornered them with yet another attempt to “just have a quick word” about marriage and children.

Now, walking in with Hermione, it felt oddly right to return.

The pub was warm, the low lights casting a cozy glow over the worn wooden furniture. The air carried the enticing smell of roasted meats and rich ale, and as they made their way to a booth at the back, Charlie couldn’t help but notice the way Hermione’s curls shimmered in the dim light. Her cheeks and nose were pink from the cold, and before he could stop himself, his chest gave a traitorous little leap.

Shaking it off, Charlie gestured Hermione toward the booth like he was leading a dragon toward a treasure—calm, practiced, and trying not to spook her. “Right, I’ll get us a drink. Whisky?”

“Always,” Hermione replied, shrugging off her coat with the kind of nonchalance that could only come from surviving a thousand family interrogations.

Charlie returned moments later, sliding a glass across the table. “First off,” he began, settling in, “sorry about my family.”

Hermione didn’t miss a beat. “Don’t.”

Charlie’s brow quirked, mid-sip, his expression clearly asking: Don’t apologize for that circus?

Hermione twirled a curl absently around her finger. “Your family defended me, Charlie. And you already laid into the ones who didn’t—your mum and dad included.”

Charlie’s lips pressed into a flat line, the kind of look that said he didn’t entirely agree but wasn’t about to argue. Hermione gave a small shrug, her tone growing lighter. “It was harsh, sure, but at least it’s clear now where I stand. Besides, it’s still your family, you shouldn’t alienate them on my behalf.”

Charlie leaned back, clearly biting back whatever opinion hovered on the tip of his tongue. He wanted to tell her, so badly in fact, that he would gladly go to war with anyone that dared to speak ill of her. Blood or friends included. But something in Hermione’s expression—a flicker of quiet determination—made him think better of it.

With a sigh, he let the topic drop, and the tension in the air slowly fizzled out as they both occupied themselves with their drinks.

Charlie’s jaw twitched as he watched Hermione stir her drink like it held the meaning of life. The way her fingers fidgeted with the straw was subtle, but he caught it. Then there was the classic Hermione move: head ducked, hair strategically deployed like a shield. Add that polite smile—chilly enough to freeze a fire in the middle of July—and you had the full "I’m totally fine, don’t ask" package.

She wasn’t fine. She was far from it. And Charlie hated that she’d perfected the routine. Even more, he hated why she’d had to.

How many times had she gone through this with his mum? With others? It might never have been so obvious, but something told him she was used to it.

And that… well that made something very peculiar tighten in his chest.

At the same time, his grip tightened around his glass as the memory of earlier slammed into him. Lavender’s sugary-sweet banshee screams, Molly’s straight-forward assault on her character. And Hermione, standing there like some sort of tragic heroine, arms crossed tight enough to leave marks. Charlie had wanted to throttle someone—preferably himself—for standing there like a useless flobberworm while she took the hits. He’d stepped in eventually, sure, but it wasn’t soon enough. It never bloody was.

He knocked back a fiery gulp of whisky, the burn scorching away whatever scraps of hesitation still lingered. Enough of that. They weren’t at the Burrow anymore, surrounded by aggressive remarks and pointed silences. They were here, on Christmas Eve, and damned if he was going to let her spend the night stuck in her head. If it killed him—or more likely embarrassed him—he’d make her laugh before the clock struck midnight. Even if he had to tell her about that time a Welsh Green sat on him. Twice.

It started slow. A few well placed questions regarding their victory at the Wizergamot. Yet, slowly but surely, the conversation turned easier, flowing into what they had worked on the past few years.

Hermione, swirling her drink, leaned in with a glint in her eye. “So,” she teased, “what exactly does a dragon tamer normally do on his days off? When he’s back on the Isle, I mean. Besides rescuing damsels from overbearing matriarchs, of course.”

Charlie leaned back, his grin widening. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Hermione arched a brow, her lips twitching. “Let me guess—napping in chalk caves, occasionally emerging to terrify the locals?”

“Close,” Charlie shot back, “but swap ‘locals’ for ‘younger siblings,’ and you’ve nailed it.”

They ordered food—Charlie went for a steak pie, declaring it the “holy trinity” of meat, beer, and pastry, while Hermione opted for a roasted vegetable Wellington. Charlie, naturally, dubbed her choice “classy but secretly overachieving,” earning an eye roll and a smirk in return. As they ate, their conversation flitted between work stories, childhood memories, and the sheer absurdity of living life as either a Weasley, a dragon trainer, or as the daughter of two dentists.

Apparently, teeth care was of utmost importance. Who would’ve known?

Hermione leaned forward, her laughter lighting up the dim corner of the pub. Charlie chuckled along, watching as her eyes sparkled with genuine amusement, the sort that softened the edges of her usually sharp demeanor.

Without thinking, he reached out to brush a stray curl off her face. His fingers barely grazed her temple before he froze, realizing what he’d done.

Her laughter faltered as their eyes met. She didn’t pull away, though; instead, she tilted her head slightly, the weight of her gaze pinning him in place. “What?” she asked, her voice quieter now, the humor replaced by something softer.

Charlie cleared his throat, letting his hand drop. “Nothing. Just—” He smirked, trying to lighten the moment. “You’ve got pub hair now. It’s a good look.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, but her cheeks flushed a shade darker, and Charlie filed the reaction away with a touch of satisfaction.

Hermione’s face lit up as she waved the server over. “Two more whiskies. And a sticky toffee pudding, please!” she declared with the enthusiasm of someone who hadn’t just been almost ex-communicated by her adoptive family.

Charlie felt his fist clench at the thoughts. His parents had overstepped, and there was no way in hell this fissure – which had now turned into a chasm – would be easily mended. If it could be mended, that is.

Just as the waiter sat down two drinks but no dessert, the entrance door creaked open, and in walked Bill, looking as though he’d just emerged from a particularly grueling diplomatic mission. He slid into the booth beside Charlie, uninvited and unapologetic.

“Right,” he started, swiping Charlie’s glass and taking a sip before continuing. “Fleur sends her apologies—had to get back to the kids. Nearly made a detour to Ron and Lavender’s flat to hex the hell out of that newcomer on your behalf, Hermione.”

Hermione burst out laughing, raising her glass. “No need, but I appreciate the sentiment.”

Bill’s expression darkened as he drank the entirety of Charlie’s glass. Lovely. It’s not like Bill could’ve ordered his own or anything.

But his older brother didn’t seem the notice, as he replied to Hermione. “Oh, I disagree. No one talks like that about my sister.”

Hermione blinked, her laughter trailing off. “Huh, what did she say about Ginny?”

Bill gave her a look so pointed it even made Charlie question his interpretation. “No, you, you muppet. I meant you.”

Hermione’s cheeks flushed a shade pinker than the December air had managed, and Charlie suddenly found the table incredibly interesting. Bill’s eyes flicked between the two of them, a knowing smirk tugging at his lips.

“Fleur, Harry and Ginny, as well as the twins and their girlfriends, send their regards,” Bill said casually, leaning back. “But we all decided it’d be best if just one of us came. Didn’t want to overwhelm you.”

The meaningful glance he shot Charlie at the word overwhelm wasn’t subtle, and Charlie responded with the smallest of nods, his jaw tightening slightly.

Hermione’s eyes shimmered, the unsaid words settling between them like the snowflakes currently dwindling down outside.

“Well,” Bill broke the silence, rubbing his hands together, “I’ll need a Guinness to properly recover from all of this family bullshit.”

Charlie gave him a sidelong look. “You’ve got hands,”, as his eyes travelled down Bill’s body while he deadpanned, “And hey, look at that. A pair of fully functioning legs. Get it yourself.”

“Ah,” Bill said, clapping him on the shoulder. “But you’re already here, aren’t you? Go on, be a sport.”

Charlie grumbled under his breath but slid out of the booth anyway, leaving Hermione and Bill to their own devices. As he approached the bar, he could hear their hushed sentences behind him, warm and unguarded, and it didn’t take a genius to guess Bill was saying something meddlesome. Typical.

By the time he returned, three Guinness in hand, Hermione’s whisky was gone as well and Bill was mid-anecdote about some misadventure involving a rogue broomstick and a set of cursed garden gnomes. Hermione was leaning forward, her laugh spilling across the table as Bill gestured animatedly.

“Finally,” Bill said, smirking as Charlie slid back into his seat. “Thought we’d lost you to the bar.” He raised the Guinness in a mock toast. “Thanks, Charles.”

“You’re welcome, William,” Charlie drawled, setting his own drink down.

Hermione pressed a hand to her mouth to stifle a laugh at their display. “Don’t worry, Charlie. I’ve been keeping him in check.”

“Good luck with that,” Charlie said, though his lips quirked into a faint grin. “He’s been like this since we were kids. Reckon it’s a lost cause.”

Bill clutched his chest in mock offense. “Such faith in me, brother. Warms the heart.”

“Shocking, really, that Fleur puts up with you,” Charlie shot back.

“She doesn’t just put up with me—she adores me,” Bill retorted with a smug grin, earning an eye roll from Charlie and a snort from Hermione.

The evening passed in a haze of stories, laughs, and the occasional heated debate. Hermione staunchly defended mince pies as an irreplaceable holiday staple, while Charlie argued that they were overhyped and better used as makeshift bludgers. Bill, naturally, sided with Hermione, mostly to irritate Charlie.

A few minutes later, when Hermione politely excused herself to use the loo, Bill moved in.

“You’re hopeless, you know that?” Bill remarked, swirling his second Firewhisky with the kind of exaggerated nonchalance that made Charlie immediately suspicious. His smirk didn’t help matters. “Hermione, really?”

Charlie shot him a glare. “What are you on about?”

“Oh, don’t play dumb, little brother,” Bill drawled, leaning back as if he had all the time in the world to deliver this particular bit of torment. “You’ve been sneaking looks at her all night. Not that you’re subtle. Honestly, do the dragons not sense the longing wafting off you both back at the reserve?” He remarked as he sniffed the air, before scrunching his nose and adding “It’s quite intense to be honest.”

Charlie’s ears turned pink. “I am not—”

“And then,” Bill cut him off, ignoring the protest entirely, “there was that whole dramatic defense of her in front of Mum and Dad. Very noble. Very ‘knight in shining armor.’ All you needed was a bloody sword and a white horse.” He paused, his tone sharpening just slightly. “Not that they didn’t deserve it, mind you. Mum deserved way more than you gave to her. She was way out of line…” Bill’s eyes studied Charlie carefully as he added casually, “I just somehow expected those actions more from Ginny, Harry, or Ron, than you.”

Bill leaned forward, the smirk softening into something that looked incredible sincere. “Look, she’s good for you. Anyone with eyes can see that. But you’re either going to keep pining from afar like she is one of those dragons that you're observing, or you’re actually going to do something about it. Your move, Romeo.”

Charlie’s gaze flicked toward the bar, where Hermione was gesturing animatedly at the bartender. Her laugh carried faintly across the room. “It’s not as easy as you’re making it sound.”

“Oh, please,” Bill scoffed, clapping him on the shoulder hard enough to make the drink in Charlie’s hand slosh. “It’s easier than listening to you whinge about it. But no, go ahead, keep brooding. Very attractive. Chicks dig unresolved angst.”

As Hermione returned to the table, Bill shifted gears without missing a beat. “Anyway, did you catch the Cannons’ last match? Absolute disgrace.”

They talked about quidditch for a while longer, and changed to the topic of delightful desserts as Hermione's pudding was brought to the table.

Eventually, Bill stretched with an exaggerated yawn, glancing at the clock on the wall. “Right, I’d better head out before Fleur sends a Howler. You two behave yourselves.”

Charlie saluted him lazily. “Wouldn’t dream of causing trouble.”

Bill shot him a pointed glance as he pulled on his coat, the kind that said you should absolutely cause some trouble tonight, preferably involving Hermione.

Charlie scowled. “What are you looking at me like that for?”

“No reason,” Bill said innocently, fishing a handful of galleons from his pocket and laying them on the table. “I’ve got this one. It’s Christmas, after all.”

Hermione frowned. “You don’t have to—”

“Don’t argue, Hermione,” Bill interrupted, holding up a hand. “It’s done.” He hesitated, then sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Look, about earlier… with Mum and everything—there’s no excuse for it. None. She’s just…” He trailed off, his jaw tightening.

“Bad with change? An avid believer of gossip?” Hermione supplied gently.

“That’s putting it lightly,” Bill muttered. “It’s easier for her to fault you than Ron. Make you the one that carries the blame, especially with the Prophet and Lavender playing into the narrative. But none of us—”

He glanced at Hermione meaningfully. “— absolutely none of us agree with that. And we’ve told her as much. The Burrow’s going to be empty for a while, and she’ll have to overthink her choices. You’re both welcome at Shell Cottage, Grimauld Place, or the Shop at anytime.”

Hermione gave him a small, grateful smile. Charlie, less inclined to sentiment, gave a curt nod. “Thanks.”

With a final glance between the two of them, Bill turned to leave. “Don’t wait too long to head out; it’s bloody freezing out there. Oh, and Charlie?” He paused in the doorway, his grin flashing again. “Try not to mess this up, yeah?”

Charlie groaned as the door swung shut behind him. “Prat.”

Hermione giggled, scooping up the last bite of sticky toffee pudding from her plate. A smudge of caramel sauce clung to the corner of her mouth, and before Charlie even thought about it, he reached across the table, swiping it away with his thumb.

“Got a bit—” he said, his voice trailing off as he licked the sauce from his finger without breaking eye contact.

Hermione’s breath caught, her cheeks flushing pink in the dim light. “Oh.”

The corner of Charlie’s mouth tugged up in a slow, deliberate smirk. “What? Waste not, want not.”

She shook her head, but her smile betrayed her. “You’re impossible.”

“You’re just figuring that out now?”

Hermione rolled her eyes, but the blush lingered. She slid her coat on and reached for her scarf. “Come on, Weasley. Let’s see if you can survive the walk home without causing a scene.”

“Don’t underestimate me, Granger,” Charlie said, pulling his own coat on. “I’m perfectly capable of behaving myself.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow as they stepped out into the crisp night air, the snow crunching underfoot. “Somehow, I doubt that.”

Charlie grinned, shoving his hands into his pockets. “You’d be bored if I did.”

Her laugh rang out, soft and warm, as they disappeared into the quiet night.

The snow started softly, drifting down in delicate flakes that dusted the cobblestones and clung to Hermione’s curls. She pulled her scarf tighter around her neck, her breath forming little clouds in the crisp air. Charlie walked beside her, hands shoved into his coat pockets, the warmth of the pub still lingering in his chest.

“Not bad for a pub off the beaten path, eh?” he asked, his voice breaking the gentle quiet of the night.

“Not bad at all,” Hermione replied, a smile tugging at her lips. “Though I have to admit, the company made it better.”

Charlie chuckled, nudging her shoulder lightly with his own. “Flattery will get you everywhere, Granger.”

They walked in companionable silence for a moment, the crunch of snow beneath their boots filling the space between them. The tension from earlier—his parents, the Burrow, all of it—felt miles away, buried beneath the soft hush of snowfall and the warm glow of the pub.

“Do you miss Romania? When you’re back here?” Hermione asked as they rounded another corner, glancing at him with an arched eyebrow.

Charlie tilted his head, considering. “Sometimes. No scrap that. Most of the times. The mountains, the dragons. It’s a simpler life, in a way. Fewer expectations. And far more acceptance for me to be me.” He added that last piece as an afterthought. One that he had only shared with Bill so far.

Hermione hummed, her gaze forward. “I think I like that, too. The simplicity. The possibility to just be.”

The silence after that statement lingered just a beat too long, prompting Charlie to move through all the possible implications quickly. The end result? He had an inate urge to fill the silence, to think about anything but Hermione actually liking the reserve in a permanent sort of way.

“You know,” Charlie said, glancing sideways at her as they walked along the icy path that moved them closer to Diagon Alley, “if you slip on that ice, I’m going to have to carry you the rest of the way. And I’m not sure my back can handle that after all those dragon wrangling years.”

Hermione scoffed, pulling her scarf tighter around her neck. “Please. You’ve been telling me all night how fit and strong you are. Don’t think I haven’t noticed the flexing.”

He grinned. “That wasn’t flexing. That’s just my natural state.”

She shot him a look, one brow arched. “Your ‘natural state’ looks an awful lot like showing off.”

Charlie let out a dramatic sigh, holding a hand to his chest. “And here I thought you’d be impressed.”

“Oh, I’m impressed,” she said, her lips twitching into a smirk. “By how much nonsense one man can spout in an evening.”

They chatted and jabbed the night away, and reached her flat all too quickly, and Hermione turned to face him, her eyes bright despite the dim light. “Will you go back to the Burrow?”

Charlie stiffened slightly, his fists clenching at his sides. “Not planning to,” he muttered, the words laced with lingering frustration.

Hermione’s fingers circled his wrist, warm and steady against the cold that had seeped into his skin. Her touch was light, but it anchored him, pulling him out of his thoughts.

She tilted her head, her eyes sharp but soft. “Charles. It’s fine. Don’t worry about it. I talked about it with Bill, and well, there is not much we can do… Just… please… don’t let this get to you,” she said quietly, before adding “you see them so sparsely, it’s not worth it”.

Charlie’s chest tightened, caught between the comfort in her words, wonder of how she had risen so far above his family that she could just say such things, and the heavy lingering sting of his own disappointment in his Mum’s antics.

He shrugged, the motion stiffer than intended. “Easier said than done,” he muttered.

Hermione didn’t move away. Instead, she stepped closer, her voice dipping lower. “Then, please, try it for me.”

Her words hit their mark, and for a moment, all he could do was stare at her. She was such a special creature, still worried about him, when she had been the one at the mercy of his mother’s cutting tongue. Unbelievable.

The snow fell quietly around them, the faint glow of the streetlamp casting a soft glow on her curls. She was so close now he could see the faint flush on her cheeks, the way her lips curved ever so slightly, as if daring him to argue.

“You should come inside,” she said, her tone casual but her eyes betraying something more.

Charlie’s brow arched. “Should I?”

Hermione raised her chin, meeting his gaze head-on. "Well, you can’t exactly sleep in the cold, can you?"

The smirk came naturally, like slipping back into an old, well-worn coat. Talking about feelings, about his family’s mess—too raw, too complicated. But this? Bantering with Hermione, trading quips and teasing glances—this was easy. Familiar.

He leaned in just enough to shorten the distance between them, his voice carrying that lazy confidence that felt like second nature. "Come on, Granger. Snow like this? Hardly a challenge. I once spent a night in a dragon cave during a storm so wild it drowned out a Horntail’s roar. Didn’t even break a sweat."

Hermione arched a brow, her lips quirking in a way that was both skeptical and amused. "Did the Horntail give you a medal for bravery, or was it too busy knitting you a scarf?"

Charlie snorted. "No scarf, unfortunately. Dragons are notoriously bad at gift-giving. But I’d say surviving the night unscathed was reward enough."

"Unscathed?" Hermione tilted her head, pretending to scrutinize him. "So the scar on your forearm is just for decoration, then?"

"This?" He rolled up his sleeve slightly, showing the faded mark. "That was from a Swedish Short-Snout with an attitude problem. Totally unrelated."

"Of course," she said with mock seriousness. "I’m sure the dragon cowered in fear of your rugged, manly charm."

"Not quite," he admitted, his grin widening. "But I did win it over with my natural charisma. You should try it sometime—works wonders."

Hermione’s laugh was soft but genuine, the sound warming him more than the scarf wrapped around his neck. "Oh, I’ll keep that in mind next time I’m facing down a fire-breathing beast."

"You’re welcome," he said, his voice dropping slightly. "Though I think you’ve already got enough fire of your own, Granger."

She blushed at his words, but her sharp gaze didn’t falter. "Careful, Weasley. Compliments like that might make a girl think you’re trying to impress her."

He hesitated for a beat, his grin fading just slightly. “Maybe I should’ve started trying sooner.”

Her breath hitched, but she didn’t back away. Instead, she tilted her chin, meeting his gaze head-on. “And what’s stopping you now?”

Bloody hell. That reply sealed the deal. Charlie Weasley was irrevocably hooked.

Yet, no words passed between them—only the charged silence of everything left unsaid. With a determined glint in his eyes, Charlie closed the space between them, driven by months of cold Romanian nights. In one breathtaking moment, his lips met hers in a kiss that was both fierce and tender, the culmination of everything that had happened today, as well as the past six months.

His hand glided to the curve of her waist, warm and insistent, while the other wove through her curls, drawing her irresistibly near. In that suspended instant, all Charlie could think about was the softness of her skin, the silkiness of her hair, the plumpness of her lips, and how absolutely intoxicating it was to be this close with Hermione Granger.

He was hooked.

When they finally broke apart, her cheeks were flushed, her breathing unsteady. She looked up at him, her eyes shining with something that made his chest tighten all over again.

“You’ll freeze if you stay out here,” she murmured, her voice soft.

Charlie’s hand tightened gently on her waist, his voice low. “Then I guess I’d better come in.”

His chest tightened again as he looked at Hermione once more, her eyes still sparkling, her lips slightly swollen, before she turned around to escape his grasp and unlock her front door.

She was so much more than just the sharp, witty woman he’d observed from the sidelines for years. Now he that he actually knew her, he was certain; there was something about her that made everything else fade—the worries, the distance, the weight of his family’s expectations. For the first time in what felt like forever, he didn’t feel like he was running.

Maybe for the first time, he didn’t need to.

Chapter Text

The door clicked shut behind them, and Hermione felt it like the closing of a chapter—one where everything had been careful, casual, and just on the safe side of wanting.

That kiss had cracked something open.

She could still feel it—his lips, confident and warm; the sure press of his hand on her waist; the way he'd pulled her in like he already knew she wouldn’t run. It was infuriating. And overwhelming. And completely, undeniably perfect.

And now he was here. In her flat.

Her very dusty, untouched-for-half-a-year, why-didn’t-I-clean-just-a-bit-more-before-I-left flat.

She didn’t look back at him. Couldn't. Not when she could feel him lingering by the door like a question she wasn’t sure she had the answer to yet. Her hand twitched for her wand on instinct.

With a flick, the air cleared of its stale weight, replaced by the soft hum of lavender and the faint sparkle of a freshening charm. Another wave sent the dust spiraling away, revealing the chaotic comfort she’d left behind in late summer: half-read books stacked like teetering towers, mismatched throw blankets draped over the armchair, the half-empty wine bottle she'd opened the night before she left still on the bookshelf; a forgotten love note to her former self.

The fairy lights blinked to life without being asked, casting a warm golden glow across the clutter. It looked—she realized, exhaling slowly—exactly like her. And for some strange reason, she hated how much that made her feel exposed.

She slipped out of her coat and hung it on the rack with meticulous care, smoothing the sleeves, adjusting the buttons, adjusting them again.

Her mind was racing. She was Hermione Granger. She could duel Death Eaters, out-argue the entire Wizengamot, and invent entirely new branches of magical law in her sleep. And yet here she was—panicking because Charlie Weasley had kissed her and now he was in her flat and somehow that felt more intimate than anything else.

She exhaled through her nose and told herself to get a grip. It was only Charlie. The man who smelled of smoke and wind-worn mountains and the lingering heat of dragonfire. The man who watched her with that maddening steadiness—as if every glance traced familiar roads across her skin, once he already knew by heart and wanted to read again anyway.

And that? That was totally fine. Of course.

Just as she was telling herself exactly that, she felt it—two large, warm hands settling gently on her hips; burning through the fabric of her cardigan, holding all the warmth in the world.

She didn’t flinch. Not visibly, anyway.

But her breath caught, the kind of instinctive pause that happened when your heart forgot what it was supposed to be doing. His touch was warm through the knit of her jumper, firm in a way that made her feel grounded and ignited all at once. Her eyes fluttered shut for a heartbeat—just long enough to catalogue it. His scent. The press of his thumbs. The unbearable nearness of him.

Charlie. In her space. Touching her like it was easy.

Her pulse tripped over itself.

“Charlie,” she said, sharper than intended, her voice breaking the hush as she turned just enough to glance over her shoulder. She meant it to be a warning. It came out more like a plea.

He didn’t flinch either. Didn’t step back. That smirk—that stupid, warm, insufferably confident smirk—spread across his face like it had been waiting there all night.

His hands stayed put. Of course they did.

“You’re unbelievable,” she muttered, trying not to lean back into him. “I spent an entire minute orchestrating the perfect domestic illusion, and you’ve already ruined it.”

His only reply was a lazy squeeze at her hips and that ridiculous tilt to his grin—equal parts amusement and something dangerously close to delight, as if her effort to remain composed was the best thing he’d seen all day.

She pressed her lips together, torn between exasperation and something far more dangerous. “Fine,” she added, sighing dramatically. “You win. You’ve officially out-stubborned me. Now are you going to help set up sleeping arrangements, or just keep pretending you’re part of the furniture?”

And that was when he pulled her back into him.

Effortless. Intentional. Like he’d made up his mind and couldn’t be bothered to ask permission.

Her wand clattered from her hand, forgotten somewhere on the floor, but she barely registered it. Every thought scattered the moment he fit himself against her back, solid and quiet and impossible to ignore.

She could feel him smile now, the curve of it brushing against the shell of her ear. His breath was warm at her neck, and when his fingers traced just beneath the hem of her jumper—barely there, maddening in their restraint—her knees nearly betrayed her.

“Charlie,” she whispered, but it came out smaller this time.

“Mmhmm,” he murmured, and just like that, her carefully assembled defenses began to crumble.

She turned in his arms, slow and uncertain, meaning to scold him—really, she did—but the moment their eyes met, all her indignation dissolved into static.

That look. Mischief and heat and something else beneath it—something careful and real.

“You’re insufferable,” she said, but her voice didn’t carry the weight it was supposed to.

“And yet,” he murmured, lips brushing the corner of her jaw, “you let me in the door.”

Before she could retort, he kissed her.

It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t slow. Nope, not this time. It was firm and sure, the kind of kiss that consumed her whole and dared her to question it. Her hands found his shoulders without conscious thought, anchoring herself to him as the world narrowed to his mouth and his hands and the thrum of something wild in her chest.

When he finally pulled back, she realized she was breathless.

Her hands were tangled in the wool of his jumper. Her heart was somewhere near her throat.

“You’re a menace,” she breathed, the words catching as she tried to recover some semblance of self.

His grin didn’t waver. “You’re not exactly pushing me away.”

She hated that he was right. And she hated that she didn’t care.

Untangling herself—not because she wanted to, but because she had to think—Hermione stepped back just far enough to give herself air.

“I need a drink,” she muttered, retreating toward the door that led to her wine stash. “If I’m going to survive the rest of this evening, I’ll need something… strong.”

Charlie chuckled behind her, the sound low and amused and stupidly fond. “Didn’t realize I was that much effort.”

She didn’t dignify him with a response.

Not yet, anyway.

Hermione grabbed a bottle of red she vaguely remembered hiding down there months ago. Dusting it off, she made her way back into the living room, where Charlie had somehow made himself even more at home, sprawled across her armchair like it had been built for him.

“Of course you’ve claimed my throne,” she deadpanned, setting the bottle and two glasses on the table.

He stretched, his grin nothing short of wicked. “I’d say I’m keeping it warm, but I think you’ve managed that just fine.”

Hermione arched a brow, pouring the wine with deliberate care. “Careful, Weasley. That charm only works until the second glass.”

He accepted the glass she handed him, watching her with a smirk that hadn’t wavered all evening. “Good thing I’ve always been more of a ‘third time’s the charm’ kind of guy.”

She snorted, shaking her head as she sank onto the sofa, one leg tucked under her. “You’re impossible.”

“You’re saying that an awful lot,” his lips tugging into a smirk she knew all too well, “And yet… you’re still sitting here with me,” he shot back, his eyes gleaming.

Hermione took a slow sip of her wine, the warmth spreading through her chest as she smirked over the rim of the glass. “Don’t let it go to your head. I’m just here to make sure you have a warm place to sleep and that you don’t drink the whole bottle by yourself.”

His laugh was low and full of promise, the sound settling somewhere deep in her chest. “Sure, Granger. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

The air between them was electric, the teasing sharp but familiar, every word layered with unspoken possibilities. And as the evening stretched on, Hermione realized she didn’t mind the way Charlie filled her space—too loud, too confident, and entirely too tempting.

The warmth of the wine settled in Hermione’s chest, but it didn’t have nearly the same effect as Charlie’s eyes on her. He was sprawled across her armchair like he owned the place, his boots kicked off, one arm draped over the side, and that damned smirk plastered across his face. She couldn't help her eyes roaming from his strong thighs, along the perfect curve of his abdomen, to his piercing blue eyes.

“You’re staring, Granger,” he drawled, swirling his wine glass lazily.

“I’m marveling at your audacity,” she shot back, taking another sip of her drink. “You’ve been here all of fifteen minutes, and you’ve managed to conquer my favorite chair. Do you practice being this annoying, or does it come naturally?”

Charlie’s grin widened, all teeth and trouble. “Oh, it’s a gift, comes with the territory of having a few siblings." His eyes gleamed, "Speaking of gifts, nice trick with the lights earlier. I’m impressed—though not nearly as impressed as I am by your wine selection.” He lifted the glass in mock salute. “Didn’t know you had such taste.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” she replied, raising her glass to meet his. The glasses clinked softly, the moment stretching between them, heavy with possibilities.

The silence lingered, not awkward but charged, until Charlie leaned forward, setting his empty glass on the table. “You’ve gone quiet, Hermione. That’s never a good sign.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m just savoring the peace. It’s a rare thing when you’re around.”

He chuckled, low and rich, and the sound did unspeakable things to her insides.

“Careful. Keep saying things like that, and I’ll think you actually enjoy my company.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” she quipped, but her voice lacked its usual bite.

Charlie’s gaze dropped to her lips, and the air seemed to shift. “I’m trying not to,” he murmured, the teasing edge in his tone softening into something warmer, deeper.

Hermione’s breath caught. She’d always known Charlie was charming in a rough-around-the-edges, dragon-wrangling kind of way, but this… this was different. His hand reached out, brushing a stray curl from her face, and she swore her heart skipped a beat.

“Say something,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

“You’re an idiot,” she blurted, though the words came out softer than intended. Her cheeks burned as his grin returned, slower this time, but no less infuriating.

Charlie’s grin softened as he traced lazy circles on the back of her hand. “Fair enough."

And before she could think too much about what was happening, he leaned in.

His lips met hers with the kind of confidence that made her knees weak even though she was sitting. There was nothing hesitant about the kiss—it was pure Charlie: bold, sure, and entirely too addictive. Her hand found its way to his neck, fingers threading through his hair as she kissed him back with equal fervor.

In one smooth motion, he pulled her down onto his lap, his strength impossible to ignore. Her legs straddled him as if they’d done this a thousand times before. One of his hands splayed against her back, pulling her closer, while the other found its way to her thigh, his thumb brushing maddening circles against her skin.

Somewhere between her cardigan slipping off her shoulders and Charlie’s lips trailing a line of fire down her neck, his sweater disappeared. She pulled back, her breath coming in short bursts as her eyes roamed over his chest.

“Merlin’s beard,” she muttered, her fingers tracing the intricate black tattoos that snaked across his skin. Dragons roared to life with the subtle shift of his muscles, their scales gleaming in the candlelight. A thestral stretched its wings across his ribs, its skeletal form both haunting and beautiful, while a proud hippogriff reared on his shoulder, its sharp eyes almost lifelike.

She’d seen them before, but now, up close, the sight was breathtaking.

“These aren’t exactly the kind of doodles you find in a Hogwarts notebook,” she said, her tone teasing as her fingers brushed over the edge of the thestral’s wing. “What’s next? Another dragon on your…” Her gaze dipped lower, and Charlie’s soft laugh sent a shiver through her.

“Depends,” he murmured, his voice low. “You volunteering for the design committee?”

Hermione rolled her eyes, but her cheeks burned as she continued tracing the delicate lines. “I’m just impressed you sat still long enough to get these done. You, Mr. Can’t Stay in One Place.”

“Oh, I didn’t,” he said with a smirk. “Most of them took multiple sittings and a lot of firewhisky. Thought the artist was going to hex me into next week.”

She snorted, leaning down to inspect the hippogriff on his shoulder. “I can see it now. You, half-done, running shirtless through some alley, dragon half-finished and—”

“Hey,” he interrupted, his hands slipping to her waist. “Each one of these masterpieces didn’t happen overnight. Took effort. Dedication. Pain.”

“Oh, poor you,” she said, mock sympathy dripping from her words. “Bet you were a real hero about it.”

“Naturally,” he said, his grin widening. “And now here I am, selflessly letting you admire the results.”

“Selfless is one word for it,” she muttered, her fingers pausing on the thestral’s wing. Her teasing faltered as the air between them shifted, the line between humor and something deeper blurring with every passing second. Without thinking, Hermione pressed a kiss to the inky outline. His sharp intake of breath was a victory she didn’t try to hide.

As she looked up, she looked straight into Charlie’s blue eyes, as he cocked an eyebrow, coaxing her to speak.

“Didn’t peg you for the artistic type,” she teased, her voice unsteady as her hands continued their exploration.

“Gotta keep some mysteries,” he murmured, his hands tightening on her waist. “You like them?”

She hated how easily he disarmed her, his words light but his gaze heavy with meaning. It left her feeling unbalanced—and exhilarated. She licked her lips, trying to find her words.

“I’m… intrigued,” she admitted, leaning down to press her lips once more to the inked skin. Charlie’s reaction didn’t disappoint. His fingers founder her chin, and angled her face up, as she looked into his darkening blue eyes, a thrill shot through her.

Without hesitation, Charlie closed the distance between them.

Within seconds, their kisses deepened, the room melting into the periphery as their connection grew more urgent. His hands moved over her back and hips with deliberate purpose, each touch igniting a trail of fire beneath her skin. Time felt irrelevant, Hermione felt untethered—whether minutes or hours passed, she couldn’t say—only that they hovered on the precipice of something unspoken, something that left her breathless and yearning. It wasn’t enough. It could never be enough.

And yet, she needed more.

Her hands fumbled at his belt, but before she could go any further, Charlie’s grip on her waist tightened, and he pulled back, his forehead resting against hers as he caught his breath.

“Hermione,” he said, his voice rough and strained. “We need to stop.”

She blinked, her mind struggling to catch up. “What? Why?”

Her mouth moved to his neck, her lips and teeth scraping over the skin, eliciting a beautiful noise from Charlie.

Yet, he pulled back. His voice was low, firm, as his eyes locked onto hers. “Not like this, Hermione.”

She wanted to ask. Beg, even. But before she had the chance, Charlie continued.

His thumb brushed her cheek, his touch impossibly gentle despite the tension thrumming through him. “Because you’ve had whisky, Guinness, wine, and I… I need you sober for this…” He paused, his eyes pleading, as he softly added, “for us.”

Her heart clenched at the raw honesty in his voice. She wanted to argue, to tell him she was perfectly fine, but the look in his eyes stopped her. Her frustration warred with understanding as his words settled over her. It wasn’t rejection—it was something far more terrifying: patience.

“This is idiotic,” she muttered, though her words lacked heat.

He smiled, that slow, disarming grin that always made her stomach flutter. “And yet, you’re still here.”

“For now,” she shot back, though the way her fingers curled into his hair betrayed her.

“Come here,” he said softly, his hand slipping to the back of her head. He guided her down until her head rested against his chest, his fingers threading gently through her hair. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat was oddly soothing, and despite herself, she felt her eyes growing heavy.

“You’re annoying,” she mumbled, her voice muffled against his skin.

“And you’re stubborn,” he replied, his hand never ceasing its gentle motions.

She wanted to argue, to tease him one last time, but sleep was pulling her under, her body melting into his warmth. The last thing she felt was the press of his lips against her forehead, and the last thing she heard was his whispered, “Sleep well, love.”

Hermione groaned as her eyes cracked open, the dull throb in her skull pounding in time with her heartbeat. She squinted at the sunlight streaming through the gap in her curtains, cursing every decision she’d made last night. Her mouth was dry, her head heavy, and—Merlin, she was still in her leather dress. Fabulous.

The smell of sizzling bacon drifted into her room, mingling with the faintest hint of pancakes. Her stomach growled, even as her nausea protested. She dragged herself upright, wincing as the room tilted slightly, then shuffled over to her wardrobe. Pulling out an oversized Gryffindor Quidditch shirt and a pair of gym shorts, she quickly swapped her dress for something more forgiving.

Padding out of her bedroom, Hermione froze in the doorway of her small kitchen.

Charlie was there, standing at the stove, shirtless, with a frying pan in one hand and a spatula in the other. His broad shoulders and the dragon tattoos curling down his arms caught the morning light, the ink seeming to ripple with every shift of muscle.

She blinked. Then blinked again.

“Morning, sleepyhead.”

Charlie didn’t even look up from the pan, his voice warm and teasing.

“Morning,” she managed, though it came out more like a croak. Her hand immediately flew to her curls, trying to tame them as heat crept into her cheeks.

“Bacon’s almost done,” he said, flipping a few strips expertly. “Pancakes, too. Figured you’d need some grease to soak up all the firewhisky you threw back.”

Hermione grimaced. The reminder of last night made her head throb harder. “Thanks for the reminder,” she muttered, shuffling toward the counter and leaning heavily against it.

“Do you always cook half-naked, or is this some kind of hangover ritual I don’t know about?”

“Didn’t want to mess up my shirt with grease,” Charlie shot back, finally glancing over his shoulder with a lopsided grin. “Besides, you didn’t seem to mind me shirtless last night.”

Hermione’s stomach flipped. Mortification crashed into her without hesitation. Oh, no. What had they done? Flashes of last night came rushing back—her laugh too loud, his hands on her waist as he steadied her. And then...

Her mind supplied the memory of his voice, low but firm. “Not like this, Hermione.”

Relief flooded her, mixed with a gratitude so strong it made her chest ache. Merlin bless him. She’d been an idiot, and he’d been a saint.

Summoning her Gryffindor courage, she straightened up. “Well,” she said, her voice sharper now, “if you’re going to prance around half-naked, the least I can do is say thanks properly.”

Before she could overthink it, Hermione walked up behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist. She leaned in, brushing her lips against the edge of his shoulder. Her teeth scraped his skin lightly, and she felt the sharp intake of his breath.

“Careful, Granger,” he murmured, his voice rougher than usual.

“Just showing my appreciation,” she said, her words light but her tone anything but.

Charlie exhaled deeply, setting the spatula down as he turned in her arms. His eyes were brighter, sharper, as he looked down at her. “You always this handsy before breakfast?”

“Depends,” she quipped. “You always this cocky while making bacon shirtless?”

“Cocky? No. Confident? Maybe.” He smirked, clearly enjoying the game. “Hard not to be, with the way you keep staring.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, but the flush on her cheeks betrayed her. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re still hungry,” he said, gesturing to the plate of food he’d set aside. “Eat first, flirt later.”

She sighed dramatically, releasing him. “Fine. But don’t think this is over.”

“Looking forward to it,” he said, handing her a plate with a wink.

As they settled at the table, Hermione couldn’t help the grin tugging at her lips. Headache or not, breakfast with Charlie Weasley wasn’t a bad way to start the day.

Hermione sighed as she settled into her seat, plate in hand, the pile of crispy bacon and fluffy pancakes almost too much for her fragile stomach to handle. Almost. Her head still pounded, but the smell of syrup was too enticing to resist.

Charlie slid into the seat across from her, his own plate piled even higher. “Eat,” he said firmly, pointing his fork at her before stabbing a piece of bacon for himself.

“Yes, Healer Weasley,” Hermione muttered, though she obediently took a bite. The first taste of buttery pancake sent a wave of comfort through her. “Merlin, this is good. Are you hiding a culinary talent, or is this just years of feeding starving dragon handlers?”

“Bit of both,” Charlie replied, grinning. “You get creative when you’re living in the middle of nowhere with nothing but eggs, flour, and an illegal bottle of firewhisky.”

She snorted, reaching for the syrup. “Sounds charming.”

“Charming enough to keep me alive,” he said, then gestured at her with his fork.

“Speaking of alive, what’s your plan now? Are you staying in this flat for the next few days?”

Hermione hesitated, chewing on a piece of bacon as she considered. “I think I’ll head back to the reserve,” she said finally, setting her fork down.

Charlie’s brows rose. “Prematurely? How are you going to swing that? Portkeys don’t grow on trees.”

She smirked, leaning back in her chair. “I have connections.”

“Oh, connections?” His tone was mockingly skeptical.

“Kingsley owes me a favor,” she said casually, reaching for another piece of bacon.

Charlie’s face shifted, his expression clouding with doubt. “Hermione—”

“I just want to see Katya,” she interrupted, her voice softening. “And cuddle Salt and Pepper. I need a little peace, and nothing’s more peaceful than a dragon purring in your lap.”

That earned a laugh, though his resolve was visibly crumbling. He ran a hand through his hair, his shoulders relaxing as he looked at her. “You’re ridiculous, you know that?”

“You love it,” she shot back, grinning.

“Not denying that,” he muttered, his voice low. He sighed, leaning back in his chair, one of his strong hands running through his hair.

“Alright, fine. Do what you need to. Just…” His other hand reached out, brushing against hers. “Be careful, yeah?”

“Always,” she said, squeezing his fingers lightly.

He pulled his hand back, focusing on his plate. “I’ll stick around for a bit. Got some business to handle with Bill and the twins. And Ron.”

Her fork paused halfway to her mouth. “Ron?”

His jaw tightened, his blue eyes darkening. “Yeah. Last night’s… debacle… will need to be addressed."

Hermione hesitated. She wanted to press but decided against it. In the end it was his family. His call.

“Right,” she said finally. “Well, good luck with that.”

Charlie’s grin returned, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’ll need it.”

They finished breakfast with light chatter about pancakes and poorly thought-out tattoo ideas before Hermione pushed back from the table, brushing crumbs from her shirt.

“Right,” she said, clapping her hands together. “Time to floo Kingsley.”

Charlie smirked, leaning against the counter as she approached the fireplace. “You’re really doing this now?”

“No time like the present,” she said, throwing a handful of floo powder into the flames.

The green fire roared to life as she called out Kingsley’s name. Moments later, her head disappeared into the flames, leaving Charlie shaking his head behind her.

A few hours later, the portkey station was a chaotic blur of activity; wizards and witches darting to and fro with enchanted bags and cages full of squawking owls. Hermione clutched her bag tightly, scanning the station schedule as Charlie stood beside her.

“Sure you don’t want me to come with you?” he asked, leaning down to murmur in her ear.

“I’ll be fine,” she said, turning to face him. “You’ve got your business to handle, remember?”

His lips twitched. “I’d rather be handling you.”

“Merlin’s beard, Charlie,” she said, rolling her eyes, though her cheeks betrayed her with a blush.

He smirked, reaching out to tuck a stray curl behind her ear. “Just saying.”

The overhead voice announced her portkey’s departure, and Hermione stepped closer, her chest brushing against his.

“I’ll see you soon, then?” Hermione asked softly, her voice barely carrying over the hum of the bustling portkey station.

Charlie didn’t answer right away. Instead, he leaned in, his lips brushing hers in a kiss that was too brief, leaving her breathless and wanting more. When he pulled back, his grin was maddeningly smug, a glint of mischief dancing in his blue eyes.

“I’ll see you on the 31st,” he murmured.

She blinked, thrown off balance by the comment. “The 31st?”

“New Year’s Eve,” he clarified, his tone dropping to something warmer, softer. He didn’t step away, though. Instead, he leaned closer, his breath warm against her ear as he pressed the faintest of kisses just beneath it.

The shiver that ran down her spine was instant, her fingers tightening instinctively around the strap of her bag as his voice dropped to a husky whisper. “I’m looking forward to kissing my girl at midnight.”

Her breath hitched and her heart did a somersault at his words, but her mind scrambled to process them, torn between disbelief and the undeniable truth of how much she wanted it to be true. She turned her head slightly, catching the edge of his smile.

“your girl?” she managed, though her voice betrayed her, sounding far less composed than she intended.

“Yeah,” he said, pulling back just enough to meet her gaze, his eyes dancing with amusement. “That’d be you, Granger.”

Before she could respond—before she could even think—he slid his hand to the small of her back and pulled her against him. His mouth found hers in a kiss that was frantic and deep, as if he were memorizing the way she tasted, the way she felt. It was hot and demanding, a kiss that promised this wasn’t goodbye, not really.

When they finally broke apart, both of them slightly breathless, Charlie gave her a smile that was softer than usual, his usual confidence tinged with something almost shy.

Hermione, still reeling, could feel the heat rising in her cheeks. She ducked her head, biting her lip to suppress a grin she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing.

“Go on,” he murmured, his voice softer now, as though he wanted to keep her close just a moment longer. “Don’t let me keep you.”

The station announcer called her departure again, and Hermione nodded, stepping reluctantly toward the glowing portkey.

As the portkey’s magic began to hum, she felt the strangest pull—not from the spell, but from the man standing just a step away, smiling like he already knew he’d see her again.

Her gaze locked with Charlie’s one last time. He gave her a wink, and she managed a weak smile before the portkey whisked her away, leaving her standing just outside of the snow-sprinkled grounds of the dragon reserve the chill of the air doing little to cool the warmth spreading through her chest.

One thought echoed in her mind, loud and clear.

Merlin help me, I think I’m falling. And Charlie Weasley doesn’t exactly come with a safety net.

Chapter Text

The kitchen smelled faintly of cinnamon and burnt toast, an aftermath of the morning’s chaos. Fleur had swept through minutes ago, arms laden with baby Dominique and a chattering Victoire.

“Zee boys need some space,” she declared, with the kind of finality only Fleur could muster. With a wave to Charlie and soft kiss on Bill’s cheek combined with a warning glance that Charlie could barely decipher, she was gone.

Now, the house was quiet, save for the steady tick of the clock on the wall.

Charlie stood awkwardly by the counter, one hand gripping the back of his neck, the other buried in his pocket. His jaw worked, like he was chewing on words he couldn’t quite spit out.

Bill leaned against the counter, arms folded, his face an infuriating mask of calm amusement. “Wanna talk about it?” he asked, his tone as light as the snowy drifts outside.

Charlie glanced sideways, his mouth quirking. “Yeah.” The word came out grudgingly, like it had been dragged out by force.

Bill’s grin widened, and he straightened up, heading for the cupboard. “Well then,” he said, his eyes flicking to the clock. “It’s four-thirty. That means we can have some whisky.”

“Who said I need to drown my sorrows?” Charlie shot back.

“It’s Christmas Day, Charlie. The kids will be back eventually, and when they do, I’ll be knee-deep in wrapping paper and shrieking.” With a cocked eyebrow and a smirk, Bill pulled out a bottle and set it on the table with a satisfying clink. “Trust me. I need this more than you.”

Charlie snorted, finally easing into a chair. “You’re really selling the whole family man thing, Bill. Heartwarming stuff.”

Bill poured two glasses, sliding one across the table with a smirk. “What can I say? Domestic bliss suits me.” He sat down, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “Now, spill. Before Fleur comes back and decides we’re both emotional incompetents.”

Charlie stared into his glass, then took a sip. “You ever feel like you’ve got everything figured out, and then life comes in and punches you in the ribs for fun?”

Bill grinned, leaning back in his chair. “Every bloody day. Welcome to adulthood, little brother.”

Charlie rolled his eyes but couldn’t help the slight smile creeping onto his face. “Yeah, well, adulthood’s overrated.”

Bill raised his glass in a toast. “Hear, hear.”

“Hold on, rewind for a second,” Bill said, his grin so wide it could’ve split his face in two. His eyes sparkled with the kind of glee that only came from witnessing a younger sibling squirm. “Let me get this straight. Yesterday, you thought she was dating Ron.”

Charlie opened his mouth, ready to cut in, but Bill raised a hand, palm out. “No, no, I’m not done. Because then, after that entire bloody disaster with mum and dad, you took her to a bar, flirted the night away—”

“I wouldn’t say flirted—” Charlie tried, but Bill’s pointed look shut him right up.

“Oh, I would,” Bill said, leaning forward with the kind of energy that made it clear he was thoroughly enjoying this. “The sparks coming off you two could’ve lit up the whole bloody bar. But here’s the kicker.” He leaned back dramatically, swirling his whisky. “After I left you two, you left, too. And then—” He paused for effect, pointing his glass at Charlie. “You stayed the night on her couch. Only kissed. And now, you’re calling her your girl?”

Charlie didn’t bother answering. He just downed the rest of his whisky in one go and arched an eyebrow as he slammed the glass down. He figured that said enough.

Bill barked out a laugh, the kind that came from deep in his chest. “You’ve got balls, little brother.”

With an easy flick of his wrist, he refilled both their glasses.

Charlie raked a hand through his hair, dislodging a few strands that tumbled into his face. “I didn’t have a choice, Bill!” he said, exasperated, as he leaned forward to grip his refilled glass.

“She’s been killing me for months,” Charlie admitted, his voice low. He dragged a hand through his hair, avoiding Bill’s gaze. “And not just her laugh or the way she’s always three steps ahead of everyone. It’s the way she cares. About everything. Everyone. Merlin, she’s probably too good for me, but I can’t—” He stopped himself, taking another long sip of whisky.

Bill smirked, raising his glass in a mock toast. “Yeah, and by the sounds of it, you’re loving every bloody second of it, aren’t you?”

Charlie groaned, shaking his head, but the slight grin tugging at his lips betrayed him.

The whisky bottle sat between them, a silent witness to the chaos being recounted. Bill leaned back in his chair, dragging a hand through his hair with a mix of exasperation and amusement. “I’m telling you, Charlie, Ginny didn’t just go off—she went nuclear. Full-on Weasley wrath.”

Charlie raised an eyebrow as he sipped his drink. “I figured she’d have something to say, but that bad?”

“Worse,” Bill said, gesturing with his glass for emphasis. “The twins left first, of course. Gave Mum and Dad one of Mum’s trademark ‘we’re-not-angry-just-disappointed’ glares, muttered something snide, and took off with Angelina and Katie. Pretty tame, honestly. But Ginny?” He shook his head, a small, incredulous smile tugging at his lips. “She stayed. And she laid in.”

Charlie blinked. “Laid in how?”

“You know that gleam she gets in her eyes when she’s about to go for someone’s throat?” Bill asked, his own eyes gleaming in memory. “She went on about respect, loyalty, and how they’ve been treating Hermione like she’s expendable. Proper verbal lashing. Harry, meanwhile, just stood there and poured himself another drink, like this was all part of his daily routine. Didn’t flinch once.”

Charlie smirked despite himself. “Sounds about right. What happened next?”

“She ended it with a warning,” Bill continued. “Told them not to expect her or Harry back unless they apologized to Hermione. Then, she walked out. No goodbye, no looking back. Just gone.”

Charlie let out a low whistle, setting his glass down. He could picture it so clearly—Ginny, fierce and unapologetic, standing her ground for someone she cared about. It filled him with a quiet kind of pride. Hermione deserved that kind of loyalty. She’d earned it a hundred times over.

“Fleur wasn’t far behind,” Bill added, his grin widening. “She didn’t even spare Mum a glance. Took the kids, looked Dad dead in the eye, and said, ‘I expected better of you.’ And then poof. Home she went.” Bill nodded, as he took another sip of his whisky. “Everyone went home; We all agreed not to overwhelm you lot.”

Charlie nodded, his lips quirking slightly. Fleur was good at that—making a single, cutting statement and leaving it to simmer.

“And you?” Charlie asked.

“Oh, I told them to get their act together,” Bill said nonchalantly. “Told them this wasn’t how they raised us, reminded them -again- how bloody serious we all are about all this, and promised I’d be stopping by Ron and Lavender’s to clear things up later. Which, by the way, you’re welcome to join. Could use a wingman.” The mischievous glint in his eye was unmistakable.

Charlie chuckled softly but didn’t answer right away. His mind lingered on what Bill had said. For all the tension, for all the drama, it felt good—really good—to know his family had stood up for Hermione. She was the kind of person who gave everything to the people she cared about, and she deserved nothing less in return.

“Mum and Dad, though—how’d they take it?” Charlie asked finally.

Bill chuckled darkly, downing the rest of his glass. “Mum was like a storm—half distraught, half icy. Dad just sat there, completely gobsmacked. Honestly, it might take them a while to realize just how much they screwed up.”

Charlie’s jaw tightened, and he nodded. “Well, I hope it lands soon, ‘cause it’s bloody unforgivable.”

Bill gave a small, approving nod.

Charlie flicked his wrist, and the glasses refilled with the amber liquid. They didn’t need to say anything else. The sound of their glasses clinking gently together was enough.

Several whiskies deep, Charlie had finished recounting the last few months in Romania. How things at the reserve had gone from routine to chaos in the best way possible. How Hermione’s presence had, well, changed everything.

Bill leaned back in his chair, an ominous look crossing his face—and Charlie clearly knew he was about to get one of those speeches laced with wisdom.

Great. Just bloody great.

“Charlie,” Bill said, his tone heavy with seriousness.

Charlie arched an eyebrow, wary. “Yes, William?”

Bill leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “I’ve gotta ask. You are serious about her, aren’t you?”

Charlie’s hand instinctively went to the back of his neck, his thumb brushing the scar there. He didn’t hesitate. “Completely.”

If Bill was surprised by the honesty, he didn’t show it. Instead, he let out a low whistle and shook his head, as though weighing the enormity of Charlie’s words.

“Well, I’m happy for you,” Bill said finally. “And for Hermione. She looked happy yesterday—happier than I’ve seen her in a long time.”

Charlie scoffed, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Have seen her often, have you?”

The way Bill’s jaw tightened and his eyes narrowed made it feel like Charlie was already getting told off, without a single word spoken.

“Actually, yeah. She’s very good friends with Fleur, and she's helped us out with the kids more often than not. She’s a good... girl. Woman. By now, sister. But,” he paused, his tone softening, “over the past few years, she hasn’t smiled much. Not really. Not by far as much as she did last night.”

Charlie froze for a second, taken aback by the comment. He didn’t know how to process that—not fully.

Bill didn’t leave him much time to dwell. “Which,” he said, leaning back in his chair, “means I’ve gotta ask you another question.”

“Bloody hell, Bill, how many questions are you planning tonight?” Charlie grumbled, reaching for his glass again.

Bill’s hand gestured vaguely toward Charlie’s sweater, his voice dropping in volume like he was tiptoeing around dangerous territory. “What are you planning to do about… that?”

Charlie didn’t even look down. He knew exactly what Bill meant. Underneath the sweater and along the scars, dragons, and other magical creatures, was another tattoo. The one he’d been dodging conversations about for over a decade. The one he barely thought about anymore, unless someone like Bill brought it up.

He took a deliberate sip of his whisky, letting the burn settle before answering. “Nothing.”

Bill’s eyebrows shot up so high they might’ve launched off his face. “Nothing?!”

“Yup. Nothing.”

“But—”

“No buts, Bill,” Charlie interrupted, his tone firm and laced with a hint of authority he normally only used on the reserve. “Half the people at the reserve have those bloody things, and most of them are either miserable or pretending not to care. I’m fine without it. Eleven years, Bill. Eleven bloody years, and I’ve done just fine without whoever or whatever that thing is supposed to point me to.”

Bill pursed his lips like he was holding back a lecture. “It’s your soulmate,” he said finally, like that explained everything.

“And my bloody soulmate,” Charlie snapped back, his voice dripping with sarcasm, “can kindly fuck right off. I don’t need fate or magic tattoos or any of that rubbish to guide my life. I know what I want.”

He paused, setting his glass down with purpose. “I know who I want.”

For once, Bill didn’t have a quick retort. He just nodded, quietly processing his brother’s conviction.

Finally, Bill spoke. “I see.”

Charlie met his gaze, his tone softening but losing none of its weight. “You should.”

Bill exhaled sharply, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Fair enough.”

And with that, Charlie flicked his wrist, refilling their glasses without a word. They clinked them together, the conversation settling into the comfortable silence only brothers could share.

As the world around them slowly darkned, Fleur and the kids returned. Dominique squirmed in her mother’s arms, half-asleep, while Victoire charged into the room, her hair flying.

“Uncle Charlie!” Victoire squealed, launching herself at him with the enthusiasm of a small meteor.

Charlie caught her with practiced ease, swinging her up onto his hip. “Whoa there, Vicky! Miss me, did you?”

Victoire giggled. “Mama said you’re staying for dinner! Are you going to cook dragons?”

Charlie laughed. “Dragons are a terrible dinner, trust me. You don’t want to know how stringy they are.”

Fleur rolled her eyes as she passed by, setting Dominique down in her high chair. “Non, mon cher, he is cooking nothing. Your Papa is in ze kitchen tonight.” She turned to Bill, who had just gotten up from his chair. “Oui, darling?”

Bill grinned, leaning down to kiss her on the cheek. “Yes, ma’am. I’m on it. Victoire, keep Uncle Charlie out of trouble while I work my magic, alright?”

Victoire nodded solemnly, as though bestowed with a sacred mission. “Got it, Papa!”

Bill headed to the kitchen, cracking his knuckles theatrically. “Tonight, we’re going Egyptian,” he called over his shoulder. “Something with spice and flair.”

By the time dinner was ready, the house was filled with the warm, savory scent of roasted lamb, cumin, and cardamom. Bill had even whipped up a side of tahini-drizzled vegetables and a pile of flatbreads.

“You’re showing off,” Charlie accused, standing by the sink as he tackled the growing mountain of dishes.

“Absolutely,” Bill replied cheerfully, flipping a towel over his shoulder. “It’s my way of distracting Fleur from the fact that her mother-in-law has some issues every now and then.”

Charlie barked a laugh. “Bold strategy.”

Dinner was a lively affair. Victoire recounted her latest adventures with her french cousins, her stories getting taller with each passing minute.

As Charlie started on the dishes, Fleur flowed in and out of the room, feeding Dominique and putting her down for the night. After the last dish was polished and put away, Fleur emerged from the hallway, her arms crossed and a pointed look on her face.

“It’s time,” Fleur announced, her voice carrying a note of finality.

Charlie didn’t miss a beat, leaning back against the counter with a smirk. “Ah, we’re talking about Ron, aren’t we?”

“Oui,” Fleur confirmed, her eyes narrowing with the kind of sharpness that could cut glass. “And it is time for ze both of you to talk some sense into ze idiot.”

Bill, still drying his hands, glanced at Fleur, then at Charlie. “She’s not wrong.”

Charlie shrugged. “She’s never wrong.”

Bill laughed. “That’s definitely true,” his gaze moved towards his wife, “but are you sure you’ll be alright with the kids?”

Fleur’s expression softened, but only slightly. “Of course. Zey will be fine. Just do me one favor.”

“What’s that?” Bill asked, his tone dripping with caution, his gaze flicking between Fleur and the mysterious expression on her face like he was bracing for impact.

Fleur’s sugary-sweet smile appeared, the kind that made even Charlie want to take a step back. “Warn Lavender for me. I will be coming to collect.”

Charlie’s laughter echoed through the room as Bill’s face twisted into a mix of amusement and mild alarm.

“Collect what, exactly?” Bill ventured cautiously.

Fleur’s smile didn’t waver as she walked past, inspecting her nails with a particular scrutiny. “She will see.”

Bill shook his head, muttering under his breath as he grabbed his coat. “Even after seven years, she still scares me sometimes.”

Charlie watched Fleur leave the room, her head held high like a queen dismissing her court. He whistled low. “Damn glad I’m not on her bad side. She could take down an Hungarian horntail with just that look.”

Bill clapped Charlie on the back, his grin as sharp as a dragon’s tooth. “Come on, little brother. Let’s go remind Ron what happens when he acts like an idiot.”

Charlie snorted, shoving his hands in his pockets as they stepped outside. “Do you have one of your specials planned for this time? He quite deserves it.”

“Exactly,” Bill said smoothly. “And tonight, I’m feeling particularly inspirational.”

Charlie chuckled, shaking his head. “Poor bastard doesn’t stand a chance.”

“Not with us, he doesn’t,” Bill replied, his smirk growing. “Let’s go do some damage.”

In true Bill fashion—his cursebreaker tendencies thriving on a flair for drama—they apparated to Ron’s street. Or more accurately, Bill apparated them both, because Charlie had no idea where his youngest brother lived, and after Christmas Eve, he wasn’t particularly keen to know.

And that’s how they ended up standing in front of a house on the outskirts of North London, staring at a big, bright pink door.

Charlie raised an eyebrow, his gaze flicking from the door to Bill. “Really?”

Bill coughed under his breath, the word barely audible. “Whipped.”

Before Charlie could snort, Bill took one long stride forward and pounded on the door with enough force to rattle the frame. “Ron! Open up!”

Charlie leaned against the wall, watching as Bill drew back his fist to knock again. Just as his hand hovered mid-air, the door creaked open.

There stood Ron, his joggers hanging low, a wrinkled t-shirt that might have once been white, and hair sticking up in all directions.

Bill gave him a look so piercing it could have sent a Death Eater running. “Having a good time?”

Ron’s ears turned a deep Weasley red as he stammered, “Uh... yeah. Now’s... not really a good time.”

He started to inch the door closed, but Bill was faster. His hand shot out to catch it, his foot planting firmly in the gap. His smile was sharp, polite—dangerously so.

“Oh, I think now’s the perfect time,” Bill said smoothly. “It’s Christmas, we’re family, and we’re so grateful for your hospitality. Thanks for inviting us in.”

Ron froze, his eyes darting between the door, Bill’s foot, and Charlie, who had yet to move from his spot. “We?”

Charlie stepped forward then, his expression cool and deliberate. “Evening, Ronald,” he said, voice calm but laced with steel.

The panic on Ron’s face deepened, but he barely had time to respond before Bill pushed his way inside, shrugging off his coat as though he owned the place.

“Lovely place you’ve got here,” Bill said brightly, hanging his jacket in the wardrobe with a casual flick of his wrist. “Kettle on, is it?”

Charlie followed him in, closing the door behind them with a pointed look at his younger brother. Ron stood frozen in the hallway, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.

“Didn’t think so,” Bill added cheerfully, already heading toward what was presumably the kitchen. “Don’t worry, we’ll make ourselves at home.”

Charlie couldn’t help the smirk tugging at his lips as he trailed behind. This was going to be fun.

“Won-Won, who was that? Are you ready for dessert?” Lavender’s syrupy voice floated into the living room, each word laced with an almost theatrical sweetness. “I’ve got the strawberries and whipped cream…”

Charlie’s grip on the edge of the couch tightened, his nails digging into the fabric. Bill, still in the kitchen, paused mid-stir, his shoulders stiffening slightly.

Ron froze in the doorway, as if he’d been hit with a Full Body-Bind Curse. His face turned the color of week-old porridge, and his mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping for air.

“Ronald,” Charlie muttered, his voice low and biting. “You planning to say something, or should we?”

But Ron just stood there, useless as ever.

Lavender appeared a moment later, sweeping into the room with a confidence that quickly dimmed when she caught sight of the scene. Her bright smile faltered, her eyes darting between the brothers as her posture stiffened. She was wearing something more appropriate for a private evening than unexpected guests, and Charlie quickly averted his gaze, fixing his eyes on the floor, as he got up and walked towards the other side of the room.

Bill didn’t even glance her way, instead setting the tea down on the counter with deliberate precision. “Whipped cream, Ron?” he murmured under his breath, his tone dry enough to rival the desert.

Lavender’s smile became brittle. “Oh,” she said, voice tight, “I didn’t realize you… had company.”

Ron’s face burned a deep red, and he stammered out, “Lav, uh—maybe you should—”

“I should what, Ronald?” Lavender’s voice sharpened, but the edge was undermined by the flush creeping into her cheeks. She crossed her arms, looking between the three men with barely concealed irritation.

Charlie cut in before Ron could dig the hole any deeper. “Why don’t you go… change?” he suggested, his tone calm but leaving no room for argument. “We’ll catch up while you get more comfortable.”

For a second, Lavender looked like she might protest, but something in Charlie’s tone—or perhaps the set of Bill’s jaw as he observed his mug—made her think better of it. With a curt nod, she turned on her heel and disappeared down the hallway, the sound of her footsteps echoing against the wooden floor.

The moment she was gone, Bill’s calm demeanor shifted. He stepped out of the kitchen and leveled Ron with a look sharp enough to cut glass. “What the hell are you doing, Ron?”

Ron blinked, still caught off-guard. “What do you mean? I—”

Charlie rose from the couch, standing tall and imposing as he crossed his arms over his chest. “What he means, Ronald, is that you’ve got a lot to answer for. And not just for this circus you’re living in.”

Ron’s eyes darted toward the hallway where Lavender had disappeared, panic flickering across his face. “Look, this isn’t a good time—”

“It’s Christmas,” Bill interrupted, his voice cold and steady. “Family’s supposed to come first, remember? But you don’t seem to give a damn about that unless it’s convenient for you.”

Ron bristled, his ears turning red. “That’s not fair—”

“What’s not fair,” Charlie growled, stepping closer, “is what you did to Hermione. What you both did.” He pointed toward the hallway, his tone like steel.

Ron opened his mouth to argue, but the sound of Lavender’s footsteps cut him off. She re-entered the room, now dressed in a robe that covered her fully, her expression guarded. “What’s going on here?”

Charlie and Bill didn’t look at her directly, their focus pinned on Ron, but it was Bill who spoke first, his voice sharp as a blade. “What’s going on is that your boyfriend’s about to get a much-needed reality check.”

Lavender crossed her arms, her brows furrowing as she glanced at Ron, who looked as though he wanted to sink into the floor. “Ron?”

Bill didn’t wait for him to respond. “Sit down, both of you. We’ve got a lot to talk about.”

The tension in the room was electric as Lavender hesitated before sinking into the armchair, her face pale but defiant. Ron looked between his brothers, his fiancée, and the floor, before finally slumping onto the couch beside her.

Charlie leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, and fixed Ron with a stare that could rival any dragon. “We’ll start with this—what the hell were you thinking?”

As it turned out, Ron hadn’t been thinking.

Neither, it seemed, had his soulmate. Charlie clenched his jaw so hard it was a wonder his teeth didn’t crack. They really were made for each other, weren’t they?

Bill had laid into Ron first, telling him exactly what he thought of his brother’s actions. Several words were thrown around, from despicable, to abhorrent, and finally concluding that a brother that acted like that, was not a brother of his.

That shut Ron up quickly enough.

Lavender, however, didn’t have the good sense to stay quiet. She leaned forward, arms crossed, her tone teetering between defensive and downright smug. “Oh, please! Everyone knows the Prophet doesn’t print lies. And Hermione? She made eyes at him all the time. I saw it.”

Charlie snapped his head toward her, his voice cutting through the tension like a whip.

“You mean while they were in a relationship? Like for the last couple of bloody years?”

Lavender huffed, her cheeks pink with indignation. She muttered something under her breath, low and unintelligible.

But not low enough.

Bill, who had been refilling his tea at the counter, froze mid-pour. Slowly, he set the teapot down and turned to face her. His gaze pinned her in place, cold and sharp. “Say that again,” he growled, his voice low and dangerous.

Ron’s face went so pale it was almost green, and Lavender’s confident veneer crumbled. “It’s nothing,” she stammered, her eyes darting toward Ron for help that clearly wasn’t coming.

Bill didn’t flinch, didn’t even blink. He took two deliberate steps toward them, his authority palpable in the space. “Say. That. Again.”

Lavender’s mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out. She muttered something else to Ron, her hands wringing in her lap.

Charlie watched the exchange, one brow arched and fingers drumming on his bicep. Whatever was going on here, it was something big. Unfortunately, he hadn't the faintest what that blond girl had actually tried to say. Bill, however, clearly did, and judging by the look on his face, it wasn’t good.

Bill shook his head slowly, his expression darkening as his gaze flicked between Lavender and Ron. He turned back to Charlie, his voice tight with anger. “You’re not going to believe this,” he said.

But Charlie already knew it was bad, and that was enough. He didn’t need the details. He didn’t want details. So, he moved toward the door, his fists clenched at his sides, every muscle in his body coiled with barely contained anger.

Bill turned his attention back to Ron, his voice like ice. “Ronald Bilius Weasley,” he said, each word sharp and deliberate. “I came here tonight planning to knock some sense into you. To give you a chance to explain whatever this mess is.” He gestured vaguely at Lavender, who shrank further into the couch. “But cheating? On someone who’s practically family?” His voice dropped, laced with disgust. “That’s not just stupid, Ron. Together with your acts of the past few days, its despicable. And, it’s unforgivable.”

Ron opened his mouth, but Bill cut him off with a glare so fierce it might’ve petrified him on the spot.

“Until you grow a spine, apologize, and get your bloody life together, don’t bother calling. Any of us.”

Bill didn’t wait for a reply. He turned on his heel and followed Charlie out the door, slamming it behind him with enough force to rattle the frame.

The street outside was dark and quiet, a sharp contrast to the storm brewing in Charlie’s chest.

“Can you believe him?” Charlie growled, his voice low and venomous.

Bill exhaled sharply, his fists flexing at his sides. “Believe him?” he muttered. “I’m not even sure I recognize him.”

They walked in silence for a moment, the cool night air doing little to quell the heat of their anger.

“Hope he enjoys the mess he’s made,” Charlie finally said, his tone bitter.

Bill didn’t reply, but the grim set of his jaw spoke volumes.

The tension hung thick between them, almost choking, when out of nowhere, a burst of silver light shattered the stillness.

Charlie froze, his stomach lurching as the eagle patronus materialized before them, wings slicing through the dark with precision. His blood ran cold. There was only one person who ever sent that patronus, and it was never for good news.

“Anton,” Charlie muttered under his breath, just as the eagle opened its beak.

“Boss,” it said, its voice carrying across the street, urgent and clipped. “Poachers hit the reserve. It’s bad. Katya’s in the hospital wing.”

Charlie’s heart dropped like a lead weight into his stomach, but before he could even react, the eagle flickered, its light dimming as it spoke again, the distance of the message becoming painfully obvious.

“There’s...more,” it continued, the words cracking like glass. “Hermione—”

And then it vanished.

The silver light winked out as if it had never been there, leaving only the bitter cold and the silence, deafening in its finality. Charlie’s breath hitched, his mind scrambling to fill in the horrifying blank that the patronus had left behind.

Bill turned to him, his face pale but resolute, his hand gripping Charlie’s shoulder like an anchor. “We need to move. Now.”

Charlie’s fists clenched at his sides, his mind racing through a thousand possibilities, none of them good. The image of Hermione—the way she’d smiled that morning, her laugh echoing in the cottage—seared into his brain.

With a sharp crack, the world twisted, and Shell Cottage’s warm glow enveloped them. The scent of cinnamon and the distant crash of waves barely registered.

Charlie didn’t stop moving, his stride purposeful but frantic, his jaw tight with worry. His mind screamed one question louder than any other, drowning out even Bill’s voice behind him.

Where the hell was Hermione?

Chapter Text

The tugging behind her navel had barely subsided, before Hermione took in her surroundings. It was her first time arriving by portkey, and the edge of the reserve did not disappoint.

The sun stood high and unyielding in the Romanian sky, casting a blinding glare across the snow-blanketed reserve. Hermione’s boots crunched rhythmically against the snow as she crossed the wards, their familiar hum brushing over her skin like a whispered reminder as the smell of dragon fire and pine swirled around her: she was back.

Home.

Well, not home home, exactly, but close enough.

The reserve sprawled before her, wild and untamed, with dragons scattered around, enjoying the comfort of their pens. On her right, a Norwegian Ridgeback stretched its wings lazily, scattering embers into the crisp air, while on the other side, an Ironbelly dozed on a ridge, its silver scales catching the light. Here, in this chaotic haven, there were no accolades, no whispered rumors, no expectations to shoulder, and most of all, no damn Daily Prophet. Just dragons, smoke, and the endless rhythm of hard work and testing her ideas.

And somehow, for the first time in years, Hermione felt like she could breathe.

She still loved England, of course. Harry’s steadfast loyalty, Ginny’s sharp wit, even Ron still held a tiny special place in her heart as her first boyfriend—despite, well, everything. But the island had become a cage, too small to contain the restless energy that had carried her through war and beyond. The reserve, with its open skies and fiery inhabitants, had her place to be. To let it all go.

It had become her sanctuary.

And, if she was being honest, so had Charlie.

My girl.

The words hung in her mind like an unanswered question, spoken offhandedly just a few minutes earlier, tossed into the air as casually as a comment on the weather. Yet they had lingered, settling in her chest with a warmth that both thrilled and unsettled her. They had snogged. More than once, in fact. And if she had to follow the logic—and Hermione Granger always followed the logic—then yes, she supposed they were dating now.

Finally.

She wasn’t entirely sure how it had happened. Somewhere between late-night policy discussions, stolen glances over dragon pens, harsh reprimands over dragon fire, and quiet moments in a hotel room and the pub, they’d crossed an unspoken line. It still felt tentative, like balancing on the edge of something exhilarating and unknown, but it was there.

A roar broke through her thoughts, sharp and guttural, dragging her gaze toward a Hungarian Horntail pacing its enclosure. Its spiked tail whipped against the ground, carving deep furrows in the snow. The sheer power of it brought a small, involuntary smile to her lips. Dragons didn’t do subtlety, and Hermione found that oddly reassuring.

Much like Charlie, if she was being honest.

He’d likely be with Bill and Fleur by now, enjoying their little family with that maddening combination of confidence and playfulness that only Uncle Charlie could muster. Hermione’s lips twitched at the thought. Charlie Weasley, who could calm a raging Horntail with a few steady words but turned absolutely adorable when Bill’s kids were in the room.

Not that she was taking note or anything. Or secretLy drooling about it three Christmases ago, and wishing that Ron at least showed any of those romantic tendencies.

Unfortunately, her wish had come true just a bit too late. However, as she saw him cuddled up with Lavender just yesterday, she couldn’t help but note that that wish had transformed into her own personal nightmare.

Whatever attraction had been left between the two of them, it had flown away into the cold December night fleeing that disgusting display.

Shaking her head, she adjusted her grip on her bag and pressed on. There was work to do. Policies to refine, inefficiencies to eliminate, and an entire reserve to convince that she wasn’t just some Ministry lackey meddling in their affairs. And maybe, just maybe, she’d steal a moment or two (or fifty) with Charlie along the way.

The snow crunched louder beneath her boots as she approached the paddock, the sounds of the reserve—distant roars, shouted commands, and the hum of magic—growing clearer. Somewhere deep in her chest, a quiet contentment settled. The reserve was chaos, danger, and unrelenting work. But it was hers now.

And so, it seemed, was Charlie.

It wasn’t hard to spot Katya—her platinum hair stood out like a beacon against the charred stone walls of the dragon pen. She was inside, crouched low, murmuring something in Russian to a young Horntail who looked far too smug for a creature with smoke still curling from its nostrils. Hermione grinned. Typical Katya. She didn’t just handle dragons; she treated them like slightly oversized lap dogs.

“Katya!” Hermione called.

Katya’s head snapped up, her face splitting into a wide grin. “Hermione!” she squealed, abandoning her post without hesitation. The dragon huffed, clearly unimpressed with this sudden lack of attention, but Katya was already vaulting over the barrier. Before Hermione could brace herself, she was caught in a hug so tight it would’ve impressed Hagrid.

“Why are you here now? You say next week!” Katya accused, her broken English made sharper by her usual dramatic flair. “What happened? Did you miss me so much?”

Hermione rolled her eyes, but the smirk tugging at her lips gave her away. “Absolutely. You know me—can’t go a day without my Katya fix.”

Their reunion was loud enough to draw attention. Across the pen, Olav—built like a Viking but with the expression of someone perpetually unimpressed—paused mid-stride. He muttered something in Romanian, his tone equal parts amused and resigned, before clapping Anton on the back and giving him a shove in their direction. Olav wandered off to check the enclosures, but Anton took his time, strolling over with a lazy grin that promised trouble.

“Granger,” Anton drawled, letting her name roll off his tongue like it was dipped in honey. His darkened eyes gleamed with mock intensity as he approached. “What brings you here? Finally realized you couldn’t resist my charm and came to see what a real dragon handler looks like?”

Hermione crossed her arms, arching an unimpressed brow. “Oh, Anton. I’d say I missed you, but lying is frowned upon in most professional environments.”

He pressed a hand to his heart, staggering back a step. “Crushed. Utterly crushed. But you’re here now, and that’s what matters.” He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping as though sharing a secret. “Don’t worry—I won’t tell Charlie you’re secretly auditioning for an upgrade.”

Hermione’s laughter burst out before she could stop it, loud enough to send a couple of dragons peering curiously over the pen walls. “Anton, if you’re the upgrade, I’ll take my chances with a Horntail.”

“Ah, but would a Horntail serenade you with its dulcet roars?” He smirked, wagging his eyebrows. “I’ve been told my singing is legendary.”

“I’d rather be singed,” she shot back, shaking her head.

“Careful,” Anton warned, his grin widening. “Charlie might take that as foreplay.”

“Anton!” Hermione spluttered, swatting his arm as Katya burst into laughter.

“Enough!” Katya declared, stepping between them with an exaggerated sigh and a wicked grin. “Hermione tells us everything, but with vodka. By the waterfall. Is still Christmas, da?” She wiggled her eyebrows, “Time of sharing.”

“Subtle, Katya,” Hermione muttered, but her friend was already tying her hair back like it was a battle strategy.

Anton’s grin widened. “Waterfall and vodka? Sounds like you’re trying to get Granger tipsy enough to spill secrets about the boss. I approve.”

“Oh, please, I’m not even sure how you guys think something is going in there…” Hermione said, glaring at him. “And, I don’t need vodka to handle you two.”

Katya nudged her. “Something is definitely on, those looks in past months have said enough.”

Hermione sighed in exaggerated defeat. “Fine. But if either of you starts singing Christmas carols, I’m leaving.”

“Deal,” Anton said, slinging an arm around her shoulders. “No carols. Just a deep dive into your love life and a healthy amount of judgment.”

“Anton!” Katya gasped, feigning shock. “Is Christmas. We judge less.”

Anton laughed as they linked arms, leading Hermione out of the pen. “You’re right, Katya. We’ll just gently suggest to the boss that he proposes by New Year’s.”

Hermione groaned, dragging her hands down her face dramatically. “I hate both of you,” she declared, though the corners of her mouth twitched traitorously.

Katya, practically vibrating with glee, grabbed Hermione and Anton by the shoulders. “Hold tight!” she chirped, her grin wide enough to rival a Cheshire Cat’s.

“Great,” Anton deadpanned, casting a wary glance at Katya’s mischievous expression. “This feels safe. Definitely not how people lose limbs.”

“Oh, hush,” Katya said, already pulling the both of them into a hug, “this is perfectly safe. Only ever lost a finger.”

With the loud gasp of Anton, the world spun, leaving behind nothing but a faint pop and the sound of Hermione’s snickering.

The night was crisp, the air so sharp it could’ve cut glass. A full moon spilled silver light over the frozen waterfalls behind them, turning the jagged ice into something otherworldly. The evening came early in this part of the world.

Snow crunched under their boots as they huddled around a struggling little fire, more for show than warmth. Vodka did the real work.

Katya, curled up in her massive fur coat like some glamorous Russian crime boss, took a long pull from the bottle and smacked her lips. “So. Leather dress worked.”

Hermione pulled her own coat tighter, exhaling a breath that curled in the cold air. “Katya, I don’t think you fully grasp how disasters work. Part of his family cursed me out. Loudly. In unison. Like a very aggressive choir.”

Katya waved a gloved hand, unimpressed. “And he stood up for you. So. Dress worked.”

Hermione opened her mouth to argue, but Anton, lounging back in the snow like he was sunbathing, cut in first.

“She’s got a point, Gorgeous,” he said, smirking as he reached for the bottle. “That dress must’ve been something if the boss was willing to risk his life going against the Weasley matriarch.”

Hermione arched a brow. “Right. Because standing up for a friend is such an act of bravery. Herculean effort. Really.”

Katya made a noise in the back of her throat, but Anton got there first, grinning around the mouth of the bottle before taking a sip. “With them? Yeah. You ever met that mother hen? I spent summers there whenever Charlie needed a human shield—long story—but let’s just say, standing up to Molly Weasley is not for the weak.”

Hermione pursed her lips, considering this. Then, with a resigned sigh, she took the bottle from Anton and knocked back another swig. Damn it. He might have a point.

As the vodka burned its way down, another thought lodged itself in her brain.

“Wait. You’ve been to the Burrow?”

Anton shrugged, watching his breath mist in the cold air. “On multiple occasions.” Anton paused, his finger dragging through the snow, “I know I call him ‘boss,’ but we were firsties together. Dragonlets. That kind of thing sticks. Charlie always had a plan to come back home—until he didn’t. And that’s how I ended up at the Burrow, eating enough food to put me in a coma and learning to duck projectiles, both magicked or thrown in agner.”

Hermione huffed a laugh, watching the way the fire flickered against the ice. She could picture it.

Katya, ever Katya, grinned around the mouth of the bottle before passing it back. “So. You take advantage of his good feelings for you?”

Hermione choked. “No!”

A pause. “Well. Maybe?”

Anton let out a bark of laughter, shaking his head as he stretched out his legs. “Alright, Gorgeous, answer me this—did he do that thing with his tongue?”

Hermione, previously red from the vodka, turned an entirely different shade. “What—no—what are you even—”

Anton waggled his eyebrows. “Shame. Next time, ask him about it. Got some glowing reviews from past customers.”

Hermione groaned and buried her face in her scarf, but the truth curled in her stomach, warm and strange. Not hurt, exactly. Not thrilled, either. But Charlie had only kissed her. And still, somehow, she was "his girl."

Katya, ever delighted by scandal, nudged Anton with her boot. “You are terrible, Anton.”

Anton grinned. “You love me.”

Katya smirked. “I tolerate you. Because you bring vodka.”

“See? I have value.”

Hermione, still mildly dying of embarrassment, decided to steer the conversation somewhere—anywhere—else. “Alright, since you seem to know everything about Charlie’s past, what else should I be aware of?”

Anton hummed, stretching out like a man with all the time in the world. “Well, let’s see… once in our third year here, he got cocky enough to try impressing a woman by riding a dragon.”

Hermione blinked. “That’s not even surprising.”

Katya snorted, shaking her head. “Wait. You did not hear the best part.”

Anton smirked. “Oh, right. It wasn’t just any dragon. It was Vlad, the meanest, ugliest Hungarian Horntail this reserve has ever seen.”

Hermione frowned. She’d heard stories about Vlad. Mostly in the context of, ‘If you see him, run the other way.’

“…And?”

Anton’s grin widened. “And it was all to impress Keira Flynn, the dragon handler from the Australian reserve. You know, the one built like a goddess and meaner than half the beasts in the enclosure?”

Hermione raised a brow. “So let me guess—he tried, failed spectacularly, and ended up in the infirmary?”

“Oh, he didn’t fail,” Anton said, shaking his head. “He actually got on the dragon’s back. Stayed on for a full eight seconds. Man looked downright heroic.”

Hermione blinked. “That’s actually impressive.”

Anton chuckled. “Yeah. Until Vlad bucked him off straight into a pile of dragon dung. And before he could even get his dignity back, Keira walked right up, looked him dead in the eye, and said, ‘Eight seconds? Cute. I just really hope you last longer in the bedroom.’”

Katya let out a delighted shriek, nearly dropping the vodka. Hermione gasped, then dissolved into laughter, burying her face in her scarf.

“Oh, Merlin,” Hermione wheezed. “How did he even respond to that?”

Anton grinned. “Well, Charlie turned so red I thought he might spontaneously combust. Then, in a true moment of Weasley genius, he tried to argue his case.”

“Oh, no,” Hermione groaned.

“Oh, yes,” Anton said. “I believe his exact words were: ‘Trust me, Keira, I can definitely go longer than eight seconds.’”

Hermione lost it. Katya was fully crying, wiping tears from her eyes.

“And then—” Anton could barely get the words out, laughing so hard his shoulders shook. “Keira just patted his cheek and went, ‘Sweetheart, I’ll take your word for it. But if you ever wanna prove it, please do not call me.’”

Hermione was gasping for air at this point, clutching her stomach.

Katya, still giggling, took another sip of vodka before sighing dramatically. “Ah, Keira. That woman. Absolute delight.”

Anton smirked. “Oh? Did you have a little crush on her, Katya?”

Katya grinned. “A crush? No. Some very nice nights? Yes.”

Hermione choked on her drink. “Wait—you and Keira?”

Katya shrugged, all innocence. “She had a type. Apparently, I fit it better.”

Anton collapsed in laughter, shaking his head. “Oh, please tell me Charlie knows this.”

Katya smirked. “Oh, he knows. He found out when he tried to flirt with her again at a campfire party, and she just winked at me and said, ‘Sorry, Charlie, but you’re not my best ride on this reserve.’”

Hermione shrieked with laughter, burying her face in her hands. “I am never going to look at her and her research articles the same way again.”

Katya sighed happily. “Ah, I love romance stories.”

Hermione shook her head, cheeks aching from smiling. The fire crackled, snow drifted in lazy spirals from the sky, and for the first time in a long while, she felt… content.

Maybe it was the company. Maybe it was the vodka.

Or maybe, just maybe, it was the thought of Charlie, choosing her.

Interesting.

They decided to walk back to camp, the chilly night air biting at their cheeks. Apparating would’ve been faster—significantly—but, well… let’s just say no one wanted to risk splinching after demolishing an entire bottle of vodka. The bottle hadn’t survived the night.

Hermione’s dignity, though? Miraculously intact. Mostly.

“Do you think there’ll still be food in the canteen?” she asked, loosening her scarf as they trudged through the snow.

Anton snorted. “If we’re lucky, we might get the scraps they scrape off the cauldrons. Maybe a half-burnt bread roll if the kitchen elves are feeling generous.”

Katya sighed dreamily. “Burnt bread sounds good right now.”

“You ate half a bar of chocolate before we left,” Hermione pointed out.

“Yes,” Katya said, shrugging, “but that was pre-vodka. Entirely different stomach.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, but her lips twitched. She tilted her head back as they walked, gazing at the sky. The stars twinkled brightly, unpolluted by city lights, and her eyes instinctively sought Sirius’ constellation.

She smiled softly, murmuring a quiet prayer in her mind. I miss you, she thought, but for once, I’ve got good news to share. I’m happy, Sirius. Really.

Her chest felt light, warm even, despite the frost around them. For the first time in… well, forever, she wasn’t just surviving. She was living.

A distant roar from one of the dragons echoed through the reserve, followed by a chorus of grumbles and huffs. Dinner time for the big scaly beasts, too, apparently. Hermione shifted her jacket on her shoulders as they walked, the uphill trail warming her up faster than she expected. After another minute of trudging, she pulled off her jacket, then her sweater, sighing at the relief of cool air on her skin.

And that’s when it happened.

“Hermione,” Katya said, her voice uncharacteristically cautious. “Did you get hurt?”

Hermione glanced over, raising an eyebrow. “No? Why?”

Katya’s sharp gaze swept over her, lingering on her bare arm. She nodded, almost to herself, looking strangely contemplative.

Anton, ever nosy, reached out and traced a finger along her arm, up to her shoulder. “Huh,” he murmured.

Hermione pulled back slightly. “Okay, what’s huh supposed to mean?”

Anton tilted his head, squinting at her like she was an unsolvable riddle. “Thought I saw something. Guess it was just the light.”

Katya folded her arms. “I saw it too. A mark. Faint, but there.”

Hermione turned her arm this way and that, squinting at it. Nothing. “Maybe it’s just vodka eyes. You’re imagining things.”

Anton smirked, but his eyes remained on her arm, the teasing glint in them fading into something quieter. “Yeah. Sure. Imagination.”

The woods around them were unusually still, save for the occasional distant roar of dragons and the creaking of branches swaying in the wind. Hermione took a deep breath, the cool air biting at her lungs, but something in the back of her mind prickled. A nagging feeling she couldn’t quite place.

A twig snapped behind them.

She froze. Her head whipped around, her eyes scanning the shadowy treeline, but nothing moved. Just darkness and snow.

“What is it?” Anton asked, his voice low, alert.

Hermione shook her head, forcing a laugh she didn’t quite feel. “Nothing. Just thought I heard a sound”, she shrugged her shoulders, “must be the vodka messing with me.”

Katya squinted into the trees, clearly less convinced, but she didn’t push it.

Hermione shrugged off the tension, plastering a smile on her face. “Come on. Let’s move. I need my bed, and Salt and Pepper are probably wondering where the hell I’ve been.”

They started walking again, but the woods didn’t feel quite so quiet anymore. Hermione couldn’t shake the feeling that something—or someone—was out there. Watching.

She quickened her pace, the others falling in step behind her. The firelight of camp wasn’t far now. Just a bit farther, and she could collapse into her bed with her beloved cats and sleep off the vodka haze.

Another snap. Closer this time.

She stopped mid-step, her breath catching in her throat.

Anton and Katya froze behind her, the silence between them thick enough to choke on. The distant dragon roars suddenly felt too far away, the reserve’s usual nighttime noises swallowed by something… heavier.

“Alright,” Anton whispered, his wand slipping into his hand. “That wasn’t vodka.”

Hermione’s heart thudded against her ribs as she turned her head slowly, scanning the dark treeline. Her fingers tightened around her wand.

In the distance, a faint rustle. Then another snap. Closer.

She didn’t wait to see what it was.

It didn’t seem Anton wanted to either. His voice was low, authoritive. “Run.”

And run, they did.

The world blurred around them as they ran, breath clouding in the frigid air, boots pounding against the snow-packed ground. The dragons roared in the distance, but their cries were drowned out by the shouts behind them—their hunters were closing in.

And before they knew it, the equilibrium shifted.

Katya let out a strangled gasp as her legs locked beneath her, her body jerking like a puppet with cut strings. She hit the ground hard, snow spraying around her as she sprawled.

“Slicing jinx!” Anton hissed, already skidding to a stop.

Hermione whirled back. “Katya!”

Katya groaned, pushing herself up on trembling arms. “Go,” she bit out, but her face twisted in pain when she tried to move.

Anton crouched, gripping her arm. “Not happening.”

A red streak of light shot toward them. Hermione barely had time to think before she slashed her wand through the air.

A silent Protego. A spell she could do in her sleep if need be, and currently, the need was definitely there.

The dark curse shattered against the shield, the impact rattling her bones.

“Anton, get her out of here,” she ordered, snapping her head toward him.

Anton didn’t move. “I don’t take orders, Granger.”

“Then consider it a very loud suggestion!”

Another curse sizzled through the air, barely missing Anton’s head. He growled and flicked his wand, sending a retaliatory blast into the trees. The spell hit something—a poacher yelped in pain.

“Five of them,” Anton muttered, eyes scanning the shadows. “We’re boxed in.”

“Brilliant,” Hermione snapped, yanking Katya up by her arm. “And here I was worried tonight would be boring.”

A shadow moved to her left. Hermione pivoted, wand slashing again. “Bombarda!”

The explosion sent snow and splinters flying, a figure toppling backward with a shout. But there were more. Too many.

“Anton, go!” she shouted, as she put Katya in between the two of them, barely dodging a sickly green curse.

“You go,” Anton countered, blasting another hex toward the attackers.

Hermione growled. “Anton—”

She had too much too drink to Apparate. Let alone carry an injured Katya with her. But before she could argue her case, a sudden swirl of smoke erupted beside her.

Hermione felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise. She knew that kind of Apparition.

“MOVE!” Katya screamed.

Hermione barely had time to shift before a Crucio cracked through the air where she had stood.

Katya anticipated quickly, wand flashing. “Depulso!”

The poacher flew backward, smashing into a tree with a sickening crunch. But the victory was short-lived—another figure emerged from the smoke, wand slashing.

A red streak—then a flash of silver.

Katya gasped. Blood sprayed against the snow as the slicing curse cut across her ribs.

“Katya!” Anton lunged, catching her before she could crumple.

“Bad…” Katya wheezed, her knees giving out. “Very… bad…”

She sagged, unconscious.

Hermione’s stomach clenched, as she quickly ran through some very basic healing spells.

Katya remained unconscious.

Six against two.

Fuck.

She barely had time to process it before another curse was flying toward her, forcing her into a roll through the snow. Anton blasted another attacker back, but they were being pushed toward the cliffs—toward the stronger dragons’ enclosure.

No.

She turned to Anton, the calculation already made. “You need to go.”

Anton’s face darkened. “Not happening.”

“You have to,” Hermione insisted, grabbing his arm. “Close the inner wards—the weaker dragons can’t take this kind of fight, and they will go for them.”

Anton hesitated.

Hermione didn’t.

She grabbed the front of his robes, yanking him down so their faces were inches apart.

“Anton. You have to go. If you stay, we all get overpowerd, and the poachers get through. Do you understand me?”

His jaw clenched. His gaze flicked to Katya—blacked out and under any circumstances too injured to run. He saw the odds, the inevitable end.

“Close the wards. Get Katya to the hospital ward,” Hermione repeated, softer this time. “Please.”

He let out a slow breath. Then, with a tight nod, he knelt, grabbing Katya’s limp form and gripping his wand.

“Don’t die, Granger,” Anton muttered, his voice low but firm, his grip tightening briefly on Katya as he adjusted her limp form.

Hermione smirked despite the icy dread crawling up her spine. “No promises.”

The crack of Apparition rang out, and they were gone.

The sudden silence pressed against her ears, broken only by the crunch of snow beneath approaching boots.

Six of them.

Hermione stood alone now, the dark woods around her alive with the shadows of her enemies. Frosted branches above creaked with the weight of fresh snow, and somewhere in the distance, a dragon roared—a deep, rumbling sound that echoed through the night.

The poachers stepped into view, their wands raised, their faces split into sneers. One of them—a tall, wiry man with a jagged scar cutting across his cheek—laughed, his voice as sharp as the cold.

“Alone, are we?”

Hermione tilted her head, a slow, dangerous smile spreading across her face. She flexed her fingers around her wand, the crackling hum of her magic already sparking at her fingertips. Her hair began to lift ever so slightly, static curling in the air around her like an invisible storm.

“Not really,” she said, her tone light, almost flippant. She gestured lazily behind her. “I’ve got some dragons watching my back. Pretty sure they’re rooting for me.”

The man’s grin faltered, but he recovered quickly. “Bold words for someone who’s outnumbered.”

She barked a short laugh. “Oh, I’m not bold. I’m pissed off.”

And then she moved.

Magic tore through the night as her wand slashed through the air. Diffindo. Confringo. Expulso. Sectumsempra. Each spell cracked like a whip, tearing through the silence with brutal precision.

One poacher howled as a Diffindo ripped across his wand arm, sending blood spraying onto the snow. Another dove to the ground just as a Confringo detonated against a tree trunk, shards of bark and fire flying in every direction.

Hermione didn’t stop. She was a blur, her movements sharp, deliberate, unrelenting. Her magic burned hot, fueled by adrenaline and fury, as if the world itself had shrunk to this one moment.

A curse zipped past her cheek, close enough to singe the edge of her hair. She spun, wand whipping toward her attacker.

“Stupefy!”

The man dropped like a stone.

She was holding her ground, pushing them back step by step, when the scarred man snarled, his wand arcing in a vicious slash.

“Crucio!”

Pain like white-hot knives exploded through her. Her knees hit the snow, her wand slipping from her fingers as her body convulsed.

She bit down on her scream, tasting blood as it flooded her mouth.

The scarred man strode toward her, his wand still aimed. “That’s more like it. Didn’t anyone teach you, Mudblood? Heroes always die alone.”

Her vision swam, her body trembling under the relentless agony.

But Hermione Granger wasn’t anyone.

With a raw, guttural growl, she forced her to reach out; her fingers touched the end of her wand, gripping it so tightly, it shook as she raised her hand.

“Depulso!”

The blast sent him flying backward, crashing into a tree with a bone-crunching thud.

Hermione staggered to her feet, her legs unsteady, her breath coming in ragged gasps.

Another curse came—Reducto—and she barely managed to cast a shaky Protego in time, the force of the impact sending her stumbling.

Her arm burned as another slicing hex found its mark, her arm seared, liquid pooling down her skin.

Too many. Too fast.

She blinked hard, her vision blurring, her magic sputtering.

Not yet.

Her wand trembled in her grasp, blood dripping from her hand, staining the snow beneath her. It burned, the raw magic coursing through her veins, but she didn’t stop.

She couldn’t.

Anton and Katya were safe now. The dragons, the reserve, they were all counting on her.

She lifted her wand one last time, her voice barely a whisper, but filled with steel.

"Protego Maxima. Fianto Duri."

The air shimmered as the ward rose behind her, sealing the path. A final act of defiance.

A poacher cursed—furious, frustrated—but Hermione’s vision was already fading. Her legs buckled, her body collapsing into the snow.

As the darkness pulled her under, the faint roar of a dragon echoed in the distance.

Good.

She’d bought them time.

Then everything went black.

Chapter Text

Midnight found the Weasley brothers trudging through the snow, their boots leaving a trail of slush and bad decisions as they shoved open the heavy doors of Gringotts.

The place was as quiet as it ever got—no yelling, no clinking gold, just the low murmur of goblins counting things they’d counted a thousand times before. Goblins didn’t do late-night meetings out of goodwill, but when you had one brother who worked for them and another who had lost all sense of self-preservation years ago, exceptions could be made.

Charlie’s jaw was tight enough to crack, fingers flexing, restless. The sconces flickered overhead, throwing shadows across the marble, but he barely noticed. He could hear the words still—half a sentence, a voice gone sharp, and then nothing. His breath ran short. He adjusted his pace.

Bill moved like nothing was wrong. Like they weren’t about two steps from running. He strolled ahead, loose-hipped and easy, a man either supremely confident or in complete denial. He nodded at one goblin, winked at another, and tossed out a breezy, "Evening, Fargun. Loving the new gold tooth."

Charlie’s steps hit harder against the stone, his voice edged with something he didn’t have time to name. “You think waltzing in here at this hour is a good idea?”

Bill barely glanced over. “‘Course not. That’s why I’m striding.”

Charlie’s fingers twitched. He exhaled, slow, even. “Bill.”

Bill’s pace didn’t change. “We’re moving, aren’t we?”

Not fast enough.

“It’s past midnight, Bill.” And it had been more than three fucking hours.

Bill’s grin was sharp. “Which means it’s technically morning. And we should really get to the reserve.”

Charlie swallowed back something sharp, something that had been pressing against his ribs since the moment Anton’s voice had cut off. “Yeah. That reminder helps. Thanks, man.”

Bill only shrugged, already angling towards one of the desks like he had a mission.

A few nods here, a raised eyebrow there, and before Charlie had even wrapped his head around it, they were being ushered into an office that smelled like old parchment and unresolved grudges. A chandelier overhead dripped light onto the vast desk where Fahrrod, Bill’s boss, regarded them with the kind of expression that made dragons reconsider their life choices.

“So,” Fahrrod said, voice as sharp as the tip of his phoenix feather quill, “you need a Portkey?”

Charlie’s nod was too curt. His shoulders were tight. His pulse was a hammer in his throat.

Bill, of course, was eloquence itself. “Yes, that would be wonderful. Just a quick one-way trip to Romania. We’ll handle the return journey ourselves, as is customary.”

Fahrrod’s gaze was slow, considering. “And this is, I assume, for family?”

Bill nodded. “A friend. Sister more like it. She’s practically family. And when a Weasley gets the distress call, we go.”

Charlie wasn’t listening. He was watching Fahrrod’s hands, waiting for him to conjure the portkey, waiting for him to move.

The goblin, mercifully, seemed to sense that time was not a luxury. He pushed a beautiful, ancient quill across the desk.

“This will take you anywhere. Use it to return as well. We can’t afford to be without one of our best curse breakers for too long.”

Bill blinked. “Oh. Well. That’s—bloody hell, Fahrrod, are you feeling all right?”

Fahrrod ignored him. “Needs must. As usual, the incantation activates it. State your location clearly. Standard procedure.” Fahrrod looked over his glasses, holding Bill’s gaze. “You know the words, Weasley. Take what you must, leave what you can, and return in one piece.”

Bill nodded, and the three men stood. The wood creaked under their steps. Charlie was already halfway to the door when Fahrrod spoke again, this time with a rare smirk lurking at the edges of his lips.

“William,” he said, in a tone that made both brothers pause, “see to it that Miss Granger returns safely. Word has it Romania has suited her, and frankly, we’d rather she stay to play with her dragons there. Rabornuk is still recovering from the last time she breached our security measures.”

Charlie’s stomach went tight. His head snapped to Bill, who had the audacity to smirk as he walked straight toward the front door.

“What the hell was that about?”

Bill pocketed the quill and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “That, dear brother, is a story only Hermione should tell you.”

Charlie narrowed his eyes. “That bad?”

Bill’s smirk widened. “Oh, you have no idea.”

Charlie held out a hand, fingers brushing the soft feather.

Hippogriff. Special. Expensive.

Bill twirled the quill between his fingers, then muttered the incantation.

The last thing Charlie saw before the world twisted and pulled was the knowing grin and a hint of worry on his brother’s face.

Then, in the blink of an eye, the world pulled them under.

Two thuds and a soft crunch of dragonhide boots later, Bill and Charlie landed just outside the inner reserve.

Not that the dark night, distant dragon roars, or trees gave any indication they were at the edge of their destination instead of where they were supposed to be.

The only reason Charlie knew for sure they were off-mark was because something was missing. The low, ever-present hum of the inner wards—his wards—was gone. The back-of-the-skull static, the feeling of magic curled just beneath his ribs, the awareness of where each intricate protection began and ended.

It should’ve been there. It wasn’t.

Charlie moved before his brain caught up, fingers flexing around his wand, weight shifting forward, scanning—

His magic reached out, and a few meters in front of him, it hit the soft memory of the wards. Intact. Just… hesitant. Hardened. Like a locked door that should’ve swung open without question.

Bill, being the observant, terrifyingly competent cursebreaker that he was, took exactly three seconds to catch on.

“Charlie,” he said, slowly, “did you change the wards?”

Charlie shook his head once.

Bill’s eyes narrowed. “Something stopped us from keying straight to the hospital. That should not be possible. Fahrrod knows the reserve’s defenses inside out—Portkey access should be clean. I’ve shown up here hundreds of times, and—”

Charlie wasn’t listening. He was already stepping forward, wand flicking in a sharp, practiced motion.

The moment his foot crossed the threshold, something shifted—a subtle, almost imperceptible difference in the air. Like the reserve had been holding its breath and just let it out.

It let him in.

“Bill,” Charlie called over his shoulder. “Come on.”

Bill, ever the professional, was not a fan of blindly stepping into things. He took a second longer, examining whatever invisible mess they’d just landed in. Charlie could see his brother’s training kicking in, mind running through at least six worst-case scenarios.

And then, just like that, Bill stepped forward.

Nothing stopped him.

“Strange,” he muttered. “That we can just… go in.”

Charlie didn’t have time for academic curiosity. He was already moving.

"Bill, hold on."

And with one sharp motion, Charlie threw an arm around his brother.

Before Bill could protest, before either of them could think—Charlie turned on his heel and Disapparated.

Straight to the hospital ward.

Charlie’s stomach clenched as a familiar calm slid over him. A steadying breath, the slow roll of control settling in his bones. It always happened like this—when the chaos hit, when dragons raged or storms crashed down, something inside him stilled.

Tonight was no different.

The moment their feet touched solid ground again, Charlie let go of Bill and took in the waiting room.

Small. Functional.

It reminded him of Hogwarts’ hospital wing—rows of stiff chairs, a stack of old Prophet issues no one read, and the thick scent of antiseptic layered under the unmistakable iron tang of blood. Three doors lined the back wall, each leading to a different kind of hell.

He was debating which one to open first when the wooden door of Treatment Room Two swung open.

Anton stepped out.

His blond hair, usually neat, was streaked dark. The sharp, acrid scent of dried blood clung to him, thick enough to taste. His cheek bore a jagged slice, still raw, but it was his eyes that stopped Charlie cold.

Dull. Hollow. Like he’d watched something shatter and didn’t have the breath to speak.

Charlie's chest went tight. Something ugly curled low in his stomach, sharp as dragon claws. Before Anton could say a word, Charlie was already moving..

Two strides and the space between them vanished. Anton barely hesitated before gripping Charlie's jacket, fingers curling like he needed something—anything—to keep him standing.

Charlie felt Bill’s eyes on them, standing back, letting it happen.

He wanted to ask. Needed to ask. Where was Hermione? Was she alive? What the fuck had happened out there? How were the wards still intact? Where were the poachers?

Beneath Charlie's ribs, something gave. A slow crack. Like something inside him had just lost its footing.

So he didn't ask. He just held on.

But Anton’s shoulders jerked—silent, shaking—and the words never came.

A thick swallow. A breath that barely made it out. Then—

“I am so sorry,” Anton croaked.

Charlie clenched his jaw. “You’re not the one who needs to be apologizing.”

Anton didn’t answer.

A chair scraped against the floor. Bill, ever practical, reappeared with three cups of tea, pressing one into Anton’s hands.

Anton blinked at it.

Bill huffed. “It’s not a poison, mate. Just tea.”

Anton exhaled sharply—half a laugh, half something more broken—and nodded, gripping the mug like it might keep him upright.

Charlie sat down, fingers tight around his own cup. “Talk.”

Anton stared into the tea as if it had answers. Then, slowly, he started. Telling them about how they had been drinking, celebrating Christmas in true reserve style.

“We couldn’t Apparate,” he said. “We were in no state to. So, we walked. Just like always.”

Charlie gave a tight nod.

“I sobered up quick,” Anton went on. “The girls, too. Well—Katya tried. Hermione, obviously, had her shit together faster than the rest of us.” A pause. “Shorter legs, though. Slower process.”

Bill snorted.

Anton sucked in a breath, like he had to brace himself for the next part. Bill shot him a look, one that meant take your time, but Charlie didn’t have time.

Anton’s fingers flexed around his mug.

“We were ambushed,” he said.

Charlie’s pulse pounded.

“Just outside the wards,” Anton continued, voice eerily calm. “Half a mile from Devil’s Corner. One second, we were talking, and the next—we had to run. They were everywhere. And then they got Katya.”

Charlie swore under his breath.

Anton’s lips twitched upward. Just barely. “Hermione is a menace,” he muttered. “She held them off. We all did. But when they hit Katya again, she—” His throat worked around the words. “She had to get out.”

Charlie’s stomach curled.

“I wanted to stay,” Anton admitted.

The pause that followed was deafening.

“But?” Charlie pressed.

Anton hesitated.

Then—softer—“I left,” Anton said. “With Katya. We Apparated—barely. I got us as close as I could. Walked the rest.” A sharp breath. “Carried her, more like.” A beat. “Dennis took over when we got here. Katya was critical, so I sent the Patronus.”

Charlie nodded, jaw locked, fingers flexing around his mug like it might keep him from snapping.

Anton shifted, gaze dropping. “And that’s when the blood wards went up.”

The room went still.

Bill, mid-sip, choked on his tea so hard it nearly came out his nose. “Blood wards?”

Anton nodded, rubbing a hand down his face. “The second the Patronus cut off, the whole reserve—everything—lit up like the fucking sun.” He exhaled sharply. “I mean, I’ve seen ward reinforcements before. Hell, I’ve seen you and Charlie tinker with them. But this—this was something else.”

Charlie narrowed his eyes. “Define something else.”

Anton huffed. “For starters, the entire perimeter flared gold—bright, like midday summer sun bright—then it shifted, deep red, pulsing like a heartbeat.” He gestured vaguely. “The air cracked, like something had been ripped open and then stitched back together stronger than before. And then came the best part.”

Bill, still looking like someone had slapped him with a cursed artifact, muttered, “There’s more?”

Anton scoffed. “Oh, yeah. Just a few minutes later, I apparated to the border, to see if I could find her. Help her. Do anything, really.” Anton's fist clenched as he took a deep breath, the grove between his eyes deepending. “I didn’t find her. Instead, when I walked across the edge of the wards, every single rune stone I encountered was bleeding.”

Charlie blinked. “Bleeding.”

Anton nodded, lips pressing together. “Not a metaphor. Actual red streaks running down the stones like they’d been carved out of flesh. You know how normal wards hum? This one throbbed. You could feel it, right under your ribs. Like it was…” He hesitated, then gave a dry, humorless chuckle. “Like it was alive, until it settled a while ago.”

Bill swore again, running a hand through his hair. “Fucking hell.” His voice dropped into something halfway between awe and horror. “She didn’t just reinforce the wards. She re-coded them. That’s—” He blew out a breath. “That’s war magic. Old war magic. The kind they don’t even teach anymore because of how it backfires when done wrong.”

Charlie’s grip on his mug went white-knuckled. “So, what you’re saying is—”

Bill’s gaze flicked up, sharp and knowing. “She laced the entire reserve with her own blood, locked it to her life force, and turned this place into a magical fortress that won’t let anything—anything—through unless it wants it there.”

Charlie’s stomach sank. “Which means—”

Bill’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “As long as the blood wards hold, she’s alive. But if they collapse—”

Charlie exhaled through his nose. “Then we’re too late...”

One breath. Two breaths.

"... and this reserve just becomes one big bloody tomb."

Bill shot him a sharp look. “That’s not how blood wards work, Charlie.”

Charlie didn’t give a shit about the logistics. What mattered was that Hermione had clearly made a last stand. One that shouldn’t have been possible.

Anton let out a slow, steady breath. “She’s a bloody menace,” he muttered. “I knew she fought in the war, but—” He shook his head. “For a second, I really thought we… or she could make it out.”

The room tightened.

Anton’s jaw tensed. His knuckles went white against his mug.

And then, quietly—

“At least until that motherfucking Death Eater showed up.”

The words echoed in his brain.

Charlie's pulse slammed against his ribs, while his fingers gripped his oak wand.

No. No, no, no—

The air in the room turned razor-thin.

Charlie swallowed. His voice, when it came, was quiet. Dangerous. "Who".

Anton exhaled, slow. Heavy. And then—just once—his gaze flicked toward Charlie’s hands. Charlie followed the glance. His fingers, white-knuckled, now fully clenched around his wand.

The answer hit like a curse.

Fuck.

They needed a plan. And a bloody marvelous one at that.

Chapter Text

Pain didn’t so much greet Hermione, as it grabbed her by the collar and shook her like she was Salt and Peppers' favorite chew toy.

Not that that was surprising, really.

First, came the sharp, insistent kind that drilled into her skull and left a hollow intense drum in its wake. Then, the coppery taste of blood—thick, cloying, coating her teeth like a solid mouth guard. Her head tipped forward, too heavy to hold up, and for a moment, the darkness seemed like the polite choice.

Breathing wasn’t much better. Her nose was blocked—swollen, broken, who knew. Her wrists stung where the metal bit in, and her ankles were strapped down so tight they might as well have been part of the chair. She shifted her shoulders. A fresh bolt of agony licked up her spine.

Fantastic.

Her eyelashes fluttered, her body trying to boot up, but the pain was in charge. Nausea hit like a sucker punch, and before Hermione knew it, she was out again.

Round two came in waves. Throbbing skull, pounding pulse, a fog of voices slithered through her haze. Male voices. Ugly voices. The kind that stuck to your skin like grease.

“—stupid little bitch—”

“—not bad looking, for a mouthy one—”

A smack. Hard, wet, ugly. Laughter followed, curling like smoke.

Then, another voice, half-amused. “That other one though—fuck me. Blondie’s got a pair on her, huh?”

A growl ripped from her throat, shredded and hoarse, but enough. Enough to make them pause.

“Oh, looks like the little hellcat’s awake.”

Hellcat. Cute. Like she was some scrappy alley thing they could kick around for fun. If she had her wand, she’d have turned them inside out and made them watch.

She blinked, willing her vision to clear. No luck. Just a smear of light and shadow, the world shifting and unreliable, every shape blurring at the edges. But the voices—those, she could still hear. And that was enough.

She spat in their direction. Didn’t hit anything—of course she didn’t, she could barely see—but she registered the wet splatter, the way her own breath tasted like metal.

A pause. Then, a chuckle, low and thick with amusement. “Well, well, little kitten. This is no way to treat your superiors.”

The words slid greasy over her brain. Foreign, but familiar. A fishhook to the gut. She knew that voice.

She just couldn’t fucking place it.

Hermione tried. Forced. It was like reaching for a thought underwater—slippery, shifting, impossible to hold onto. Instead, something wet trailed down from her nose to her lip, warm and thick. And once more, her head felt like dead weight, too heavy for her neck to bother supporting.

Somewhere distant, a sigh. The shift was subtle—less amused, more exasperated. Then a muttered curse, sharp and clipped, followed by the hurried thud of footsteps and the whisper of movement. A bloom of warmth spread against her skin—first her wrists, then her ribs—a creeping, insidious relief seeping into battered muscle and bone. She’d have appreciated it more if it didn’t feel like a setup.

The warmth lingered, magic humming low and steady, a half-hearted patch job, just enough to keep her from crumbling completely. Suspiciously convenient.

The breath she’d been holding finally slipped free, unsteady. Heat flooded her limbs, dragging her down into something soft and heavy, a lull of exhaustion she couldn’t fight. Her body listed forward, her grip on consciousness unraveling, the last thing she registered being a firm hand near her shoulder and a voice, low and almost amused.

“Tough little thing, aren’t you?”

Then, nothing.

Hermione woke up feeling… well, suspiciously good for someone who was certain she had been knocking on death’s door not too long ago. Her head didn’t throb, her vision wasn’t swimming, and the blinding light from the windows didn’t feel like a personal attack. Highly suspect.

She didn’t move, not yet. Just let her eyes drift, slow and careful, taking in the sorry excuse for a room she was in. There was dust thick enough to choke on, the kind of wood rot that probably housed a few undiscovered diseases, and—ah, there it was.

A man, stationed by the door, staring at her like he had been waiting for this very moment.

Three steps. That was all it took for him to close the space between them, the old floorboards whining under his boots. He was broad, mean-looking, with brown eyes that promised nothing good, and when he raised his hand, Hermione flinched before she could stop herself.

His grin was all teeth and decay. His breath foul. “That’s what I thought.”

Behind her, two others shifted, letting her know she wasn’t just blessed with his charming company. “Really,” she drawled, finding her voice, “you lot must think I’m terribly important, guarding me like this, with more than fifty percent of your manpower.”

The poacher snorted. “Half of us?” He shook his head. “Not even close.”

“Oh?” Hermione tilted her head, doing quick math. If they weren’t exaggerating, then that meant—

“So, why are you here?” she pressed. “I assume it’s not for the ambiance.”

The poachers exchanged looks before one shrugged. “Money.”

“Dragons,” another added. “This reserve’s stretched thin. But you got plenty o' eggs."

A scoff. Then the man continued.

"We’ve been trying to pull them outta 'ere for months.”

Hermione gritted her teeth. She was painfully aware of that.

“And not just eggs,” the first one continued. “Heartstrings, scales, eyes—hell, even dragon boogers’d fetch a pretty Knut if you knew where to sell ‘em.”

She barely had time to process the horror of that sentence before the man leaned in, his voice dropping to something almost reverent. “And that’s nothing compared to what he brings in when he gets what he wants.”

He.

The shift in tone was unmistakable, and Hermione latched onto it immediately.

“Who’s—”

The slap came fast and hard, snapping her head sideways. The taste of copper bloomed on her tongue.

“Shut up,” the poacher said, all mockery gone.

Hermione spat, red splattering against the floorboards. “Charming.”

They started arguing. Not about her question—no, that would make too much sense—but about what exactly to do with her.

“We can just get rid o’ her”, one of them spoke.

“No, the boss said otherwise”, the man in front of her grumbled, like he was personally offended by that idea.

“She’s worth more breathing,” one of the men behind her muttered.

Another chuckled, his voice distinctly English. She'd had not heard that voice yet. “Could at least make things a bit more interesting. Get her out of all that, if you get my meaning.”

Hermione scoffed. She certainly received the implications. Her eyes darted down, observing herself. Scarf, sweater—good.

Before she could even think to be relieved, both vanished, just like that.

She was left in her jeans and a thin spaghetti-strap top, the cold gnawing at her skin immediately.

“Oh, lovely,” she muttered, arms folding instinctively. “Let’s humiliate the hostage. How original.”

The nearest poacher backhanded her before she could say more. Her head snapped to the side, a slow burn building behind her cheekbone.

She exhaled sharply, gathering herself, then raised her voice. “You must be compensating for something if slapping a tied-up woman makes you feel—”

Another punch. Harder this time.

Fuck.

The man in front of her growled, stepping closer as Hermione's vision blurred. “You want to keep running that mouth?”

They were yelling now, and Hermione was just about to push her luck further when—

The door slammed open just as another fist collided with Hermione's cheek.

A rush of blinding light flooded in, too bright to make out anything, but she heard it—

A roar.

Screams. It made her head pound. Explode, even.

Something red blurred into view. The ground seemed to roar all around her. Then darkness swallowed her whole.

Consciousness drifted back in slow waves. Not like the first time, when pain had dragged her under like a riptide—this was softer, steadier. Her limbs felt lighter, her skull only throbbed instead of screamed. The familiar tingle of a healing spell hummed beneath her skin, smoothing out the worst of the damage.

She bit her lip. Sharp, bright pain bloomed where teeth met flesh. Good. She could still feel.

Her eyes dragged open, vision sluggish but clearing. The room sharpened, still the same dull, miserable-looking space—wooden walls, dim torchlight, the faint scent of damp and blood clinging to the air. Her curly hair stuck to her skin, half-matted with sweat and whatever else had seeped into it.

As the night had fallen, the voices had gone.

The poachers—gone.

Instead, someone stood in front of her.

Dark robes.

Not just any dark robes. Those dark robes. The ones that carried history, soaked in the blood of people she’d fought beside. The kind that should’ve been rotting in the dirt along with the bastards who wore them.

Her body went taut, breath hitching in her throat as her gaze traveled upward, cataloging details. Dark curls, sharp eyes, a jagged scar cutting deep across his face, like something had once tried to carve him out of existence and failed.

For a moment, time itself seemed to fracture, and her pulse stuttered. The recognition hit her like a wave—cold, suffocating, as if her own blood had turned to ice. The scar, the eyes, the familiarity of the presence that stood before her.

He saw her looking.

And he smiled.

Slow, sharp, like he had all the time in the world to enjoy this moment.

Something inside her went ice cold.

Then, just as quickly, it cracked open, and she was somewhere else—another place, another time. Fifth year. A darkened corridor, shouts, spells whipping through the air like lightning. A streak of violet light searing across her chest, dropping her like a marionette with cut strings.

Her skin prickled, old pain echoing beneath fresh wounds.

No.

No, that couldn’t be right. He was dead. Antonin Dolohov hadn’t made it out of Hogwarts alive. And this one—this man that had stood right beside him when he had cursed Hermione—of him, they’d thought the same.

Hadn’t they? Aberforth had made sure of it. He had sworn it.

Her stomach twisted.

The man shifted, his head tilting as though he could hear the thoughts screaming through her skull. Then, in a voice as smooth as silk and twice as smug, he spoke.

“Is this how you treat an old acquaintance, Miss Granger?”

Her blood ran hot. Boiled over.

Because now she knew.

Augustus. Rookwood.

In the bloody flesh.

It took Hermione a few minutes to pull herself together.

The ice clamping down on her limbs was slow to thaw, her breaths jagged as she wrestled with the primal urge to panic. But she forced herself through the motions—slower inhales, steady exhales—until the occlumency shields she’d built all those years ago on the run snapped back into place like a well-worn suit of armor.

Her mind was her own again.

And now she could properly take in the bastard in front of her.

Augustus Rookwood.

Should’ve been dead.

Was supposed to be dead.

Just like Dolohov. Selwyn. Yaxley. Bellatrix. And yet, here he was, standing in front of her with the easy arrogance of a man who had never spent a single sleepless night wondering if he’d survive to see the next sunrise.

Fear curled deep in her gut, but she shoved it down, locking eyes with him instead.

Steel met steel.

Rookwood’s mouth curved in something that might’ve been a smirk if half his face wasn’t pulled tight with scarring. His right eye was still the pale blue she remembered from the war, but the left had turned a murky brown where the damage cut through the iris. His lip barely moved on one side.

War left its mark on everyone, she supposed.

Another breath. Another second passed.

Then he raised an eyebrow—mocking, expectant.

Fine. He wanted to play? She’d play.

“Where am I?” Her voice came out flat, sharp.

Rookwood rolled her wand between his fingers, studying it like it might bite. “At our camp.”

“Who’s ‘we’?”

His smirk deepened. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“That’s why I’m asking,” she snapped, irritation flaring.

Rookwood chuckled, something slow and indulgent, like he was enjoying this far too much. “Mouthy. Guess the rumors weren’t exaggerated.”

Hermione bit down on the urge to bare her teeth. “Why am I here?”

“Ah.” He twirled her wand once before slipping it into his pocket. “That is the question, isn’t it?”

Hermione clenched her fists, the metal biting into her skin. “Again yes. Hence why I’m asking.”

That earned her another laugh, full-bodied and amused. “They were right. Hellcat might indeed be an applicable nickname.”

A shiver slithered up her spine, but she didn’t let it show. Instead, she tipped her chin up, meeting his gaze head-on, the way she had met every coward like him during the war.

Try me.

Rookwood’s magic shot out, although he stayed at a distance. Still, Hermione felt the sticky traces of it trailing her skin. A shiver went down her spine.

Rookwood held her stare for a long moment, then hummed under his breath. He pulled his own wand from his sleeve, flicking it in an easy, fluid motion. A thick, worn sweater materialized over her shoulders.

Hermione stiffened.

“The nights get cold here.” He tilted his head. “Wouldn’t want you to catch anything, little Kitten.”

Her fingers twitched against the fabric, heat flaring behind her ribs and blood pounding behind her eyes at the nickname.

Another breath. Another wave of calm.

Her voice came out even. “And why not?”

Rookwood stepped closer, just enough for the scent of damp wool and charred wood to curl in the space between them. His voice dropped, slow and menacing. “Oh, Miss Granger, don’t play dumb. We both know you’re useful.”

A pause. A beat. The air in the tent shifted, as Rookwood moved closer.

“You locked us out.”

Another step.

“And now, you’re going to lock us in.”

Something cold and sharp settled in Hermione’s chest. Her stomach turned.

What the hell did that mean?

She opened her mouth—to demand answers, to curse him, to do anything but stand there—but Rookwood beat her to it.

“Also,” he added, offhanded, as if he were discussing the weather, “it’s best we cover that tattoo of yours.”

Her brain screeched to a halt.

Tattoo?

What tattoo?

Rookwood’s gaze flickered to the strap of her top peeking out beneath the neckline of her sweater.

“These men aren’t civilized,” he said, almost idly. “And as much as it would please me to see you hurt, I can’t trust them not to take it too far.”

The corner of his lips turned up once more. “After all, it’s a tantalizing sight.”

His fingers reached out, and Hermione’s breath stuttered.

Her skin prickled with sudden awareness, her mind catching up, filling in gaps she didn’t even know existed. The weight of the fabric. The way he’d looked at her when he’d conjured it—the implication in his voice.

There was something there.

Something on her skin.

Something she hadn’t seen yet.

She swallowed hard.

And for the first time since waking up in this hellhole, as Augustus Rookwood’s fingers softly caressed the edge of her cheek, real panic threatened to take hold.

Chapter Text

The hospital bed had never looked that large before. Usually, it barely fit a grown person—more suited for singed eyebrows, bar brawls, and the occasional idiot who thought dragons responded well to “erratic energy.” But now, with Katya sprawled in the middle of it, the thing stretched out like a tundra, making her look unsettlingly small. Like someone had put a fragile little thing in the middle of a battlefield and hoped for the best.

Charlie shifted on the stool, which was less a seat and more a tool of psychological warfare. The kind that ensured visitors never stayed too long, because who the hell would willingly subject themselves to it? The last slivers of moonlight streaked across Katya’s hair, turning it silver. His fingers curled into a fist, which was better than the alternative—punching something.

Her leg was a disaster, swaddled in layers of bandages that weren’t doing a damn thing except showing off how much blood a person could lose and still be breathing. Same with her ribs. Dennis had stitched her up twice already, and while Charlie respected the guy’s effort, the results were about as effective as slapping duct tape on a sinking ship.

But hey, potions needed time to work. So, they waited.

Anton sat next to him, cradling a cup of chamomile tea like it held the meaning of life. Bill had shoved it into his hands—probably for the sixth or seventh time at this point—because in Bill’s world, tea fixed trauma.

To be fair, the reoccurring cups of tea had at least yanked Anton back from the void, but now he just looked exhausted. The kind of tired that came from staring at too many impossible things and realizing they weren’t going away.

Charlie probably looked the same.

Bill, for his part, wasn’t hovering. He wasn’t close to Katya, not like Charlie, Hermione, or even Anton. So instead of pacing like the rest of them, he’d made himself useful. At least, as useful as throwing spells at the perimeter and squinting at leftover magic signatures could be. Supposedly, he was trying to figure out what the hell had happened. Based on Bill’s previous shared stores, Charlie wasn’t holding his breath. Odds were, the wards wouldn’t tell him a thing. And so, he decided he wouldn’t want to get his hopes up.

Charlie inhaled deeply. Two hours. That’s how long they’d been here. Two hours of trying to piece together a story that refused to make sense.

There had been murmurs for years. Whispered warnings of a Death Eater poking around dragon reserves. Two years ago, Sweden had claimed they spotted a certain Augustus Rookwood, but the English Aurors—helpful as ever—had laughed it off and kept the information to themselves. Because why warn the people who worked directly with the dragons when you could just… not? Assuming it had happened, that was.

And acknowledging that a Death Eater had been sighted? Well, that wasn’t on the auror’s agenda.

So, when the Swedish reserve had reached out to all their European counterparts, Charlie had taken that report with a mountain of salt. The war was over. Done. Buried.

Except, according to Anton’s account, it wasn’t. And that was a problem.

A bloody big one.

Charlie’s boots crunched through the snow, the weight of three steaming coffee mugs making his knuckles ache. The cold bit through his coat, settled into his bones, but he barely noticed. His mind was elsewhere—twelve hours in the past, to be exact.

Almost twelve hours since Hermione vanished.

His wards weren’t supposed to fail. No, they were supposed to be ironclad, untouchable, a neat little ‘sod off’ spelled into the very bones of the reserve. Bill had designed them. Charlie had anchored them. That combination should’ve been enough to keep out poachers, thieves, and whatever other bastards thought they could waltz in and snatch what wasn’t theirs. But the poachers had gotten in anyway, had torn through the first line of defense, the outer wards, like it was parchment.

That alone made Charlie’s jaw ache.

The inner wards had one job: keep the dragons that couldn’t fight for themselves safe. They weren’t made for keeping things in. They were made for keeping things out. And yet, somehow, the poachers had almost slipped through, grabbed Hermione, and left him with nothing but twelve hours of silence and the gnawing certainty that if they knew what she had done, they wouldn’t be keeping her alive for long. But if they didn’t… why take her at all?

Yet, here they were, and she was gone.

A tight, ugly feeling coiled in his chest, but he shoved it down, buried it deep. Panic wouldn’t do him a damn bit of good. This was the kind of situation where he thrived, where every sharp edge of worry was turned into something useful, something that got things done.

He’d just come from the main building, where Thomas—the reserve’s director and self-appointed bearer of bad news—had wrung his hands over Hermione’s abduction, muttered a string of colorful curses about the news of poachers and a certain Death Eater... as well as the bureaucratic inefficiency he was now facing. But Thomas was nothing if not perisistent, and had promptly flooded his contacts in search of someone, anyone, who could take a second look at Katya and help them with the looming threat. It was Christmas, though, which meant half the people who could help were either unreachable or half a bottle into their holiday cheer.

The other half still weren’t convinced that their little ‘Death Eater story’ was anything more than a drunken dragon handler’s fever dream.

Official Auror backup under those circumstances? Unlikely.

Not that they could afford to wait. Or spare any manpower themselves. Not when the dragons still needed wrangling, and not when there were poachers stomping through the reserve like they owned the place. Thomas had, in an usual act of faith, given Charlie the go-ahead to track Hermione and find the bastards responsible. Within limits, of course—those limits being Bill and Anton, if Anton was up for it. Which, considering Anton was currently stomping a hole through Charlie’s tent floor, seemed likely.

The outer wards—although they'd been breached—curiously still held strong, keeping the biggest, meanest dragons contained—the kind no poacher in their right mind would mess with. The inner reserve, though? That held the smaller, weaker ones. The more tempting targets. And if last night’s attack was anything to go by, someone had tried to find their way in.

Katya had woken earlier, voice scratchy, hands shaking, but the story she rasped out was the same as Anton’s: ambush. Quick, brutal, and organized. Not the half-baked fumblings of some idiot looking for a quick payday.

Charlie clenched his jaw. The bastards weren’t just after dragons. They had taken her. And if they knew what she was capable of—what those blood wards meant—

He shoved the thought aside before it could sink its teeth in. He needed answers first. And that meant getting inside their heads before they got too far ahead.

Charlie moved through the snow, his tent coming into view like a promise—or a challenge, depending on how the rest of this morning went. The sight should’ve been comforting, but it only sharpened his focus, turning worry into something jagged and useful.

He was going to find the bastards who did this. Come hell, high water, or an extremely pissed-off dragon.

His boots crunched against the frost-laced ground as he reached the tent, ducking through the flap just in time to catch Anton pacing like a man trying to wear a hole through reality, another useless cup of tea clutched between his hands. Bill, meanwhile, had adopted his usual I will solve this mystery through sheer intimidation stance—palms planted on the wooden desk, glaring at a map like it had personally insulted Fleur and his children.

Charlie set the coffee down with the reverence of a man making an offering to the gods. “Alright. Updates. Bill, tell me something good.”

Bill grunted. Not a promising start. “Outer wards were breached, but whatever Hermione did? It worked.”

Charlie frowned. “Worked how?”

Bill waved a hand, the universal gesture for don’t ask me to explain shit I barely understand. “Poachers got in, might’ve even gotten out, but unless they force Hermione and have her personally undo her magic, nothing with bad intentions towards the reserve is getting through.”

Charlie dragged a hand down his face. “And how exactly did she pull that off?”

Bill smirked, something sharp and impressed glinting in his eyes. “Haven’t the faintest. Only seen this kind of magic in places in the middle of wars. It’s an extremely impressive feat of spellwork, as I told you last night.”

Of course it was. Hermione was an extremely impressive feat of spellwork wrapped in curly hair and an alarming amount of righteous fury.

Bill leaned back, arms crossing. “I’d need time to dissect the wards. Maybe some books from the goblins. If I can figure out the structure, I’ll know how she pulled it off.”

Charlie shook his head, impatience sharpening his voice. “That’s great, but we don’t have time to study this like a bloody history lesson. We need to move.”

Bill shrugged. “We could move. Or we could step right into a trap and get ourselves killed.”

Blue eyes met blue eyes. Stubbornness squared off against equal stubbornness.

Charlie exhaled hard, shoving the argument aside for now. Instead, he turned to Anton.

“And you?”

Anton stopped pacing just long enough to fix Charlie with the weary, hollow stare of a man who had just discovered tea did not, in fact, fix all of life’s problems. "We need a real plan. Because if those bastards come back, we can’t afford to be caught off guard again."

"Good news, then," Charlie said, crossing his arms. "Thomas is pulling every favour he has to get Katya a second opinion. He’s also called back all the handlers and requested a few Aurors from England. But until they get here, we’re it. And well, that might be a while."

Anton exhaled sharply. "Fantastic."

"Better than nothing," Bill said, eyes already back on the map.

Charlie handed out coffee, then flicked his wand. Light flared, and the map expanded midair, a glowing outline of the reserve and the Carpathian mountains unfolding before them. Thousands of square kilometers. Most of it buffer zones—nesting and hunting grounds as well as roaming space for the fully grown dragons that preferred the outer edges. The inner reserve was smaller, maybe fifty square kilometers, but that’s where the real work happened. Where they spent their shifts. Where the poachers had tried to strike.

And just outside of them, Hermione had gone missing.

Yeah. They were bloody fucked.

Anton moved first, jabbing a finger at a familiar spot—just a few kilometers outside the inner wards, near the southern border. "This is where I patronused Charlie. Where Hermione first found evidence of their presence."

A snap of his fingers, and a blue dot appeared.

"And this—" another snap, another dot, "—is where they attacked us near Devil’s Corner."

Bill circled the desk, gaze tracking the illuminated wards. A flick of his wand, and the lines of the inner and outer barriers flared bright. The pattern was obvious.

Charlie narrowed his eyes. "They’ve been circling."

Bill hummed. "They want something inside."

Charlie took a slow sip of coffee, letting the heat and caffeine carve through his exhaustion. "We found dragon scales south. But when the handlers checked the outer zones, nothing was missing and no dragons were hurt"

Bill’s expression sharpened. "So whatever they want? It’s here."

Charlie nodded. "Which means we’re running out of time."

From the corner of his eye, he caught Anton’s fingers tightening around his cup. Then—

"We need to get her back," Anton said, voice steady.

Charlie clenched his jaw. "Yeah. The question is—how?"

Bill’s ice-blue gaze cut between them before settling on the map, something cold and certain sharpening in his stance. “They left a trail. They must have. They’ve been circling the reserve for ages. Maybe not a magical one—we already know they were careful—but a physical one? That’s harder to erase.” His eyes flicked from Charlie to Anton, and then back to the map as he added, almost as an afterthought, “And they left dragon scales before.”

Charlie arched an eyebrow. “You think we can track them manually? In this snow?”

Bill smiled. Slow. Knowing. The kind of smile that meant someone else was about to have a very bad day. His gaze slid toward the tent flap, where something rustled just outside.

“No, little brother. But I have a feeling someone else can.”

Right on cue, Salt and Pepper slunk through the opening—except slunk wasn’t quite the word anymore. Charlie hadn’t seen them in a while, not since they’d started trailing after Hermione like her tiny, terrifying shadows. And, well. They weren’t so tiny anymore.

At some point, they'd decided to grow. Significantly.

The two creatures now stood at about the size of border collies, their sleek black-and-white scales catching the dim light as they stretched, sniffed, and fixed Bill with eyes gleaming with intent.

Bill’s grin stretched wider. “They miss their mummy.”

Charlie’s gaze flicked to the black-and-white forms of Salt and Pepper, their sleek bodies coiled tight with anticipation, eyes gleaming with something almost hungry. A slow, sharp smile tugged at his lips.

“Finally,” he murmured, rolling his shoulders. The tension in his chest didn’t ease—it shifted, the last pieces honing itself into something razor-sharp.

He downed the last of his coffee, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and set the empty cup down with a decisive thunk.

“Let’s hunt.”

The Apparition to the scene of the crime—because that’s exactly what Hermione’s abduction and Katya’s injuries felt like—was quick. The second Charlie’s boots hit the ground, his sharp blue eyes swept over the wreckage.

It was a battlefield.

Blood streaked the snow, dark and frozen. Scorch marks marred the trees, now scarred for the rest of their lives. A well-placed Bombarda had gouged out a crater, and splintered branches littered the ground like the aftermath of a storm.

Sunlight hit the carnage just right, making it all seem too vivid, too real. Anton had been right. This wasn’t just an attack—it was an ambush.

It was gruesome.

Charlie’s gaze snapped to Bill’s. His brother was already thinking the same thing.

He let out a sharp whistle. A few beats later, the soft roars of Salt and Pepper echoed through the sky. He couldn’t Apparate with them—too big now, too much trouble—but he’d told them to fly.

And, like clockwork, they had listened.

It was eerie, really, how those violet eyes always seemed to understand exactly what he meant. Special didn’t begin to cover it.

Anton gave a quick recap—not that he needed to. It was obvious where Katya had gone down. Where she’d fought. Where she’d bled.

Bill had already moved, making a beeline for a runestone at the far edge of the clearing—twenty meters back, right at the border of the inner wards. He muttered a string of incantations, hand hovering over the surface before he turned to Charlie, eyes gleaming with something sharp and impressed.

“She didn’t even touch the stone,” Bill murmured, as he made his way back to them. “Whatever she did? She did it through sheer will.”

Charlie exhaled, jaw tight. He wasn’t sure if that made him feel better or worse.

Before he could dwell on it, the sky shifted. Two stark silhouettes cut through the blue, banking hard before they landed—Salt and Pepper, moving as one, their sleek bodies folding neatly into the snow.

Pepper sniffed the air and whined, his frame pressing closer to Charlie’s. Salt, meanwhile, ignored them entirely, prowling toward the runestone with single-minded focus.

Bill quirked an eyebrow, his icy blue eyes following the silver dragon’s movements.

Pepper let out another, softer whine, and Charlie crouched, running a steady hand over the smooth black scales, from the ridge of her head down his spine. “It’s alright, love. We’ll find her.”

A sharp yip from Salt had Pepper snapping to attention. Without hesitation, she padded after her brother, tail flicking through the snow, leaving a clean, deliberate trail.

Anton narrowed his eyes. “What the hell…?”

The dragons prowled around the runestone, muscles coiled like springs, tails carving restless patterns in the snow. Their wings twitched—anxious, expectant—as if attuned to something unseen. Then, as if answering a silent call, they rose onto their hind legs in perfect unison, wings unfurling to their full span, silver and black scales catching the light in a dazzling display. Their eyes burned violet, locked onto the stone with an intensity that sent a shiver down Charlie’s spine.

No hesitation. No uncertainty.

Like they’d done this before.

Like they knew.

Charlie’s breath hitched. No bloody way.

Anton watched them for a long second, something unreadable in his expression. Then, he exhaled sharply, muttering under his breath, “That’s not… normal.”

It sure as hell wasn’t.

The three men observed the scene, completely enthralled as the dragons seemed to sway on their feet.

Then, suddenly—

Both dragons roared.

A surge of purple and blue fire erupted from Salt and Pepper’s throats, the flames twisting together in an eerie, synchronized dance before slamming into the runestone. The magic didn’t just catch—it devoured. The stone pulsed once, twice, then flared to life with a golden burst so bright that Charlie had to shield his eyes.

And just like that, the wards—Hermione’s wards—activated.

The air crackled, magic coiling and twisting like an unseen force was threading something back together.

Then—Hermione.

Charlie sucked in a sharp breath. She stood before them, pale, bloodstreaked, and barely upright, her wand trembling in her grip. The vision blurred at the edges, like it could barely hold itself together, but the exhaustion in her stance was clear.

Bill swore under his breath. Anton took a step forward, lips parting like he might call out to her.

Charlie barely heard him. His entire focus was on the image of Hermione standing in front of them. She looked… rough. Determined, but rough. Scratches marred her face where curses had nicked her skin. Blood spattered across her sweater and scarf, her shoulders heaving with exhaustion. A shaky Protego flickered to life in front of her, barely holding as she staggered back.

Something bright ricocheted off the shield with a vicious crack. Charlie instinctively turned to see where it had come from, but the vision had already shifted.

The scene lurched, and suddenly, the shadows moved—blurred figures swarming the periphery. Poachers. Their outlines were indistinct, but their penchant for bloodshed was crystal clear.

Two of them hauled up their fallen comrades, one slumped against a tree, the other sprawled motionless on the ground. She did that. Hermione. Barely standing, but still taking bastards down with her.

Charlie turned back just in time to see movement at the tree line. Another dark silhouette, robes pooling at the ground, face swallowed by shadow. The air around him bristled. Death Eater.

Hermione swayed, and his stomach clenched. Blood dripped steadily from her fingers, freezing into tiny crimson beads on the snow below. She looked like she had nothing left.

But then—

Resolve snapped into place across her face. Her lips parted, and though her voice was soft, the sheer power in it stole the air from Charlie’s lungs.

The final incantation fell from her lips as blood moved down her wand. The runestone pulsed gold.

Behind him, curses erupted from the poachers. Desperate. Furious. Useless.

And then she collapsed.

Charlie lurched forward. “Hermione!”

But she wasn’t really there. Only the echo of her was.

She hit the snow in slow motion, her knees buckling before her whole body followed. Her eyes fluttered shut, her breath a misty whisper against the cold. Before Charlie could reach her, before he could do anything, movement to his left caught his attention.

Rookwood.

The Death Eater’s shimmering form flickered in the illusion, eyes locked on Hermione’s unconscious body. His voice was clipped, authoritative. Unbothered.

“Escort them to the cabin. Then go—Mac, Johan—straight to Derobyn. We reconvene there. Phase three begins, whether they're ready or not.”

And then he vanished.

Along with Hermione.

The vision shattered.

Charlie’s eyes went wide, and for a moment the world froze—just a cold, brutal ache in his chest and the memory of Hermione’s collapse. Then, without warning, the dam broke. His fist crashed into the snow, a raw, angry burst of fury and grief that sent a spray of white powder into the air. His knuckles burned, and each throb was a reminder of everything he couldn’t save. For a few long, silent seconds, he only heard his blood rushing through his ears while the burn in his knuckles was barely able to take edge of his pain—until Salt and Pepper’s gentle touches forced him back from the edge.

Warm snouts nudged against him—Salt pressing into his shoulder, Pepper butting against his side with a low, anxious whine. Their presence grounded him. Barely.

Bill let out a slow, steady exhale that sounded a hell of a lot like he was restraining the urge to punch something. Anton, on the other hand, sounded like he’d just lost his entire grasp on reality.

“She… she saved us. She saved the reserve… they would’ve gotten through… We weren't... aren't... with enough to stop them”

No one spoke. The words hovered in the cold like an unspoken truth they weren’t ready to admit.

Then, Bill yanked Charlie up by the arm, steady and firm, and gave him a look that promised no patience for dramatics. “What the hell just happened?”

Charlie ripped his arm free and turned on his brother. “Why the hell don’t you tell us?” He threw an arm toward the still-glowing runestone. “How does a normal protection spell do that?”

Bill remained infuriatingly calm. “It doesn’t.”

Charlie bristled, his anger steadily rising like a drum thrumming in the deep.

“Oh, fantastic. That’s very helpful, Bill, thank you. Should we just pack it in, then? Maybe get a drink? Talk about our feelings?”

Bill exhaled through his nose, slow and deliberate, which meant Charlie was really starting to piss him off. “I don’t know how it happened, because it shouldn’t happen. That’s not how these spells work.”

Charlie let out a short, bitter laugh. “Well, then, maybe someone should’ve told her that.”

Bill pinched the bridge of his nose. “Look, we just got a lot of information, but are we any closer to actually finding her?”

Charlie exhaled sharply, shoving his hands through his hair. The vision still burned behind his eyelids—Hermione, falling, bleeding, fighting until the very last second. It left something thick in his throat, something too raw to name.

He turned to Bill, voice quieter this time. “She was barely standing.”

Bill’s expression didn’t soften. “I know.”

“And they took her anyway.” Charlie's hands curled into fists. “How do we even know she’s still—”

“Don’t,” Bill cut in, voice sharp as steel. “We covered this. She’s alive.” Bill paused for a moment, before he added a bit softer, “That spell though… how something so small could evoke something so deep and unearthing, it must hold some kind of clue or, hell, even knowledge”

Charlie’s chest rose and fell, breath ragged. His anger had nowhere to go, nothing to hit, so it curdled into something sharp and restless. His teeth ground together.

“No, Bill, we just saw her get fucking kidnapped,” he snapped, voice rising again. “But please, do continue to talk about how academically intriguing this all is.”

Bill took a step forward, gaze steady. “You can either yell at me or help me figure this out; because whatever happened here, we both know its bloody important. But please, pick one and move the fuck on.”

Anton, wisely, stood off to the side, looking like he was regretting every life choice that had led him to this moment, as his hands clutched the edges of the map he had brought from Charlie’s tent.

Charlie turned to him sharply. “You’ve been quiet.”

Anton didn’t answer. He stared at the map, but he wasn’t really looking at it anymore. His lips parted slightly, breath caught mid-inhale.

Pepper yipped, nudging Charlie’s arm insistently, but Charlie barely noticed.

“Anton?” Bill prompted.

A muscle ticked in Anton’s jaw. Slowly, he turned to face them, his voice quieter, but steadier than before.

“I think I might know where they went.”

Chapter Text

Charlie’s breath was still uneven. He could hear it in the silence that followed after Anton’s revelation. Too fast. Too sharp.

The vision had hit hard, knocking the air out of him in a way he wasn’t ready to admit. He could still see her, flickering behind his eyes—Hermione, barely standing, blood dripping from her fingers, casting magic that shouldn’t be possible. And then she was gone. Ripped from them.

For a moment, none of them moved.

Salt and Pepper, usually twitchy bundles of nervous energy, had gone dead still beside him. Not frozen in fear, not even tense. Waiting. Calculating. The sharp violet glow in their eyes hadn’t faded. That wasn’t normal. Not for them.

Bill’s hand dragged over his jaw, slow, measured—too measured.

And well, that? That pissed Charlie off. Not because he didn't know Bill’s tricks—He did. The tension in his fingers, the rigid line of his mouth. Bill was keeping something contained. Staying calm because that was what big brothers did in a situation like this—but it was also that same bloody calm that made Charlie’s insides twist. How could Bill stay calm when everything was crumbling around them?

Anton, for once, wasn’t running his mouth. Which meant he was either thinking too hard or waiting to see how this played out. Either way, it seemed that Bill’s copious amounts of tea had worked.

He was back to his usual cocky self. At least, somewhat.

Enough so, that he had dropped a nuclear bomb but didn’t elaborate. Yeah. Anton was definitely back.

Then, as if Charlie’d summoned the devil himself and without so much as a preamble, Anton flicked his wrist—a casual, almost lazy motion—and the map flared back to life.

Charlie flinched. Bill’s head snapped up.

Salt and Pepper didn’t move, but Charlie felt the pulse of something rip through them, like the air itself had just shifted.

Anton’s map—shimmering, eerie, and too bright against the shadowy forest they found themselves in—hovered midair, casting a strange glow over all of them.

Charlie barely had time to squint at the swirling mess before he caught Bill watching Anton, eyes narrowed. The look wasn’t suspicion, exactly. More like... fascination.

The same kind of fascination Bill usually reserved for an extraordinary drawing of Victoire or a ward that shouldn’t exist but somehow did anyway.

Anton, either blissfully oblivious or secretly enjoying the attention, flicked his fingers again. The map snapped into focus, zooming in fast—northern border, deep woods, jagged cliffs, the kind of terrain that turned search-and-rescue into search-and-mourn.

Charlie blinked. “You had something this whole time?”

Anton shrugged. “I had no idea. Not until your Krafttier decided to grace us with that fire show.”

Bill exhaled, slow and measured. Translation: he was barely restraining the urge to throttle Anton. “Let’s see it, then.”

Charlie glanced at the map, lips twisting. Anton’s area was large. Too large. Miles and miles of rugged terrain, steep cliffs, dark woods, and enough cursed history to make a Goblin archivist weep.

Real scenic.

“Well,” Charlie drawled, “that’s marginally better than total darkness. Got anything else, or should we all just hold hands and guess?”

Anton rolled his eyes so hard Charlie was surprised they didn’t exit his skull and make a break for it. “Stop it.”

Charlie lifted an eyebrow. Slow. Deliberate. An invitation.

Anton squared his shoulders, meeting Charlie’s gaze like he was about to drop some wisdom Charlie didn’t particularly want to hear.

In his periphery, Charlie caught Bill giving Anton a nod before stepping back.

Coward.

“You need a breather, mate,” Anton said, that crisp, level tone making it sound far too reasonable for Charlie’s liking.

Charlie scoffed, shoving a hand through his hair. “We do not have the bloody time.”

Anton stepped in, close enough that Charlie could count every freckle across his nose if he cared to. Which he didn’t.

Then, a familiar weight landed on his shoulder. Charlie glanced sideways. Bill.

Ah. The Weasley Special.

Step One: Tag team the idiot brother who refuses to process his own emotions.
Step Two: Annoy him into compliance.

Fantastic.

Bill’s face was unreadable, but his grip was firm—the kind of touch that wasn’t exactly restraint, but wasn’t not either. The kind that said, you are this close to making an incredibly stupid decision, and I am prepared to physically stop you.

Unfortunately, he knew that move all too well.

Anton’s voice softened, but the steel beneath it didn’t fade. “We’re all worried about Hermione. But you’re not thinking straight, and that’s dangerous.”

Charlie’s jaw clenched. His fingers ran absently over Pepper’s scales, the little bastard nipping at him like he was physically trying to drag him back to reality.

“Charlie.” Anton’s grip tightened. “You need a minute. That vision was intense, yeah. But losing your head over it isn’t gonna help.”

Charlie exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face before finally meeting Anton’s gaze head-on. “What do you mean?”

Anton ran a hand through his messy blond hair, eyes sharp with something Charlie hadn’t placed yet. “You didn’t recognize it.”

Charlie frowned. “What?”

Anton held his gaze for a long moment. Then—flat, unwavering—he said, “Derobyn.”

It didn’t click. It didn’t dawn on him like some slow revelation.

No.

It dropped, sharp and merciless, slamming into place like a blade between his ribs.

Derobyn.

His breath hitched. His stomach lurched. The snow beneath his boots suddenly felt too thin; the world tilting just slightly—and for a second he was afraid it might give way beneath him.

“Oh.”

Bill straightened slightly. “What?”

Anton smirked. “Oh, indeed.”

Bill exhaled, slow and careful, as he let go of Charlie’s shoulder and crossed his arms. The sudden lack of contact made Charlie feel weirdly unsteady, like he’d just been unplugged from something.

Bill’s voice was clipped. Focused. “Someone want to clue me in?”

Anton quirked an eyebrow at Charlie, a silent your turn, mate.

Charlie let out a slow breath, gaze drifting back to the map. His fingers traced the northernmost edge, where the land dipped into forgotten places.

Bill tapped his fingers against his forearm. “This century would be nice.”

Charlie exhaled sharply, then turned back to face him.

Blue eyes met blue eyes.

“The old ruby mine,” Charlie said, voice rough. “Up north. No dragons go near it—not since Grindelwald.” The words settled between them, cold and sharp. “They mentioned it. Somehow I didn’t place the accent.”

Bill’s face didn’t change, but Charlie knew him too well—the shift in his stance, the way his fingers twitched, the barely-there narrowing of his eyes.

Anton grinned. “Always happy to be of service.”

Charlie shoved the frustration down, locking onto the single thought that mattered:
They had a lead. A chance.

Whatever waited for them up north—Poachers, a wayward Death Eater, Grindelwald’s ghosts, dragons' worst nightmares—

It didn’t matter.

They were going in.

Big time.

That is, until someone coughed behind him.

Charlie went rigid. His eyes darted to the men in front of him, the both of them accounted for. Not Anton. Not Bill. And no one else should have been here. His fingers gripped the wand strapped to his thigh.

Salt and Pepper moved first—heads whipping around, bodies coiling tight, wings half-flared. Not attacking. Not yet. But seconds away.

Charlie turned.

Harry Potter stood behind them, looking every bit like a man who had ditched all official channels to be here.

His dark coat was dusted with snow, boots caked in dirt like he’d been moving fast, and his eyes—sharp, bright, flashing with something close to fury—scanned the three of them, landing on the map still glowing between them.

The words that left his mouth weren’t a greeting.

“What the hell happened to Hermione?”

Silence stretched.

Charlie rolled his shoulders back, jaw tight. He wasn’t sure why, but something about the look in Harry’s eyes pissed him off. Maybe because it looked too much like his own.

Bill exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand down his face like he’d just remembered that, oh yeah, of course, Harry Bloody Potter was going to show up. He was head auror after all.

Anton, to his credit, didn’t even look surprised. Just cocked an eyebrow and muttered, “That was fast.”

Harry ignored him.

His attention was fully on Charlie, and there was no mistaking it for anything but demanding answers.

Charlie met his stare head-on. “They took her,” he said, voice flat, clipped. “Rookwood. Maybe more of them. We’re going after her.”

Harry’s nostrils flared. His fingers flexed at his sides like he was barely restraining himself from slamming his fist into something. “I know. That’s why I’m here.”

Charlie narrowed his eyes. “Did Kingsley—”

“No,” Harry cut in. Sharp. Final.

Bill’s frown deepened. “What do you mean, ‘no’?”

Harry’s lips curled into a sharp line, his voice clipped. “I mean, the Minister thinks we’re being paranoid. He says we don’t have enough ‘evidence’ that the Death Eaters are organizing again.” Charlie could see the anger in Harry’s clenched jaw, his eyes flashing, but there was something else there too—tired resignation. The kind of tired that comes with years of fighting without a single ally.

Harry’s eyes flashed dangerously as he continued. “So, no Aurors. No backup. No official orders.”

A muscle ticked in Charlie’s jaw.

Anton let out a sharp breath, shaking his head. “Fantastic.”

Charlie crossed his arms. “And what, you just took the weekend off to come play hero?”

Harry tilted his head, expression as dry as the goddamn ground around them. “They owe me some holidays.”

Bill let out a short, humorless laugh. “And here I thought they’d learned their lesson about underestimating us.”

“They don’t think she’s dead,” Harry said, jaw tightening, “but they don’t think it’s urgent either.” The sarcasm in his voice was so sharp it could have sliced through steel. “Meanwhile, I’ve got Hermione’s tracking spells flickering like a dying candle, but without a bloody location, and the only thing I know for sure is that wherever she is—she’s not safe.

Salt and Pepper hissed low, the sound rattling through the clearing, echoing off the trees.

Charlie ran a hand down his face, pushing back the building rage at the situation. “Right. Well. Welcome to the bloody club.”

Harry’s eyes flicked to the map, still glowing, still locked on Derobyn. “That’s where we’re headed?”

Anton nodded. “Sooner rather than later.”

Charlie looked around. Their supplies were packed; water, food, and a tent all ready and at hand. He gave a nod towards the other three men.

Harry’s fingers twitched toward his wand. “Then let’s move.”

Charlie met his gaze one more time. Then, without another word, they Apparated.

The second Charlie’s boots hit the hard-packed snow, the cold punched straight through his coat, cutting down to the bone. The mountains loomed over them, jagged and merciless, their peaks barely visible through the thick clouds rolling in from the west.

Charlie exhaled sharply, breath misting in the freezing air. They were on the northern edge of the reserve now, just sly of the last boundary line.

Bill landed beside him, adjusting his gloves. “Cabins first?”

Charlie nodded once. “Cabins first.”

They moved fast. A harsh, brutal pace.

The first stretch wasn’t bad—only a few kilometers, mostly through open terrain, the occasional frozen stream winding through the landscape. The crunch of the snow under their dragonhide boots filled the silence. They didn’t talk much. There was nothing to say.

Salt and Pepper were quieter than usual—too quiet.

They stuck close, circling the group overhead with a kind of restless, stalking tension, their tails flicking against the snow, leaving deep, winding trails behind them. Every so often, one of them would sniff at the air before letting out a low, grumbling growl.

The second cabin they encountered was abandoned, which was normal. The third had signs of recent use, which was not.

Harry frowned, running a gloved hand along the doorframe. “Someone’s been through here.”

“Poachers?” Anton asked.

He’d voiced Charlie’s thoughts. The cabin looked pristine, and all of their usual clues for poachers' activity were noticeably absent. Nevertheless, the auror in their midst was not any more helpful.

“Maybe.” Harry’s brow furrowed. “But no tracks. Nor a magic trace.”

That was the first real sign that something wasn’t right.

By the time they passed the fifth cabin, they had started their uphill track towards the mountain's edge and the sun had started to sink below its peaks, casting the landscape into long, creeping shadows.

Salt and Pepper had gone from restless to aggressive.

Salt was baring his teeth, his entire body coiled tight with tension. Pepper had started spewing tiny bursts of flame, her breath crackling in the cold air.

Charlie felt his pulse kick up. They never acted like this.

Bill must have noticed, too, because he suddenly stopped walking. “That’s it,” he said, turning to face them. “We need to stop.”

Charlie frowned. “We’re not there yet.”

Bill’s gaze snapped to him, and the look in his eyes left no room for argument. “We’re running on empty. We need food. We need rest. We need to not be exhausted when we walk into whatever the hell this is.”

Charlie’s jaw tightened. Logic. Sound. Rational.

He still hated it.

Harry ran a hand through his hair, clearly torn, but after a long moment, he exhaled sharply. “Fine. We stop. Once we get closer to the woods again. We cannot stay too close to these cabins”

Charlie watched the mountains carve into the sky, jagged and black against the raw, bleeding dusk. The sun was taking its sweet time dying, dragging its last light across the horizon like a split throat that just wouldn’t quit.

His gut had that familiar clench to it, the kind that came from years of knowing when a place had gone from bad to worse. The cabins weren’t safe—too many doors, too much recent activity and too much out in the open. But those mountains? The ones sitting there like they were waiting for him to be stupid enough to walk into their open maw? Yeah, no. That wasn’t safety either.

Charlie let out a slow breath, weighing their choices. Stay here and become sitting ducks. Head toward the mountains and walk willingly towards peril. Either way, death had set the table. It was just a matter of where they wanted to be seated.

The Romanian nights brought many terrors, but worst of them was the cold. This type of cold? It had teeth.

Not the kind that nipped at your skin, but the kind that sank into your bones and stayed there, gnawing, waiting. Charlie knew it well—the kind of cold that warned you something was coming.

Salt and Pepper weren’t moving anymore. Their eyes—those sharp, gleaming eyes—were locked on something invisible. Their bodies were rigid, breath coming in quick, shallow bursts, their scales vibrating with the low, primal hum of tension that only dragons could produce.

Charlie had carried the two dragons away from the cabin, toward the small open space where they’d settled themselves for the night among the overgrown and oversnowed woods. Large boulders lay on one side, while twisted oak trees took away some of the vast purple sky that loomed ahead.

Yet, Salt and Pepper hadn’t relaxed. At all. Instead, they were rooted into place, taking point at the end of what they’d designated as their camp.

Their black-and-white forms stood rigid against the deepening twilight, breath rising in sharp plumes, eyes still locked on something none of them could see. Not the mountains. Not the path ahead.

Beyond that.

Charlie tightened his grip on his wand, instincts coiling tight in his gut. They needed to set up for the night. And quickly.

Bill was already setting up the wards, his movements brisk, methodical. Years of leading curse-breakers had honed him into a master at making a defensible position out of nothing. With a flick of his wand, he reinforced the natural rock formation, sealing off one side of their temporary shelter. Another incantation sank protective runes into the earth.

He stepped back, exhaling sharply, eyes scanning his own work. “That’ll hold.”

Harry had taken his position on the outer edge of the camp, restless, alert—his fingers twitching like he wished someone would give him an excuse to fight. His wand never left his hand. The way he moved told Charlie everything.

Harry wasn’t used to waiting.

Charlie cast a glance toward Anton, who had already set up the fire. He was crouched low, poking at the embers like he wasn’t impressed with them.

“You’re wasting your time,” Anton muttered without looking up.

Bill turned, raising an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“You’re setting up camp like we’re dealing with humans.” Anton rocked back on his heels, flipping his wand between his fingers with a casual elegance that made Charlie want to strangle him. “We’re not. Or at least, it’s not an imminent threat. You don’t fight the wilderness like a battle—you outlast it.”

Charlie hummed in agreement, rolling his shoulders. “First lesson on the reserve, big brother—you can build all the walls you want, but the land doesn’t care.”

Bill frowned, glancing around at the thick, twisting trees and craggy landscape, their shadows stretching long in the firelight. His wards would hold against people, against magic.

But this wasn’t just magic.

Harry sighed, flicking his wand to add another layer of security. “Brilliant. So we’re at nature’s mercy?”

Anton smirked, shoving his hands into his coat. “Welcome to the mountains, Potter.”

Charlie didn’t join in. His eyes were still on Salt and Pepper. The dragons still weren’t easing up. And based on the stories both handlers had heard about this part of the reserve, no one knew what exactly lurked in the shadows.

But still, those tensed two black and white scaled-forms bothered him most.

They weren’t whining. They weren’t stalking the perimeter like they usually did when they were restless.

They were locked in place.

Anton noticed at the same time he did. He pushed himself up from the fire, gaze narrowing. “They’re too quiet.”

Harry turned his head just a fraction. “They’re not making a sound.”

“Yeah,” Charlie muttered. “That’s the problem.”

He averted his gaze as the men settled in by the fire, bones aching, exhaustion dragging at them like a lead weight. The fire burned low, embers pulsing like the last breath of something dying. Smoke curled lazily into the night, twisting through the cold air before vanishing into the dark. The crackle of burning wood was the only sound—sharp pops and the occasional whisper of shifting ash.

They sank into the silence, shoulders heavy, breath slow. Someone shifted, boots scuffing against the frost-bitten ground, but no one spoke. The firelight caught in the hollows of their faces, flickering, making ghosts of them.

Above, the sky stretched wide and endless, stars watching like distant bodies of wisdom. As if they knew exactly how all this was going to play out.

The world felt thin here. Like if they listened too closely, they might hear something breathing just beyond the tree line.

Charlie rolled his shoulders, fingers absently tracing the hilt of his wand. The quiet wasn’t comfort. It was a waiting thing.

And it never lasted long.

Harry took first watch, and the others let themselves slump against the rock, half-dead with fatigue. Sleep took them quickly. They’d earned it.

It didn’t feel like more than a blink before Harry’s voice cut through the thin veil of sleep.

“Guys. Up. Now.”

Three men, three sets of instincts honed by years of hard knocks, specialisation and a touch of war, snapped awake without question. Charlie barely needed to focus before his gut told him what was wrong.

The dragons were moving.

Salt spread his wings and flicked his tail—once, twice—the tip twitching, charged and volatile, each jerk sparking the air with the promise of eruption.

Then Pepper went completely, unnervingly still.

And that was worse.

A low, guttural sound rumbled from his chest, his scales bristling. It wasn’t a growl, it wasn’t a warning.

It was anticipation.

Charlie’s pulse kicked up.

He turned to the others, voice low. “Something’s out there.”

Bill immediately reached for his wand. Harry didn’t even bother pretending to hesitate—he was already stepping toward the tree line, wand raised.

Then—

A scream.

Ragged. Choked. Human.

It split the air from somewhere far off in the trees, yanking the breath from Charlie’s lungs.

Salt shot forward like a loosed arrow, disappearing into the dark without hesitation.

Pepper, however, had other plans.

Charlie barely had time to register the shift in the air before wham—seventy pounds of stubborn dragon slammed into his chest, knocking him flat. His back hit the frozen ground hard enough to rattle his skull, and his breath left him in a strangled wheeze.

“Pepper—” he choked, shoving at the little bastard currently using him as a dragon-shaped shield.

Then the earth lurched.

Not a tremor. Not a polite little shiver of warning. A full-bodied, gut-twisting heave, like something massive had just rolled over beneath them.

Charlie bit back a curse, bracing himself as the ground swelled—for half a second, it felt like the whole damn mountain had decided to breathe in. Then, just as suddenly, it settled.

Silence.

Charlie groaned, shoving Pepper off his ribs and staggering upright. “What the hell—”

He didn’t finish the sentence.

Didn’t have to.

Bill and Anton were already staring at him, wearing the exact same expression. Grim. Knowing. The kind of look that said we are so monumentally screwed without a single word.

Harry took a step toward the trees, wand raised, body thrumming with barely restrained magic. Charlie’s hand snapped out, gripping his sleeve before he could move.

Harry whirled, eyes burning. “That was a person.”

Charlie’s grip tightened. “And that was a trap.”

The words settled like frost between them.

Then—another scream.

This one was closer.

Charlie felt the shift before he saw it—the trees pressed in, the air grew thin and sharp, and the ground beneath his boots felt wrong, like something just beneath the surface had turned its attention upward.

Bill exhaled, long and slow. “It’s drawing us in.”

Anton was already kicking snow over the embers of the fire. “Doesn’t matter. We’re not staying here.”

Charlie didn’t argue. His gut had already reached the same conclusion: whatever the hell was out here with them wasn’t interested in waiting.

Harry’s voice came tight and controlled. “Where do we go?”

Charlie turned his gaze to the mountains. To Derobyn. The peaks twisted under the stars, jagged and hungry.

The kind of place that didn’t just kill men. It swallowed them.

And under the circumstances, well, it was perfect.

Charlie let out a slow, sharp breath, rolling the tension from his shoulders. Fine. If something was hunting them, he was more than happy to return the favor.

He turned back to the others, baring his teeth in something that wasn’t quite a grin—more a promise.

“North” he said.

And then, they ran.

Chapter Text

Time. A funny thing, really.

At this point, Hermione wasn’t entirely sure it existed anymore. It was all a blur of pain and frustration, like trying to catch smoke with your bare hands. After Rookwood had left—or, more accurately, after he’d knocked her senseless with a slap that could’ve made a troll proud—she’d slipped in and out of consciousness, with no real sense of how long any of it lasted.

Although, when she came to—whenever she managed to claw her way out of the black void—there were a few things that cut through the haze.

The night was... well, freezing didn’t quite cover it. It was cold enough for even the warmest of hearts to turn to ice; Hermione’s short breaths making tiny clouds in the air. But, bizarrely enough, a tiny part of her—like, the very smallest sliver—actually had found some misplaced appreciation for Rookwood and his godforsaken conjured sweater. It was threadbare and ancient, the sort of thing that probably had a history of its own. Definitely not something she’d ever wear in public. Or private. Or at all, really. But hey, it was something.

It kept her warm. At least somewhat.

And that? Well, that was a tiny, pathetic win in a game she was clearly losing.

The chains, though. Those were the true irony. They were the kind of anchor you didn’t want, and sure as hell didn't need. The metal bit into her, stealing what little warmth her body had left, and the cold seeped straight through to her bones. But every time she shifted, every time the chains scraped against her wrists and ankles, it also brought a strange clarity. It was the only thing that numbed the relentless pounding in her skull, giving her the briefest, fleeting moment of peace.

Then, of course, the blackness came rushing back. It always did.

Cold. A full-body kind of cold, the kind that crashes into you and leaves no part untouched.

Hermione gasped, choking as ice-cold water rushed over her face, down her neck, soaking into her already freezing clothes. Her body jerked before she could stop it, instincts kicking in too late. The shock of it sent her nerves screaming, her brain lurching to catch up. For a second, she was just breathing—loud, ragged, a pathetic echo in the dim space.

And then the pain slammed into her like a freight train.

Her skull pounded, her body throbbed, and Merlin, her ribs—every breath was like dragging knives through her chest. But the worst part, the part she wasn’t ready for, was the light.

She tried to open her eyes—tried to see what fresh hell she was in now—but the pain shot straight to her brain, and she snapped them shut with a sharp intake of breath.

A chuckle. Close. Too close. The kind that slithered over her skin and left a trail of something rotten behind it.

“Ah, now, that won’t do,” Rookwood murmured, his voice thick with amusement. “I want those pretty eyes to look at me when I explain what happens next.”

A warmth spread through her, humming beneath her bruised skin. Healing magic. Cheap, dirty, effective. Just enough to keep her functional, just enough to make sure she’d be awake for whatever he had planned. She clenched her jaw as the pain dulled slightly, the reprieve feeling more like an insult than a mercy.

Her fingers twitched. The urge to spit in his face crawled up her throat, hot and immediate. But she held it back.

Not yet.

Information first. Pride later.

Rookwood smiled, a slow curl of his lips like he could see the choice flickering behind her eyes. “Good girl.”

A shiver crawled down her spine, but she locked her muscles in place, refusing to react.

Then, because some things were worth the price, she spat anyway.

It hit his cheek. Satisfying.

And, unfortunately, short-lived.

The slap came fast and hard, snapping her head sideways, her skull ringing from the impact. A familiar warmth dripped down from her nose, thick and metallic, settling on her tongue like an ugly promise.

She swallowed it down and lifted her head, meeting his gaze head-on. He was close. Close enough that she could feel his breath, warm and slow against her skin.

Rookwood’s jaw twitched. His lips pressed together, his expression caught somewhere between amusement and irritation. “As much as this little show would amuse me on any other day, my muddy hellcat,” he said, his voice dark, dangerously smooth, “today, I am not in the mood.”

Hermione cocked an eyebrow, unimpressed.

He exhaled, a slow, sharp thing, then leaned back just enough to put space between them. “The grounds here are getting restless. We have to move.”

“Where are we going?”

Rookwood’s lips stretched into something that might’ve passed for a grin, if it wasn’t so sharp around the edges. “Oh, that’s the nice thing, princess.” He tilted his head. “We aren’t going anywhere.”

Her stomach tightened.

He was playing. Pacing her, feeding her information in pieces, watching her try to fit the puzzle together with only half the pieces. Bastard.

Rookwood let the silence stretch just long enough before continuing. “You being here is a bit of a liability. So, we’re going to remedy that… Me and most of my men will be moving out.” He gestured vaguely. “A few will stay. Guard you. Watch over you, and all that.” His voice dipped lower, tone mocking. “And you? Well, you’ll be left to the elements.”

Hermione stiffened, but he wasn’t done.

He ran a hand through his hair, a motion almost absent-minded, like this was just another logistical headache. “Don’t get me wrong, princess. You threw me for a loop.” He gestured around them. “It took months of planning to get through the outer wards, to get this close. Close to what I want. What I need. What I am owed.”

Something flickered across his face—something distant, unreadable. Hermione tracked it, cataloged it. Whatever he wanted, it mattered. It mattered enough to keep her alive this long.

“But here’s the irony,” Rookwood said, his voice softening into something almost amused. “In trying to shut us out, you might’ve cracked the door open yourself.”

Hermione’s stomach twisted. Her breath hitched, just once.

“Oh yes,” he murmured, catching it. “I think a bit of your blood... a strand or two of that clever little head of hair... that’ll be more than enough. You’ve made reaching the halves easier than you know.”

Hermione’s breath slowed. Her brain moved faster.

Fuck.

Polyjuice? Blood magic? Or something worse?

“And you, well,” he mused, rolling the thought over like a cat playing with its prey, “it is as they say—there is no better clean-up crew than Mother Nature.”

Hermione’s pulse thudded in her ears, but she didn’t let it show. Didn’t let herself react as he reached out, fingers curling into her hair. He tugged, sharp and deliberate, ripping strands free. She inhaled sharply through her nose, ignoring the sting, refusing to give him anything.

His fingers trailed lower, from her cheek to her lips, pausing there for a moment. The pad of his thumb pressed lightly against her mouth, then slid downward, tracing the line of her throat. Slow. Unhurried.

A place of vulnerability she’d never let anyone get close to. The chill of his touch seeped into her skin, but the worst part was how calmly he moved, as though he already knew what she was going to do. And then, sharp—he dug his nail into her skin, slicing a shallow line that made her gasp. The pain wasn’t enough to break her, but it felt like one more piece of her dignity was crumbling, falling apart in front of him.

He lifted his hand, collecting the crimson smear onto his fingertip before flicking his wand, summoning a vial. The blood dripped inside, staining the glass like ink.

A pleased hum left him as he tucked the vial away. “Perfect.”

His hand shot out, fast as a viper. She didn’t even see it coming. One second, she was trying to catch her breath; the next, his fingers were wrapped around her throat, choking the air out of her. The pressure increased, and Hermione’s world narrowed. Panic seized her chest, but the chains kept her in place, leaving her to fight against the suffocating grip that was dragging her closer to the edge. Stars burst behind her eyes, and every breath felt like a battle she was losing. No—no, no, no. Her body jerked against the chains, her magic crackling, straining, trying to do something, anything—

Rookwood’s face was impassive, but his grip was ruthless. The room narrowed, sounds fading into nothing.

She jerked against the chains, her magic flaring, but it was useless. Why wasn’t it working? She strained harder, willing her power to surface, but it was like trying to pull water from a stone. She was nothing. Helpless. And just as the blackness started creeping in—just as her lungs burned and the darkness felt like it would swallow her whole—he let go.

Like it had all been some sick game.

Hermione gasped, air tearing into her lungs like glass, her entire body heaving forward as she coughed, blood and spit mixing at the back of her throat.

Rookwood took a step back, rolling his shoulders like nothing had happened. Then, with a lazy flick of his wand, the world around her folded inward—

And everything went black.

The screams were the first thing to filter through the fog. Not the kind you’d expect from some drunken idiots beating the shit out of each other in a drunken stooper. No. These were the kind of screams that cut through you, sharp and raw, the kind that didn’t belong here. The kind Hermione recognized all too well.

She stirred, barely able to open her eyes. Her lashes stuck together from the crusting, and the flickering torchlight near the door made her want to bury her face back into the black void. But the screams kept coming. A steady, desperate rhythm that pulled at her attention, dragged her back into the mess.

Her wrists scraped against the chains, the cold metal biting into her skin. She barely noticed the pain—too focused on the sound. She had to move. Had to do something. The noise felt like a personal challenge, like it was demanding her to act. But when she tried to pull herself up, her body groaned in protest.

It hurt. Everything hurt. The cold metal dug into her ankles, her wrists. The ache in her head was a constant presence, a throbbing pulse she couldn’t shake, no matter how much she willed it away. Her breath hitched, and a surge of panic bubbled up from her gut, but she pushed it down.

Not yet. Not. Yet.

But the screams.

They clawed at her, got under her skin like insects. This wasn’t right. It was worse. Something was happening. Something she couldn’t see, but she could feel it—like a ripple in the air. The voices were growing more frantic. She couldn’t just sit here. She couldn’t just wait, not when someone else was—

Her wrists scraped again against the chains, the metal biting deeper. She shifted, desperate to break free. Nothing. The chains didn’t budge. And her magic—she felt it trying to fight back, but it was tangled, snuffed out before it could take form. No, no. She needed to move. Needed to do something.

Another twitch of magic, weak and useless, fizzled out like a spark in the wind.

Frustration built up in her chest, tight, painful, and she gritted her teeth. She twisted, pulling against the chains, feeling them strain against her skin. A low growl of pain rumbled in her throat, but it wasn’t enough. The more she fought, the tighter they seemed to grip her, keeping her here, keeping her powerless. Her chest tightened, breaths coming quicker now, desperation creeping into the edges of her mind.

Focus. She needed to focus.

Her back slammed against the chair with more force than she meant, the entire thing tipping over with a loud crash, knocking her to the ground with a jolt. For a brief, wonderful moment, the pressure was gone. The chains didn’t scrape against her. The cold wasn’t pulling at her, at least not quite so violently.

But the screams were still there, loud and raw. And now, she could hear something else. Movement. The sound of footsteps—coming closer, heavy. She could feel it, a low thrum under the floor, like something else was shifting, stirring. Something bigger.

Her vision blurred, and her head felt like it might explode. The pounding in her skull was back, relentless, the world spinning around her. But still, she didn’t close her eyes. She couldn’t. She wasn’t done yet. Not yet. The ground below her seemed to rumble again, deeper now. A low, shifting pulse like the earth itself was waking up.

Her breath quickened, heart racing. The air around her felt thick, suffocating. The walls seemed to close in, and she could feel it—something coming. She didn’t know what it was, but it was close. It was coming fast.

A roar. The door shuddered on its hinges, as if the world itself was coming undone.

It was too much. Too close. Too real.

Her lips moved, but the words slipped through her like smoke, never to be remembered. Her chest tightened as the pressure mounted, the air thick and heavy around her. She could barely breathe, could barely think.

Then, like a distant memory, a flash of red hair. Fiery, familiar, like a flame she’d once known. Piercing blue eyes, sharp and unyielding, staring through her with a gaze that had haunted her more times than she cared to count. A smile—soft, dangerous, unforgettable.

And then, just like that, the darkness came rushing in, swallowing everything whole. No more fire. No more eyes. Only the silence, the emptiness, the familiar void. And with it, everything was lost once more.

Chapter Text

The forest stretched wide and black before him, the trees twisted like skeletal fingers clawing at the night sky.

Charlie ran. Fast. Hard. The cold air tore through his throat, and the snow beneath his boots fought him with every step, trying to drag him down.

Salt had vanished into the trees, hunting for something. What exactly, Charlie didn’t know. The thought gnawed at him, but Salt had left on his own terms. And while doing so, he’d had left Pepper behind—Pepper, who had returned to Charlie without hesitation, pressing close, a silent anchor against the dark.

The black dragon was the only one of his companions who was still with him. Her wings beat against the wind, a steady rhythm just above him, just close enough that if he reached up, he might brush her scales. The sky swallowed her in shadow, but Charlie knew she was there.

After all, she was always there.

The ground rumbled again, a deep, rolling tremor that he felt in his ribs more than he heard. The wind howled through the trees, and somewhere, far off, another scream split the night. Human. Or something pretending to be.

Charlie’s lungs burned, but he kept running. His wand was gripped tight in his fist, but he didn’t waste time with Lumos. Not out here. Not when light made you a target. Instead, he muttered a different spell, one they used on the reserve—Oculus Umbra. The darkness shifted, no brighter, but clearer. The shadows stretched thinner at the edges, the depth of the black changing just enough that he could pick out the trees, the ground, the uneven dips and rises of the land.

It didn’t help much. But it was better than nothing.

Behind him, he heard the others—somewhere in the dark, running their own paths. Bill would be fine. Bill always knew what he was doing. Cursebreaking trained you for the worst-case scenario, and Bill not only survived but bloody thrived in those. Harry was an Auror. He’d fought wars before he was old enough to drink. And Anton? Anton might have been an arse, but he was also Charlie's best friend. And a highly competent dragon handler. The corner of his lips turned up. Charlie would bet his last galleon that the bastard was still breathing.

They’d handle themselves.

And Charlie? Well, Charlie just had to keep moving.

Unfortunately, that was not as easy as it sounded. The snow betrayed them all. No matter how careful they were, every footstep left a mark, a trail, a path for whatever was out here to follow. And something was following. He could feel it, crawling under his skin, just out of sight. The air carried the wrong kind of silence, the kind that came before something pounced.

The path to Derobyn took him past the last of the old cabins. The first two were dark, empty, but the third—Charlie slowed. Just enough to catch his breath. His back hit the side of the rotten wood, and the whole thing gave an eerie creak, sagging under his weight like it was seconds from collapsing.

Pepper landed at his feet, her sharp talons digging into the frozen ground.

Charlie raked a hand through his hair, shoving it back, fingers tight in frustration. His heart pounded against his ribs, the remnants of adrenaline making his limbs feel too tight. He needed a second. Just one.

He turned his head, scanning the dark for movement. Where the hell were the others?

Somewhere behind him, a curse went off—bright red, slicing through the night. Then another. Then—

“Bill, duck!”

Harry’s voice, sharp and furious, carried over the wind.

Charlie’s jaw clenched. His grip on his wand tightened, but he didn’t move toward the fight. He couldn’t. He had to trust them. Had to trust that whatever the hell they were dealing with, they could handle it.

Pepper shifted, pressing closer to him, her scales warm even through the biting cold. Her head butted against his chest, and for a second, something in him settled. He ran a rough hand over her back, his fingers tracing over the ridges of her spine. Her magic crackled under his touch, sharp and restless, but she didn’t move away.

Then she did something she never did.

She pulled back, just enough to look at him, her violet eyes locking onto his.

Charlie frowned.

Pepper flicked her wings, a sharp, deliberate motion. Then, with slow, purposeful movements, she turned her head toward the north. Toward the mountain.

Charlie exhaled through his nose, looking from the dark treeline to the flicker of curses still flying in the distance. He weighed it. Just for a second. Then another roll of thunder cracked through the ground, and the decision made itself.

“Fine.” His voice was low, hoarse from the cold. He curled his fingers tighter around his wand and pushed off the wall. “Let’s move.”

Pepper wasted no time. She shot into the air, her small form weaving through the trees like a dart, and Charlie followed.

The ground tilted beneath him, shifting into uneven, rocky terrain as they moved closer to the mountains. The snow wasn’t as deep here, but the ice was worse. Twice, his foot slid, nearly sending him crashing onto his arse. The river came next—freezing, biting, tearing at his skin as he forced his way through.

Pepper flew low now, close enough that her body heat pulsed against his face. The further they went, the worse it got. The rumbling grew louder. Something was waking up.

The screams had stopped.

Charlie didn’t care.

He pressed forward, lungs burning, muscles aching, feet numbing. The last stretch was brutal, the incline eating at him with every step, but he didn’t slow.

Then, just like that, the trees thinned, and the mountain loomed before them, black against the frozen sky. The air was thin here, sharp enough to cut.

Pepper stopped.

Charlie skidded to a halt, barely catching himself as he turned to face her. She was crouched low, wings tight against her back, tail tucked close to her body.

She was afraid.

His stomach knotted.

In front of them, carved into the rock, was a cave. Wide. Gaping. Blacker than the night around it.

Charlie rolled his shoulders, shaking off the tension. No choice now.

He met Pepper’s gaze, gave her a slow, measured nod, and steadied his wand.

“Let’s go, love.”

Then, together, they stepped into the dark.

The cave reeked of rot, thick and cloying, the kind of stench that clung to the back of his throat and made his eyes burn.

And still, Charlie pressed forward, breath coming sharp and fast, forcing himself to ignore the way his boots stuck to the floor with every step. The sound they made—wet, peeling—sent a shudder crawling up his spine.

Pepper clawed at his leg the moment they stepped inside, her small body shaking. Without hesitation, he lifted her, feeling the tremor in her frame as she latched onto his shoulders. Her usual fire was gone. That was a bad sign. A very bad sign.

He had to slow down. The caves in Romania were never empty. And this cursed stretch of the reserve? He was damn sure they weren’t alone.

The tunnel stretched on, swallowing him whole. It was one straight path, thank Merlin—no choices, no branching tunnels, no chances to make the wrong turn. But that also meant nowhere to hide. Pepper’s claws dug into his coat, her shallow breaths hot against his neck.

Charlie tried to focus. The screams—they could have been anything. Plenty of creatures in these mountains mimicked humans, especially the ones drawn to the magic of the dragons, to the ancient power woven into the land. But none of those things used wands. And Bill and Harry had definitely been in a fight.

The ground quivered. A deep, rolling tremor that had nothing to do with shifting stone and everything to do with something moving.

Charlie barely caught himself as his balance wavered. His hand shot out to steady himself—

And met something slick, soft, breathing.

He jerked back so fast his shoulder slammed into the opposite wall. The cave groaned, the sound vibrating through the stone, and Pepper hissed, pressing herself against his neck.

No. No, he wasn’t imagining it. The walls were breathing.

A low, shuddering growl vibrated through the tunnel, so deep it felt like the mountain itself was speaking. The sound wrapped around him, thick and suffocating, making his teeth ache. The kind of sound that settled into your bones and refused to leave.

He knew the stories. The kind Thomas used to tell them when they were first years, huddled around the fire. Gorgoroths. Creatures older than dragons, beasts of earth and ruin, with the power to crack mountains and shake valleys apart.

But they weren’t real.

Another tremor rattled through the cave.

They weren’t—

Pepper let out a sharp, warning cry.

Charlie ran.

Boots pounding against stone, breath tearing through his lungs. The tunnel funneled him forward, faster, faster, but the sound—the sound came from everywhere, from behind, from ahead, from inside the rock itself. The walls trembled as he moved, the sickly wet sound of something shifting against stone sending adrenaline screaming through his veins.

A breath. Not his.

The air curled, thick with rot and something far worse. Something ancient. He didn’t see it—he didn’t need to. The walls flexed, pulsing, as if they weren’t stone at all but flesh. The wet, peeling noise came again, closer, closer, and—

Move.

He kept running.

The darkness tore past him, his breath burning sharp and shallow. Pepper’s talons dug into the skin of his neck, a steady, grounding pain, but he didn’t stop. Couldn’t. His heartbeat thundered, drowning out everything but the sound of his boots pounding against stone.

Faster. Faster.

The air curled, thick and rancid, pressing against his skin like it was alive.

And then—

Space.

Fresh air.

The tunnel spat him out into nothingness. His boots skidded over loose stone, momentum nearly sending him straight over the edge. He caught himself just in time, breath ripping through him as he teetered on the precipice, staring down into the abyss.

The forest stretched below, vast and endless, swallowed by the night. Above, the stars hung like shattered glass, cold and indifferent.

But none of that made his stomach lurch.

None of that was wrong.

There. In the distance. A cabin.

Faint light flickered through its windows. A beacon. A chance.

Pepper leapt from his shoulders, landing on the rocky ledge. She turned toward the tunnel, body low, wings twitching, and let out a sound that wasn’t a roar but something close—something primal, something afraid.

The ground quaked.

Charlie spun. The tunnel was nothing but blackness now, thick and pulsing. A rush of air, rank and wrong, spilled forward, curling around him like fingers, sinking into his skin. Something shifted in the dark.

The stories were true.

He looked to Pepper. No words. Just a look—sharp and steady—and a slight nod. Her wings snapped open in answer. She didn’t wait. She leapt from the cliff’s edge without a sound, vanishing into the night.

His fingers clenched around his wand, jaw tight. He looked back at the cabin.

Hermione.

His resolve solidified. There was no more hesitation. No more second-guessing.

Charlie took one last breath, tasting rot and starlight.

Then he Apparated.

Charlie hit the ground hard, boots sinking into the snow with a muted thud. The impact rattled through him, sending a violent jolt up his spine. His knees buckled, but he caught himself—barely. His lungs spasmed, dragging in sharp, burning air that felt like it was slicing through him from the inside out. Move, his brain snarled, but his limbs screamed in protest, heavy and trembling.

He swayed, blinking hard. Too fast. Too much magic. Too much exertion. But there was no time. No room for weakness. With a sharp, gasping inhale, he forced his legs to cooperate and staggered into the treeline.

The first light of dawn bled across the sky, soft streaks of pink and blue cutting through the fading dark. It should have been beautiful. Instead, it just made the mess in front of him clearer.

The clearing was a disaster zone.

Ash and ember smoldered where fires had been hastily stamped out. There had been more people here—many more—but now only a handful of bodies remained. And of the ones left, only two were still breathing.

Charlie barely had time to process it before instinct took over. Without thinking, he brought his fingers to his mouth and let out a sharp, piercing whistle.

A roar answered him, shaking the treetops.

Shit. He really hadn't thought that through.

Movement flickered at the edge of his vision. He barely had time to react before a crack split the air behind him.

Magic.

He twisted, but he was too slow. Too fucking slow.

A curse hurtled toward his back, crackling through the air like lightning.

Then—

A blur of movement at his feet. A flash of violet.

Pepper shrieked, wings flaring wide as the curse rebounded off her, deflected by a ripple of raw, protective magic. Charlie spun, wand snapping up, and locked eyes with one of the two poacher—bloodied, leaning against the cabin, wand raised, lips curled into something almost smug.

"Pity," the rancid man rasped, wiping a streak of blood from his mouth. "That dragon of yours would fetch a fine price."

Charlie didn't hesitate. Stupefy.

The man sagged against the wooden wall before he could say another word.

Charlie let out a ragged breath, chest heaving. His fingers flexed, tight and aching, before he forced himself to move. He stepped past the unconscious poacher—

And then another voice, wheezing and barely coherent, rasped from the snow beside him.

"Not... just dragons."

Charlie turned sharply, spotting the other poacher, the one still bleeding out in the snow, struggling to prop himself up on one elbow. His mouth twisted into a pained grin, blood staining his teeth.

"White one... she screamed, but the beast... had its eyes on the cabin."

Charlie’s gut twisted. He didn’t give the man the satisfaction of a response. He just stepped forward and slammed his fist into his face, knocking him out cold.

He didn’t have time for this.

He rounded the corner—

And stopped dead.

The cabin door was gone. Blown clean off its hinges. The inside looked haunted, partially illuminated by barely lit torches, still, too quiet.

The windows flickered. A weak, almost hesitant glow. The kind of light that shouldn’t still be there.

Charlie’s gut twisted.

He stepped forward—

And there, curled on the wooden floor, was Salt.

Charlie's breath hitched. "Oh, fuck."

The dragon was a mess. Blood slicked his pale scales, a deep wound running from wing to tail. His breathing was slow, shallow, his body curled in on itself, but his wings were spread fully, like he was trying to make himself small and large at the same time. As if that was possible.

Pepper let out a heart-wrenching cry and bolted past Charlie, pressing herself against her brother, nudging at him frantically.

Charlie swallowed hard. He had to move. Had to help.

His wand was already moving in his hand before he could think. His training kicked in, instincts buried deep from years of patching up dragons in worse states than this. His movements were fast, practiced—

A deep inhale.

Ferula. Bandages wrapped tightly around Salt’s wounds, staunching the worst of the bleeding. A second incantation sealed part of the gash, enough to keep him from bleeding out. Enough to make sure he could fly.

Salt rumbled weakly beneath him, lifting his head just enough to bump against Charlie’s arm.

"Yeah, yeah," Charlie muttered, brushing a hand over his snout, his voice hoarse. "You’re fine. You’re gonna be fine. Just hold on."

A shift in the air.

A sound.

Not a growl. Not a snarl.

A breath. Shallow. Ragged.

Charlie’s head snapped up.

And then he saw her.

Curled beside Salt, half-hidden beneath his outstretched wings, was Hermione.

For a second, his brain short-circuited. Refused to catch up with what his eyes were seeing. The blood. The tangled mess of her hair. Dark purple marks covering her throat. The way she wasn’t moving.

Her fingers, limp. Her face, too pale.

Too still.

Then the world snapped back into focus, sharp and unforgiving.

Charlie was on his knees before he knew what was happening. His hands found her shoulders, then her face, fingers pressing against the clammy skin of her neck, searching—

There. A pulse. Faint. There.

A broken sound clawed its way out of his throat. Relief? Panic? He couldn’t tell. He just—

She was alive.

She was alive.

"Hermione," he rasped.

No response.

His fingers curled around hers, trying to ground himself, trying to make sure he wasn’t imagining this. She was battered, bloodied, but breathing.

Charlie swallowed hard, shaking himself. No time for that. She was alive. That was what mattered.

He needed to get them out of here.

Now.

He turned towards Salt and Pepper. “Go. I will see you guys at the infirmary. Fly, and be safe.”

They didn’t need to hear that twice before they took off into the dark blue sky.

Charlie’s free hand dug into his coat, fingers searching for the smooth feather tucked somewhere in his pocket. The portkey. The one thing that could get them to safety in an instant.

But before his fingers reached it, he suddenly stilted—

He needed backup.

His wand snapped up. He whispered the incantation, and his Patronus burst forward—except it wasn’t a dragon. Or, at least, not the one he had been expecting.

Charlie stared, gut twisting at the sight. But he didn’t have time to question it. His Patronus tilted its head, waiting. He steadied himself.

“Dennis—meet me at the ward line, near Devil’s Corner. Hermione needs the infirmary. Now.”

The silver form flew into the darkness and disappeared.

Charlie took another breath, summoned more magic, and cast again. Three more Patronuses, this time in quick succession—one to Bill, one to Anton, one to Harry.

I have her. I’ll see you at the infirmary. Be safe.

Then, gripping Hermione tighter, his breath shuddering between his teeth, Charlie's hands fumbled through his pockets once more, fingers slick with cold sweat and shaking from exhaustion. The Hippogriff feather—he knew it was there, buried somewhere beneath bloodstained fabric and half-frozen fingers.

His pulse pounded in his ears as he found it, the delicate quill crumpling slightly in his grip. He squeezed it tight, muttering the incantation he'd heard Bill say so many times before.

The magic surged around them, raw and unforgiving, and then—

The world twisted, yanking them forward, pulling them home.

The moment the Portkey yanked them forward, Charlie knew it wasn’t going to be clean. His boots hit the frozen ground at an awkward angle, nearly sending him sprawling. Hermione’s weight in his arms knocked his balance further off-kilter, and it was only sheer instinct that kept him upright.

Dennis was already waiting. He moved fast, his Healer’s robes thrown over thick winter gear, wand raised before Charlie had even managed to take a full breath. A flick of his wrist, a muttered spell, and golden light washed over Hermione’s still form.

“Conscious?” Dennis barked, stepping forward.

“No.” Charlie forced the word out between gritted teeth. “She’s—she’s got a pulse, but she’s cold. Too fucking cold.”

Dennis’ jaw clenched. “Let me see her.”

Charlie hesitated. Just a second. Just long enough for Dennis to reach out, hands hovering, waiting for permission.

Then Charlie exhaled, chest tight, and let go.

Dennis didn’t waste time. His wand cut through the air, diagnostic spells flashing too fast for Charlie to track, his brow furrowing deeper with every result.

“Shit,” Dennis muttered under his breath, stepping back. “We need to move—now. The longer we wait—”

Charlie didn’t need the rest of that sentence. He could already guess.

He shifted his stance, forcing his legs into motion, keeping step with Dennis as they moved toward the infirmary. He was still lightheaded, still running on fumes, but stopping wasn’t an option. Not yet.

They were halfway to the infirmary when the dragons descended, slipping through the sky like they had always belonged there, like they had never been anywhere else but beside them.

Salt refused to be parted from Hermione, his bloodied body limping beside them, head low, eyes sharp. Pepper, smaller but no less determined, stayed at Charlie’s heels. She let out a low, warning growl when Dennis got too close, her violet eyes fixed on Charlie like she was ready to rip someone apart if he dropped.

Not happening, love, he thought. Not yet.

The infirmary came into view. The doors burst open before they even reached the threshold. A second external healer rushed forward, hands outstretched. Someone tried to take Hermione.

Salt snarled.

The walls shook.

The air rippled with the heat of dragon magic, raw and untamed, and every single person in the room froze.

Dennis swore under his breath, stepping up fast. “Salt—Salt, easy,” he murmured, not foolish enough to touch him but close enough to command attention. “We’re helping her.”

The dragon exhaled sharply. But he didn’t move. Didn’t step back. Didn’t let them take her.

Charlie’s stomach turned.

Dennis’ shoulders dropped slightly. “Salt,” he tried again, voice steady. “I know you’re afraid. But if she doesn’t get help, she’s not going to wake up.”

A tense beat. A slow shift. Salt moved just enough to let the Healer through—but only that much. He stayed close, pressing his body against the table as they laid Hermione down, his breathing rough, his wings tucked tight.

Charlie tried to follow.

Tried.

But someone else stepped in his way.

A familiar presence, solid and unmoving.

Harry.

“You can’t be with her right now.”

Charlie blinked. He’d expected—he didn’t know. Resistance. Questions. But not this. Not this blunt, unwavering dismissal.

His body was wrecked, exhaustion clinging to every limb, but the words hit like a cold slap to the face.

His fists clenched. His voice dropped.

“Get out of my way, Harry.”

Harry didn’t move. “She needs time to stabilize. You’ll do more harm than good.”

“You think I’d hurt her?” Charlie’s voice was sharp. Incredulous.

“No. But you’re bleeding, shaking, and running on fumes.” Harry’s eyes were steady, too damn calm. “You step in there like this, and she wakes up to see you falling apart, what do you think that’s going to do?”

Charlie opened his mouth. Then closed it.

The sheer helplessness settled in like a stone in his gut.

Pepper’s growl rumbled beside him, deep and unsettled, but even she couldn’t do anything. Not against this.

Dennis was the one to end it. His voice cut through the room, sharp and final. “Both of you need to leave.”

Charlie turned to him, the words like a physical blow. “Dennis—”

The Healer’s jaw was set. “I have work to do. She has work to do—surviving. I don’t have time for this.” He exhaled. “Charlie, I know you care. But if you want to help, you need to step back. Go to the waiting room. There is nothing you can do here at the moment.”

Charlie’s breath came short and ragged. He couldn’t—

But then Salt, watching him, shifted. Just slightly.

Not away from Hermione. But toward her. Guarding. Protecting.

Salt had her.

Charlie swallowed hard, throat thick, and forced himself to turn away.

The hours passed in a haze.

Charlie didn’t remember sitting down, but at some point, he must have. Just as Salt hadn’t moved from Hermione’s side, Pepper hadn’t moved from his. His fingers ran absently over her scales, his mind still stuck in that damn cave, in the rot, in the darkness swallowing him whole.

He played the last few days over, and over again. And still, the realization only crept up on him hours later, in the kind of silence that sat too heavy, pressing against his ribs

Salt had been his Patronus.

That wasn’t supposed to happen. Patronuses didn’t just change. Not unless something in you broke apart and put itself back together in an entirely different way.

His mind kept going in circles, running over all the possible implications and explanations, until the fatigue finally took over.

The first thing that pulled him out of his dreamless state was Anton’s absence.

Gone. Not long. Just enough to visit Katya, to get her up to date.

That left him, Bill, and Harry. And plenty cups of tea.

The sun had nearly set by the time Dennis finally stepped into the room, pulling his gloves off one finger at a time.

Charlie was on his feet before the Healer even opened his mouth.

“She’s stable,” Dennis said before anyone could speak. “She’s waking up soon.”

Charlie’s breath came in shallow. “Can I see her?”

A beat of silence. Then—

Harry. “No.”

Charlie’s fingers twitched at his sides. “Excuse me?”

Harry’s face was unreadable. “She’s waking up. She’ll be disoriented. I need to be there.”

Charlie’s patience snapped like dry kindling.

“I found her,” he snarled, stepping forward. “I carried her through a fucking deserted battle field. And you think I’m just going to wait outside—”

Harry didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. But Charlie saw it—just a flicker. The way his fingers twitched at his side, how his throat worked around a swallowed breath.

He was bracing himself. Not for a fight. For a choice.

“You don’t get to make that call,” Harry said, and this time, his voice wasn’t calm. It was controlled—tight, wound too sharp.

Charlie’s blood roared. “Like hell I don’t.”

Harry cocked an eyebrow, and—

Charlie didn’t think. Didn’t hesitate.

His body was fraying at the edges, exhaustion turning sharp, frustration bleeding into something too raw to control. His fist moved before the thought even fully formed, the need to lash out, to do something, overriding reason—

But Bill was faster.

A hand, solid and firm, grabbed Charlie’s arm before the punch could land, dragging him back. Charlie’s breath tore from his chest, fury and frustration curling into a sharp, exhale.

Harry didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. Just stood there, jaw tight, shoulders squared, as if he’d been expecting it.

Bill’s grip didn’t loosen. “Not like this.”

Charlie exhaled hard. His entire body shook with the force of holding himself still.

Dennis, still watching, pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t have time for this,” he muttered. Then, louder—“One of you. That’s it.”

Silence.

Charlie lifted his chin, squared his shoulders. The words were there, caught somewhere between his aching ribs and his throat. I found her. I carried her. It should be me.

But before he could speak—

“I’m Head Auror.”

Harry’s voice was ironclad, unwavering. “It should be me.”

Charlie’s stomach twisted. His breath came short, the frustration flaring hot under his skin. No. No, fuck that. But Bill’s grip tightened—on his arm, his leg, anything to hold him still.

Bill hesitated, but after a long beat, he gave a stiff nod.

Harry moved past them both, stepping into the room before either of them could argue.

The door shut.

Charlie exhaled, but it didn’t feel like breathing. Pepper gnawed on his fingers, trying to get his attention.

With a sigh, Charlie fell back into the chair. His eyes staring into space, as Bill pushed another cup of tea into his hands.

Their eyes met, and Charlie just shook his head, as he ran his hand through his hair.

This wasn’t how he envisioned their Christmas to pass. But it didn’t matter. She was here. She was back.

And he knew he would see her.

Soon.

Chapter Text

Pain was a steady, throbbing thing. A drumbeat in her skull, a jagged pulse along her ribs, a dull, relentless ache everywhere else. Hermione drifted in and out, caught somewhere between unconsciousness and the cruel, waking world. Each breath was an effort, each twitch of her fingers a reminder that her body had been pushed past its limits.

The splintered floorboards of the cabin dug into her cheek. The moldy and smoky air unforgiving while a sea of blackness surrounded her.

But then—there. A whisper of magic.

Not the kind that had bound her. Not the sickly, cloying taste of a curse, nor the sharp bite of wards on her wrists and ankles meant to keep her caged. This was something else. Something familiar, curling through the stagnant air like the first breath of dawn.

She forced herself to listen.

Something shifted behind her.

Not a threat. Not an enemy. Whatever it was, it wasn’t here to hurt her. She knew that the same way she knew her own name, the same way she knew that, at this rate, she’d either pass out again or throw up all over herself.

The chains around her wrists heated up, her back suddenly warming against the cold night sky. Panic lurched through her for half a second before she realized—

It didn’t hurt.

Not fire, not a curse, not another inventive method of torture. Just heat. It sank into her skin, warming her from the inside out, loosening something in her bones.

Hermione took stock. Everything hurt. Moving would be an awful idea. She moved anyway.

Pain streaked down her side like lightning, and she bit down on a scream. The best she managed was a strangled, wheezing groan, which, given the circumstances, felt like a bloody accomplishment.

A small sound—half yelp, half whimper—echoed off the stone walls. Not human. Not dangerous.

Hermione knew that sound.

Her eyes snapped open.

For one agonizing moment, the torchlight was blinding, stabbing into her skull like a thousand tiny knives. She clenched her jaw, blinking furiously until her vision stopped swimming. The door to the cabin—well, what used to be a door—was little more than splinters. The hinges had been torn clean out of the wood, nothing but jagged ruin where something—

Someone—

Had forced their way in.

The night beyond was still dark, but the horizon was painted in the faintest blue. Dawn, creeping in.

A low, urgent sound, something between a whine and a huff. Then—

Salt.

The white dragon barreled toward her, a blur of scales and sinew, his claws clicking against the wood as he skidded to a halt in front of her. The warmth at her back vanished in a rush of displaced air, and before she could fully process it, a great weight pressed into the crook of her neck. Salt curled around her, his breath hot against her skin, frantic and grounding all at once.

Hermione—Hermione broke.

The fear, the exhaustion, the sheer helplessness of it all clawed up her throat, hot and choking. She clenched her hands in the rough scales of his neck, her breath hitching as Salt let out a low, keening sound.

“I know,” she gasped, “I know, I’m—” A sob. A raw, ugly thing that she couldn’t stop. “I’m okay.”

She wasn’t, not in the slightest, but Salt curled around her like he could shield her from it anyway, his body a much needed barrier between her and whatever ghosts still lurked outside the ruined cabin

Her hands slid down—And that is when it clicked.

No chains.

Hermione blinked, disoriented. Her wrists were bare, the iron shackles that had kept her bound now little more than melted slag on the floor.

She flexed her fingers, now wet with something, bringing them up to clutch at Salt’s neck, pressing her forehead into the warmth of his scales. His chest rumbled against hers, protective, grounding.

For the first time in what felt like forever, she could breathe.

The pain was still there, lurking beneath the surface, waiting for its chance to drag her under. But the world had gone soft around the edges, her limbs heavy, her thoughts unspooling into something slow and syrupy. The dark crept in again, but this time, it was different.

This time, it wasn’t a prison. It wasn’t a trap.

This time, it felt like release.

Salt rumbled again, curling closer, guarding her even as her body betrayed her once more, dragging her back down into unconsciousness.

But for the first time in what felt like a long while, Hermione knew—

Everything was going to be okay.

She woke to fluorescent light and silence, the kind that swallowed sound whole. No soft murmur of conversation, no distant rustle of paper or scuff of shoes against the floor. Just the steady, metronomic ticking of a clock she half-recognized, a sound that burrowed under her skin, grounding her in a space she hadn’t yet placed.

The bed was absurdly comfortable. That was the first thing her sluggish mind registered, followed closely by the weight pressing against her side. Warm, solid. Familiar.

Salt.

Hermione forced her eyes open, and the pain that should have been there—had been there, should still have been there—wasn’t. Or at least, not in the way she expected. It lingered at the edges, dull and distant, like a memory that hadn’t fully settled. The relief was immediate and almost dizzying, but it cracked at the edges, because she had survived, but—

But at what cost?

She shifted, and instantly, Salt was up, purple eyes locking onto hers. His breath ghosted over her face, and then he made a soft, high-pitched sound—somewhere between a whimper and a chirp—and nuzzled closer.

Her hand moved on instinct, dragging through his warm scales, and she registered the rough fabric of a bandage wrapping her fingers before she saw it. The sight was jarring, but not nearly as much as the huge claw mark running from his wings to his tail. Her breath caught.

“Oh, Salt, you absolute idiot,” she rasped, voice scraping against her throat like gravel. Her hand fluttered uselessly around the wound, aching to fix it, to undo it. “What happened to ‘stay out of trouble’?”

Salt yipped, tail curling around himself, before promptly burrowing against her torso like an overgrown cat. Hermione swallowed around the lump in her throat, carding her fingers carefully through his scales, her mind sluggishly assembling fragments of memory she wasn’t ready to examine yet. Because if she did—

If she let herself think about what had happened, about the choices she had made, the ones she hadn’t gotten to make—

The door creaked.

She tensed instinctively—only to sag the moment she recognized the figures stepping inside.

Dennis, dressed in the standard green robes of a reserve healer, and Harry, looking like he had been to hell and back with an additional layover in bureaucratic purgatory.

Relief flooded through her so fast it nearly knocked the breath from her lungs. Home.

She was home.

But she was also not. Not yet. Because her ribs ached and her throat was raw and her body was still holding onto something heavy, something coiled in the pit of her stomach, waiting.

As Dennis closed the door behind him, Hermione shifted, ignoring the ache in her side, her eyes darting toward the hallway. Searching. Where was Charlie. Where. Was. He.

And Katya—bloody hell—Katya and Anton. Had they made it out? She hadn’t even thought—hadn’t had time to—

Her breath caught, her mind tripping over fragmented memories, the last things she had seen before—

Harry cocked an eyebrow, reading her easily, but didn’t comment. Instead, he gave her an easy smile as he took a seat beside her, settling in with a quiet sort of patience.

Dennis moved in, his voice low, soothing. Grounding. “Good morning, Hermione.”

Hermione gave a weak smile. "Morning Dennis, good morning Harry."

Harry smiled at her. Brightly. "Goodmorning Herm—"

Salt growled, his jaws snapping toward Harry.

Hermione rolled her eyes, shushing him with a tired pat to his side. “You know, you weren’t this dramatic when I was actually all alone in the woods,” she muttered, giving Harry a small apologetic twist of her lilps. Then, she dragged her gaze back to Dennis, offering the best smile she could manage. It was weak, but there.

Dennis huffed out something that sounded suspiciously like a laugh before his expression softened, businesslike. “You’ve been asleep for quite a while. It’s been three and a half since you were taken...” He paused, his eyes holding Hermione's. "What do you remember?"

Three and a half days.

Bloody hell.

Had Rookwood gone ahead yet, executed his plan? Would he take her again? Ending it, for good, this time?

She swallowed, a shiver running down her spine as goosebumps formed along her bare arms. Unfortunately, she remembered. Everything. Although she wished she didn’t.

She answered as such.

Dennis didn’t linger on the implications. Instead, he flicked his wand, and diagnostic spells flared to life around her, tracing her form in soft gold light. He studied them for a beat before nodding. “The readings are consistent, you're on the mend. Unexpectedly, there’s no lasting damage.” A pause, before he added, “Which is impressive, all things considered.”

Hermione’s mouth twitched. “I am known for my durability.”

Dennis gave her an unimpressed look. “Right. Your magic reserves are still low, so don’t push it. I’ll give you another Pepper-Up and a pain potion. You need rest, Hermione. A lot of it. But—” he offered a small, knowing smile “—if you behave yourself, you can return to your own tent soon.”

Her chest ached in a way that had nothing to do with spell damage. The thought of her tent, of familiar sheets and the smell of parchment and ink, of something—anything—that belonged to her alone—it was enough to make her throat tighten.

She nodded, reaching for words that her throat wasn’t quite ready to form. Her mouth was dry, her voice an unreliable tool. She didn’t have to say anything, though—Harry, ever the perceptive one, was already pressing a glass of water into her hands.

Their eyes met over the rim as she drank.

Understanding.

And then—something else. Something sharper.

His gaze hardened, shifting into something familiar and authoritative. Not Harry-the-friend. Not Harry-the-worried. Harry-the-Auror.

“You want to know what happened?” he asked.

Hermione exhaled slowly, the water cooling her throat. She wanted to know—of course she did—but no. Not yet.

Her fingers clenched weakly around the blanket, as if gripping something solid might hold the panic at bay. “Katya,” she rasped. “Is she—?”

Harry blinked at her, expression caught somewhere between confusion and exasperation, like she’d just sprouted another head.

Dennis, ever the mediator, placed a steadying hand on Harry’s shoulder before handing Hermione another potion. “She’s fine,” he assured her, his kind brown eyes meeting hers. “Recovering in her tent. Anton’s keeping a close watch.” He hesitated, then added, “She was asking about you.”

Relief shuddered through her, loosening something tight in her chest, but it wasn’t enough. Not yet. Her throat worked, the next words scraping out, raw and desperate. “Charlie?”

She needed to see him. Needed him like air, like magic, like something cellular, something woven into the fabric of her being.

Dennis smiled, small and knowing. “I’ll make sure he’s here when you wake up.”

Salt yipped at that, shifting against her side as if he, too, had opinions on the matter.

Dennis chuckled, shaking his head. “God knows it was enough of a fight for him to back out now.” He glanced at Harry, his grin turning wry. “Salt won that first battle. And Harry the last one, of course, because he pulled rank.”

Hermione let out something between a scoff and a laugh, but it turned into a cough, rattling in her chest. Harry’s frown deepened, torn between concern and the stubborn set of his jaw.

Dennis sighed. “Rest first,” he reminded her, pressing the potion into her hand.

Harry hesitated, but finally gave a curt nod, stepping back.

Hermione smiled at him. A real smile this time. "Thank you for coming, Harry."

Harry's eyes softened, the corner's of his mouth twitching upward. "Always, Hermione."

This time, Salt didn't growl. And with that knowledge, Hermione tipped the vial to her lips, swallowing down whatever foul-tasting concoction Dennis had deemed necessary. It burned on the way down, but it did its job.

Her body sank further into the absurdly soft bed, exhaustion pulling at her limbs. Salt curled against her, head tucked into the crook of her neck, a warm, living weight anchoring her in place.

She met Harry’s gaze one last time, and she knew her eyes said everything she currently couldn't.

His shoulders relaxed just a fraction.

She could rest. Her best friend was here. And Charlie would be here too, soon.

He always was.

Consciousness came in pieces.

Not in a slow, gentle wave, but in jagged fragments, sharp edges slicing through the thick, heavy fog that clung to her mind.

It was familiar this time. The slow drift toward awareness, the weight in her limbs, the scratch of exhaustion along her ribs.

She had woken up before.

She remembered the voices. Dennis. Harry. The warmth of Salt’s body curled around her. The way her body had felt too heavy, too sluggish, too far behind her own thoughts.

She remembered Harry’s face.

Tired. Guarded. Watching her carefully, like he was weighing something too heavy to speak aloud.

And then—darkness again.

Not forced. Not stolen. Just exhaustion, creeping in like thick fog, dragging her back under before she could get anywhere.

This time was different.

This time, the world came into focus sharper, clearer. The haze was still there, but she could move.

Not much.

But enough.

She blinked, her vision slow to adjust. The ceiling was the same. The dim, steady light was the same. The quiet hum of the infirmary, the muted voices beyond the ward—all the same.

She swallowed, grimacing at the ache in her throat, but the sharp, clawing burn had dulled to something bearable.

A shadow shifted near her hips.

Not a person. Not a Healer.

Salt.

Her breath hitched.

Still. Breathing, but still. His tail curled inward, his wings tucked close, his chest rising and falling in slow, even beats. He hadn’t moved.

Not since she’d last seen him.

Something in her chest pulled tight.

Pepper was there too, curled up behind him, her small body pressed into the space beneath his wing, their scales shifting together with each slow, even breath.

Her fingers twitched against the sheets, and the movement sent a ripple of awareness through the room.

She wasn’t alone.

Not just her and her two lovely dragons.

There, slouched in a chair too close to the bed, was Charlie.

Her breath caught, something loosening in her chest, the weight of it making her dizzy. He was here.

Of course he was.

He was asleep.

Barely.

It was the kind of sleep that wasn’t sleep at all—head tilted forward, arms braced on his knees, body curled inward like he hadn’t meant to doze off, like he hadn’t given himself permission to rest but his body had done it anyway.

He looked like hell.

Exhausted in a way that went beyond just lack of sleep. The bruises on his knuckles stood out against the paleness of his skin, dark shadows carved beneath his eyes. His hair was a mess, like he’d dragged his fingers through it over and over again without thinking.

He must have felt her looking.

Charlie stirred, inhaling sharply through his nose, shoulders rolling back as he shifted upright. He blinked, clearing the fog from his expression, and then—

His eyes found hers.

For a second, he didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Just looked at her.

Then, in one slow, steady motion, he was there.

Not fast. Not frantic. Just steady. Controlled, like he had spent hours holding himself still and had only just been given permission to move.

Hermione exhaled, long and slow, letting the moment settle.

His gaze swept over her, taking in every visible wound, every bandage, every mark. His jaw flexed—just slightly, just enough that she saw it.

Then—his fingers found hers.

Not tight. Not desperate. Just… there.

Grounding her. Grounding himself.

Hermione swallowed, testing the weight of her own voice.

“…You waited.”

Charlie let out a slow breath, one of those exhalations that carried too much, like he was trying to let something go and failing.

“Yeah,” he said, rough and low. “I waited.”

There was something in those two words.

Something heavy. Something old.

Something she wasn’t quite ready to untangle.

She turned her head, just enough to see the rise and fall of Salt’s breathing. The stretch of his wings, curled tight like he was still shielding her.

“You waited,” she repeated, softer this time.

Charlie’s fingers twitched against hers.

“I wasn’t the only one.”

Hermione knew that.

But that wasn’t the point.

She shifted her hand—not much, just enough to grip back.

Something eased in his expression. Just a fraction. Just enough.

The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable. It wasn’t empty.

It was weighted, layered. The kind of silence that came when there were too many words and not enough ways to say them.

Hermione swallowed against the lingering ache in her throat.

Charlie was watching her again.

Not like before—not with the careful assessment of injuries, the quiet calculations of someone cataloguing damage.

This was different.

Softer.

Quieter.

Like he was still catching up to the fact that she was here.

Charlie exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face.

Then, with forced casualness—

“Next time, don’t make me chase you across thousands of miles, a war zone, and the habitat of a legendary creature, yeah?”

Hermione huffed a breath of laughter, weak but real.

“No promises.”

Charlie shook his head.

But he didn’t let go.

And this time, she didn’t fall back asleep.

Chapter Text

The world smelled like antiseptic and dragon musk.

Hermione cracked an eye open, blinking against the filtered morning light. The infirmary’s thick canvas walls muted the usual camp noises, but she could still hear the distant clang of metal against metal, the steady murmur of voices outside, the occasional rustle of movement as someone passed the tent flap. It was all so painfully, ridiculously normal.

A warm weight pressed against her side. She shifted, and Salt let out a deep, contented rumble, his tail curling tighter around himself. His scales, rough and familiar, scraped lightly against her bare arm, and she huffed out something that was almost a laugh.

“Still here?” she murmured, voice wrecked with sleep.

Salt exhaled through his nose, unimpressed.

Yeah, alright. Fair question. She had spent most of the night curled up in a tangle of limbs and exhaustion, drifting in and out of consciousness while Charlie filled the silence with talk of literally anything that wasn’t the past three days. He had spun stories of Victoire and Dominique, of Fleur being out for blood and Ginny apparently sharpening her wand movements for the occasion. And at some point—somewhere between Charlie’s quiet storytelling and the warmth of Salt’s steady breathing—she had let herself sleep.

Charlie had left before dawn. Something about Bill. Something about talking things through.

It had been easier not to question it.

A shadow passed outside the door, followed by the soft sound of fabric rustling. Hermione turned her head just as Dennis slipped inside, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. His healer’s robes were still rumpled from too many hours on duty, but his eyes were sharp as he ran his gaze over her, already shifting into professional mode.

Salt lifted his head and gave him a slow, deliberate blink—then promptly ignored him.

“Good morning to you too,” Dennis muttered at the dragon, then turned to Hermione, already flicking his wand. Golden diagnostic light flared up around her, tracing the lingering bruises on her ribs, the faint scratches along her wrists, the dull throb still wrapped around her throat like a phantom noose. Most of it had healed.

Yeah, most of it.

Dennis frowned slightly, muttering under his breath as the golden threads of magic wove around her body. Hermione didn’t flinch, just breathed through it, watching the way his brows pinched together in that particular you’re an idiot and I will be having words with you later way.

He finished his scan just as the door opened again. This time, the smell of coffee entered before the person did.

Harry stepped in, balancing a tray of food in one hand and a mug of coffee in the other, the steam curling lazily into the air. He was smiling.

Hermione managed a smile, small but real. Something in her chest loosened—just a little.

Everything still looked the same.

And yet. Not quite.

Harry didn’t speak right away. Just stared at her, taking her in piece by piece like he was mentally checking for damage. His eyes paused at her throat—where the bruises hadn’t quite faded. His jaw tensed, that tic near his temple flaring like it always did when he was trying not to lose it.

“Bloody hell, Hermione,” he said, voice low. “Don’t do that again. Seriously.” He blew out a breath and rubbed a hand over his face. “Charlie nearly took my head off yesterday. And I’m not being dramatic—he had his fist cocked. Thought he’d knock my teeth into next week.”

Hermione let out a dry snort.

Harry lifted an eyebrow. “Laugh all you want, but I would’ve been in the other bed if it wasn’t for the other bloody Weasley in the room”, the corner of his mouth twitched up, “thank god for Bill.”

Hermione smiled, wider this time. The skin pulled at her cheeks. “Good to know at least one of them is keeping their priorities in order.”

Harry gave her a look, all exasperation and too-much-heart. “I mean it, Hermione”.

She rolled her eyes—gentler this time. “I’ll do my best,” she added. “No promises.”

Harry just gave her a look before setting the tray down on the table besides her.

The food was unreasonably well-balanced—scrambled eggs, toast, something suspiciously green that Dennis had no doubt forced onto the plate—but the real prize was the coffee. Her stomach rumbled, loud enough to make Harry smirk. It did look good, warm and filling, and the scent alone had her mouth watering. She didn’t hesitate, digging into the eggs first, savoring the soft, buttery texture before chasing it with a bite of toast. The green stuff, however, remained firmly untouched.

“You ready to talk?” Harry asked, watching her closely.

Hermione exhaled slowly. Last night, she hadn’t been. Last night, she had let Charlie’s stories fill the space where the past three days should have been. But this morning?

It took a few seconds to get her head in order. Then, she nodded. “Yeah. I feel better now.”

Harry’s relief was subtle—just the faintest drop of his shoulders—but it was there. He sat down as she ate, quiet but watchful, waiting, his fingers drumming lightly against his knee. Like if he looked away, she might vanish again.

Dennis cleared his throat, still flicking his wand through the last of his scans. “She can go,” he announced finally, his tone firm but not unkind.

With a small flick of his wrist, he conjured a set of soft clothes—an oversized sweater and loose jogging trousers, warm-looking and comfortable. They folded themselves neatly on the edge of the bed, a quiet invitation to trade the thin hospital gown and blanket for something less clinical, more human.

“But no magic,” he added, glancing pointedly at her. “At all.”

Hermione sighed dramatically. “You do know who you’re talking to, right?”

Dennis leveled her with a stern look. “Your magical core is still depleted. The readings are better than yesterday, but if you even think about casting a spell, I will personally hex you into next week.”

“Alright,” she murmured, taking a sip of the black gold with a quiet sigh. She held the cup out toward Harry, gaze soft but expectant. “Would you mind turning this into a travel mug? I’m going to need the rest of it later.”

Harry’s mouth twitched. He twirled his wand between his fingers before tapping the cup. It morphed instantly, the handle shifting, the material cooling into something sturdy.

Hermione grinned, lifting it in salute before taking a slow sip.

“Charlie's tent, right?” she asked. “That’s where the debrief is?”

Harry nodded. His grin turned sly. “And here I thought you just wanted an excuse to sneak into his tent.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, draining her coffee as she swung her legs over the cot. Salt shifted beside her, stretching lazily before flopping back down like a dramatic overgrown cat. He had no intention of moving.

“Pepper went with Charlie,” Harry offered. “Poor bastard had to carry her most of the way. I’m pretty sure she bit him twice for the trouble.”

Hermione smirked, watching the dragon while quickly putting on the soft fabric. “Sounds about right.”

Salt flicked his tail, clearly offended by the mere mention of Pepper’s behaviour—as if being only slightly larger granted him moral superiority.

Dennis sighed, rubbing his temple like he already regretted every life choice that had led him to this moment. “Alright,” he muttered, stepping back. “Go. Just don’t collapse before you make it there.”

“I’ll do my best.”

Harry snorted. “No promises?”

Hermione grinned, shoving her feet into her boots. Her body still ached, and her throat still burned, but for the first time in days, the weight of it wasn’t that unbearable.

The morning air was crisp when they stepped outside. The world smelled of dew and earth, of dragonhide and fire, and as they started toward Charlie’s tent, Hermione took one more slow sip of her coffee, letting the heat settle in her chest.

She was alive. And that, for now, was enough.

The air above the reserve shimmered faintly with dragon-heat, but the wind kept things on the pleasant side of freezing—just enough to ruffle her curls and whip Harry’s already hopeless hair into full rebellion.

They walked side by side across the reserve, coffee in hand, snow crunching and wards humming low beneath their boots. It was strangely peaceful, given that mere hours ago she'd nearly died. Again. But neither of them said that aloud. Instead, they stuck to safer topics. Like whether Kingsley had officially gone round the twist—because who in their right mind looked at three separate Death Eater attacks and said, "probably just a misunderstanding"? Or if Ginny was finally going to follow through on her promise to hex Harry into a next calendar year for his latest stunt: portkeying to Romania with a note that quite literally arrived after he did.

She laughed. He grinned. It was nice. Organic. A quick reprieve.

Which meant, of course, it wouldn’t last.

“So,” Harry said casually, too casually, eyeing the path ahead like it was far more interesting than it was. “You and Charlie. Serious, then?”

Hermione blinked. That wasn’t a tropic she wanted to discuss right now. Or ever, really. Not even with her bloody best friend.

She stalled with a sip of coffee—hot, blessedly strong—and willed her cheeks not to betray her. “I don’t know,” she said slowly, eyes fixed on the horizon. “We were meant to see each other only by New Year’s, but then—well. You know. And just before I portkeyed here, he… he called me his girl.” Hermione paused. "So, I guess it is at least not just dating?"

Salt yipped at that statement. And Harry? Well, he also made a sound. A snort? A laugh? Hermione didn’t know. She only knew it was something infuriatingly smug.

She glanced at him. “What?”

“Oh, Hermione,” he said, shaking his head with a grin. “You should’ve seen him when I arrived. Judging by his angry outbursts, frantic searching, and not to mention how he’s been looking at you—‘his girl’ is probably the mildest thing you are to him. More like love of his life. Possibly the centre of his entire emotional ecosystem.”

Her jaw dropped. It was hanging so low, you could’ve shoveled the snow right in there if you’d want to.

“What do you mean, Harry?”

But he just kept walking, because of course he did, like he hadn’t just thrown a bloody Confundus at her. They neared Charlie’s tent, canvas flapping gently in the wind.

“Harry Potter,” she said again, sharper this time. “Explain yourself!”

Harry didn’t listen. Instead, he had the audacity to reach for the flap and pause, looking at her—not in the eye, but at her shoulder, like there was something written there she hadn’t noticed yet.

Then, with a maddening grin he said, “Oh, Hermione. You’re the smartest witch of our age. I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

And just like that, he pulled the flap back and held it open for her, all chivalry and no answers. Bloody Gryffindors.

The tent was colder on the inside.

Not temperature-wise—though the fire was barely holding a flame—but in that distinctly Weasley brothers arguing sort of way. Stiff shoulders. Terse muttering. Magic crackling just under the surface.

Charlie and Bill stood near the desk, locked in the kind of quiet, clipped debate that only happened when both of them were too tired to yell and too stubborn to back down. Neither looked thrilled.

In the far corner, Anton and Katya were curled into the sagging sofa like they were trying to disappear into it. Katya’s leg was propped up, her ankle wrapped, and a sliver of white bandage peeked from the neckline of her shirt—fresh, and a little too close to her heart for comfort. Anton had his arm around her in that silent, coiled way that said he wasn’t entirely convinced they were safe yet.

The tension snapped the moment Anton spotted her. He bolted upright like something had hit him, crossed the room in three long strides, and pulled her in—gently, but completely. Careful of bruises. Careful of her breath.

“Welcome back, Löwin,” he murmured in her hair, his voice rough around the edges, slipping back into German like it was muscle memory.

Hermione let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. Over his shoulder, Katya gave a little wave, her face brightening in a way that made Hermione’s chest ache.

Anton stepped back just enough for Katya to dart forward. It wasn’t graceful—more of a shuffle-hop—but Hermione met her halfway, wrapping her arms around her with just enough care not to jostle anything stitched or splinted.

“Oh, I am so glad to see you,” she said, voice cracking inconveniently.

Katya, who normally carried herself like she’d fought a bear last Tuesday and won, actually sniffled. “You are warrior. Spasibo. For everything.” she said, accent thick and warm and completely sincere.

Behind them, a throat cleared. That unmistakable Bill throat clear—the one that always sounded half-annoyed and half-ready to ruin your day with a big brother speech. And still, Hermione smiled. In truth, she only held good memories with that sound.

Next to her, though, Harry shifted in his chair.

It didn’t matter. Hermione only had eyes for the eldest Weasley as she turned. “Good to see you, kiddo,” he said, arms open and waiting.

Hermione grimaced. “I still hate that nickname, William.” But she went to him anyway, gave him a hug—brief, solid. “Didn’t think you’d be here.”

Bill squeezed her once, firm and certain. “Hermione, we will always come for you. Ginny and Fleur are standing by. Fred and George are only staying back because I threatened them with the wrath of the two Weasley ladies if the they would get here before they were invited.”

She laughed, but her chest stung. For once, it was the good kind of pain.

And then she turned.

Charlie.

Black t-shirt. Wet hair. Arms crossed. He looked like he’d had just enough sleep to fake being functional. But his eyes—those impossible, too-seeing eyes—were rimmed in worry so deep she felt it echo in her own chest.

They didn’t speak.

Didn’t need to.

She walked into his arms like it wasn’t even a question, like it had always been waiting to happen. He caught her gently, like holding her was the one thing he knew how to do without question. No force. Just... comfort.

Safe.

Eventually, the others pulled chairs closer. Charlie sat and tugged her with him, settling on the sofa like his body had been shaped to hold hers.

She hesitated—on instinct, on pride—but he leaned in and murmured, “Please, Granger. Not for you. For me.”

That did it.

She sat. His arms came around her, solid and warm. His head rested against her shoulder, and she could feel the steady beat of him under her palm.

Her fingers traced absent circles on the bare skin of his arm, where the dragons inked along his bicep shifted like they were breathing with him.

And finally—after everything—they talked. About the night of the ambush. About what happened after. About what broke. And what was still left standing.

Bloody hell.

It was the only coherent thought Hermione had as she leaned back against Charlie’s chest—broad, steady, and currently the only thing keeping her upright. A lot had happened. None of it good. And judging by the expressions on everyone’s faces, the worst of it hadn’t even arrived yet.

"So," she began, clearing her throat, "you didn’t catch anyone?"

Across from her, Bill shook his head, expression grim. Next to him, Harry was pulling at his sleeves again—his tell. He only did that when he felt helpless or guilty or, on truly special occasions, both.

"No," Harry said. "The ones we dueled disappeared into the dark. And the ones Charlie found... well, let’s just say no one went back to check or collect souvenirs."

Hermione arched a brow. "That bad?"

Charlie shivered behind her, and she felt it like a jolt of cold. His breath ghosted against the shell of her ear.

"There are legends alive in that part of the reserve," he murmured, voice low and gravelly. "We shouldn’t go back."

She didn’t ask him to elaborate. His high level recap of how he'd found her had left a trail of goosebumps on her skin. And now, the way his arms tightened around her, said enough.

Anton nodded from his seat near the fire.

"But whatever they’re after," he said, voice steady, "it’s right here. In this part of the reserve."

Katya, ever direct, added, "Da. They have blood. Hair. Enough for many rituals. Dangerous ones."

At that, a deep growl rumbled from the corner. Hermione glanced over to see Salt and Pepper curled together, both dragons awake now, eyes glowing faintly in the firelight. Neither looked pleased.

She swallowed hard. Next to her, Harry pushed his glasses up his nose, his mouth thinning into that tight line that usually preceded a very bad idea.

"I’ll floo Kingsley," he said. "He needs to know this. Maybe he’s got something buried in the archives that might help."

"And I’ll reach out Gringotts," Bill added, rising to his feet. "If it’s cursed, or a goblin artifact, there’s no way Fahrrod doesn’t have records on it."

Hermione let out a slow breath, her shoulders finally starting to unclench. There was something reassuring in their efficiency—in the way Harry and Bill defaulted to action like they couldn’t stand the silence any more than she could.

"What do I do?" she asked.

"Nothing," Harry and Bill said in unison.

Charlie barked a laugh behind her, and Hermione narrowed her eyes.

"Love," he said, voice far too amused, "you can’t use magic. You told us yourself."

She nodded, though her pride grumbled.

Charlie leaned in again, voice quieter now, thumb brushing lazy circles on her arm. "So stay with me. Yeah? Just... stay."

His hands were warm. Solid. Grounding. She nodded again, slower this time. Her body still ached in places she hadn’t dared acknowledge. But in Charlie’s arms, the edges of it dulled—less fragile, more anchored. For the first time in days, she didn’t feel like she might splinter apart.

She caught Harry watching them, an eyebrow raised, while Bill wore the smallest, most irritatingly knowing smile she’d ever seen. Git.

Anton cleared his throat. "I spoke with Thomas. He trusts the wards—said he wouldn’t have let either of the Weasleys put them up if he didn’t. Hermione’s adjustments made them stronger, apparently. But he’s not taking chances. He’s pulling the handlers before New Year’s."

"Good," Charlie said.

Katya nodded, her hands folding together "Is perfect. We use small party on New Year’s as cover. Many people, much distraction. They do not notice us ready."

Anton gave her a long look. "You want them to attack us. During... a party?"

Bill arched a brow, intrigued.

"You’re mad," Anton muttered. "Why the hell would you want that?"

Harry leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, fingers steepled in front of his mouth. Hermione knew that look, unfortunately, all too well.

"They’re coming anyway," he said. "We know that. Whether it’s Polyjuice or blood rituals, they’re trying to get through the wards. If we can predict when, it’s better for us."

Charlie’s voice rumbled behind her. "Potter’s right. The inner reserve’s too large to monitor for long without compromising dragon safety. The longer we stretch it, the more chances for a handler to get hurt."

Hermione nodded, catching the thread. "And if that happens, we’re even worse off."

Anton sighed, clearly defeated by their shared logic. He ran a hand through his blond hair like it might help.

Bill was already pacing. "I think it might work."

"Good," Charlie said. "We have a plan. I’ll take it to Thomas. In the meantime, Bill and Harry—floo your people. Get us information. Manpower. Anything. Anton, Katya—bring everyone in the reserve to the main tent. We need a full debrief. Pronto."

Everyone moved at once, peeling away like they’d been waiting for orders. Hermione stayed put, still tucked into Charlie’s lap, his arms a firm weight around her. Salt and Pepper ambled over and curled up near their feet, their snouts brushing Hermione’s legs in a way that felt vaguely protective.

She glanced at Charlie. "What do I do?"

His lips brushed her neck, just once, right where her pulse beat strongest. A butterfly kiss, fleeting but devastating.

"You," he murmured, "stay right here. With me. Understood?"

Hermione didn’t answer right away. Not because she doubted him—but because the weight of being wanted like this, held like this, settled somewhere dangerous behind her ribs. She wasn’t sure if it terrified her or made her feel alive. Maybe both.

She turned slightly, and he caught her lips with his. It was quick, soft, just enough to burn her cheeks pink.

He raised a brow when he pulled back. "Understood?"

Hermione gave him a crooked smile, heart hammering loud enough to drown out any leftover worries. "Yes, boss. Fully understood."

And with the way her chest fluttered at his touch, her body melting against his like it belonged there—like she belonged there—it seemed her heart understood the assignment all too well.

Chapter Text

The hours that followed passed in a strange sort of limbo—quiet and watchful; held together by coffee, dragons, and a delicate web of half-healed bruises.

Yet, everyone moved quick.

Too quickly, really.

Hermione wasn’t ready for time to move on. Not yet. Not when her neck still ached with every swallow, a dull, lingering burn tracing the ghost of a chokehold she couldn’t quite forget. The bruises had turned an artistic blend of yellow and green—ghastly enough that even Salt had given her a concerned sniff when she caught her reflection in the water trough.

Dennis had checked on her twice a day, wand glowing like a judgmental torch. “No magic,” he’d said again that morning, arms folded and face grim. “Not even a warming charm, Granger. Your core’s still unstable.”

She hadn’t argued. Much. Only made an offhand comment about Muggle hot water bottles and Romanian winters, which Dennis had chosen to ignore in favor of poking her ribs, rubbing her with bruise paste, and muttering diagnostic spells.

And Hermione? Well, she did her best to avoid looking at herself; her skin, her wounds, her reflection. Anything really. She wasn't ready for that. Not yet.

So she did the only thing left available to her: she followed Charlie.

Not in a clingy, emotional barnacle sort of way. No. She simply... lingered. Walked where he walked. Kept to the edges of the conversation and let her silence be enough. Charlie never minded. If anything, his hand had started drifting toward hers without thinking—like it anchored him just as much as it did her. Sometimes he caught himself, thumb brushing against her knuckles with the barest flicker of hesitation. Sometimes he didn’t, and left it there, solid and sure, as if to remind them both that whatever this was, they were in it together.

They visited Thomas’s office first. It was as disorganized as Hermione remembered—stacks of parchment threatening collapse, four teacups in varying stages of abandonment, and a sleeping Rottweiler curled under the desk like a very judgmental footstool.

Thomas looked like he hadn’t slept since Boxing Day.

“She’s mad,” he muttered as soon as Katya’s plan came up. “Absolutely bloody mad. But—” he shoved a sheaf of documents aside and let out a slow breath, “—we’re out of options. The reserve’s stretched. Too many dragons. Not enough handlers. And whatever’s stirring in the inner reserve… it’s wanted by a bloody Death Eater. And—” He dragged his hand down his face, “Fuck. I don’t know what it is. And, honest to Merlin, that scares the hell out of me.”

Hermione had felt the hair on her arms rise at that. Thomas was a man who once scolded a Hebridean Black like it was a cranky toddler. For him to admit fear?

Not ideal.

But there were more things that weren’t ideal. Like Kingsley’s reaction, or more like a lack of one, for instance.

Harry had Floo-called him right after the debrief, delivering a tidy, professional rundown of what they were up against. Hermione had stayed quiet in the corner of Thomas’s office, both hands wrapped around a mug of tea that had long since gone cold.

Kingsley’s face flickered in the green flame—calm, composed, polished as ever. He listened. He nodded. And then, in that infuriatingly even voice of his, said, “Acknowledged. No Aurors will be dispatched at this time.”

The flames vanished a second later, licking the stone clean like nothing had ever been there.

Hermione stared at the hearth a beat too long, the mug in her hands trembling slightly. Her knuckles were white around the handle, but she didn’t seem to notice.

The silence that followed wasn’t shock. It wasn’t even disappointment.

It was the weight of something expected.

Thomas didn’t look up. Just stared at the edge of his desk like he’d seen this play out too many times to bother flinching.

Charlie’s jaw tensed, but he didn’t say a word. Didn’t need to.

Then Harry let out a breath that sounded more like a groan. “He’s under pressure,” he muttered, dragging a hand through his hair. “He’s balancing too much. International alliances. Public panic. If he sends Aurors now—”

“Don’t,” Hermione said quietly.

Harry turned to her, blinking.

“Don’t make excuses for him,” she snapped. Her voice was low but sharp. “Not this time.”

Her mug flew through the room before anyone could say another word; cold tea dramatically dripping down the dark wall and velvet curtain.

“They’re not coming,” she repeated, louder now. Fierce. “Of course they’re not. Why would they?”

Her voice rose again—raw, broken at the edges. “Katya almost died.”

The words hung there, stark and awful.

She didn’t stop.

“I got bloody tortured, and almost died. But hey, what else is new, right?”

She was shaking now. Trembling fingers ghosted over her forearm, her other hand clenched, chest heaving, the fury spilling out faster than she could contain it.

“That man—”, she stopped herself, “no—monster— is still out there. Him and his dozens of lackeys. And what do we get?”

She stopped. Took a breath, but it didn’t steady her voice as she’d hoped. “No Aurors. No help. Just more empty words. Rehearsed paragraphs of protocol. More distance. More watching from behind bloody desks while the rest of us—” Her breath caught. “We’re the ones standing in the gaps. And it’s never enough.”

Her voice echoed off the walls. The others let her speak. Let her unravel.

Because they knew. Even if it didn’t burn as fresh for them, they knew.

Charlie stood like a statue, fists still curled, his eyes dark and unreadable. Then, slowly, he moved to her side. Didn’t speak. Just reached out and rubbed his hand along her arm—soft, steady. His thumb tracing slow circles, as if he stopped, she might fall apart completely.

Thomas hadn’t moved at all. His silence felt like agreement. Like resignation.

Only Harry shifted—shoulders slumping, grief flickering across his face as he turned away, as if he couldn’t bear to see what this was doing to her.

Hermione’s breathing was still ragged, her hands trembling, but she didn’t try to pull herself together. Instead, she laughed. A bitter, broken sound.

“They want us to fight another bloody battle,” she said, voice rough with disbelief. “Another Death Eater to clean up. Another monster nobody wants to admit exists.”

Charlie kept rubbing her arm. Soft. Grounding.

“Because we did so well the first time, right?” she continued, her voice rising again. “Why not let same worn-down show ponies be trotted out for a new fire and hope they can perform the same bloody tricks?”

Harry stepped forward. “Hermione—”

But she turned to him, sharp and sudden, her eyes locking onto his like a viper ready to strike.

“Haven’t we done enough, Harry?”

He froze.

She didn’t look away. She held the stare, the fury in her chest burning too hot to hide now.

“Haven’t we given them everything?”

Her voice broke on the last word—and with it, so did something inside her.

A single tear slid down her cheek. And then another. Her body trembled as the anger gave way to something deeper, something that had been clawing its way to the surface for days.

She sobbed. Hard and messy and real.

Charlie’s hand never left her. Then, without a word, he pulled her into his chest and wrapped his arms around her—solid, steady, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And Hermione—for once—let herself fall apart. Because fuck, she was hurting.

And for once, she let them see it.

Sometime later, when her tears had soaked through Charlie’s t-shirt and no one had said a word about any of it, they moved to the main tent. The air there wasn’t any lighter. If anything, it was worse.

The handlers had begun trickling back from their Christmas holidays—cheeks red from the cold, faces open and relaxed from time with family. Someone had even brought biscuits. For about five seconds, it had almost felt like peace.

Then Katya had conjured the map.

Gone were the smiles, the soft chatter. The tension moved through the room like a storm cloud. Jaws tightened. Shoulders squared. And just like that, the holiday warmth evaporated under the weight of clipped Russian-English and Anton’s low, serious voice.

“In the past day we've captured more movement at the edges of the inner reserve” he said, tapping a spot on the map with a thick finger. “But the wards hold. So far.”

Katya, leg propped up and wrapped in fresh bandages, looked equally unimpressed and absolutely done with everyone’s nonsense. “They test perimeter. Small signs—disturbed snow, blood trace, spell damage. Not enough to break through. But it is coming.”

No one spoke. Hermione could hear someone cracking their knuckles near the back of the tent.

Anton straightened, sweeping the room with a glance. "We prepare. We watch. But we do not wait." His voice was low, firm. "We let them think the reserve is exposed—minimum handlers on dragon duty, barely enough to maintain order. The rest rotate along the wards, disguised, setting traps. False trails. Dead zones. Anything to slow them down. With the New Year’s party, it should look like the perfect opportunity for them to strike. We anticipate. We strike back hard. And we stop as many of them as we can.” He ran a hand through his hair, solemnly looking at the handlers in front of him, “No chaos. Just control."

Control. Right. Sure.

As if.

It was all well and good until Bill’s Floo call with Fahrrod.

Thomas's office, being one of the few places on the reserve with a secured private Floo connection, made it the obvious choice for delicate conversations. Bill had stepped inside looking composed. He stepped out looking like he’d just been handed a Ministry-wide security breach on parchment.

“I have to go,” he’d said that evening, jaw set tight. “Fahrrod’s confirmed the trace readings. Whatever’s inside the inner reserve? It’s… interesting. High-Level-Gringotts-interesting.”

Hermione had blinked at him. “That’s not a good word.”

“No,” Bill said grimly. “It’s not.”

He promised he’d come back. Said it casually, even gave her a lopsided grin. But his eyebrow twitched halfway through the sentence, and Hermione had known better than to believe it.

She’d asked Charlie about it later that night. They were walking through the snow, boots crunching softly, Salt loping a few paces ahead. Charlie had just sighed, long and low. “I don’t like it,” he’d muttered. “He left too quick. And shared too little.”

She slept alone that night.

Charlie had lingered in the doorway of her tent, face unreadable in the lantern light. His fingers had brushed hers—soft, steady, grounding. But he didn’t cross the threshold. He had handlers to coordinate. Roster changes. Ward checks. A to-do list longer than Umbridge’s decrees and none of the fun that pink toad had had.

So, after a brief kiss—soft, steady, and full of everything he didn’t have time to say—he’d left. Reluctantly.

And Hermione, for the first time since she’d been rescued, was alone.

Salt curled around her like a warm thundercloud, radiating heat in soft, steady waves. When her breath hitched, he pressed in tighter—massive head nudging gently into her ribs until her body gave in and softened. Not quite a dragon, not quite a dog—just something ancient and steady and real. Something safe.

Pepper had been standing guard at the flap of the tent, tail flicking every time footsteps passed too close, but now she inched nearer. Slow, careful, watchful. When Hermione didn’t send her away, she crept up beside her cot and lay down close enough that she could feel his breath stirring the edge of the blankets.

She sank deeper into the worn quilts and finally—finally—let herself be still. No one watching. No one waiting for her to speak or crack or lead or make sense of the chaos. Just the hush of night, the soft shift of scales against canvas, and the weight of it all pressing down on her chest.

The breaking was quiet this time. No screaming. No shattered mugs or splintered wood. Just the sharp hitch of breath, the sudden sting in her throat. She let it come. Let it roll through her in waves. Katya’s blood, the suffocating grip of the spell, the bitter taste of cold magic sinking into her bones—it all came back. And this time, she didn’t push it down. She let it rise. Let it hurt.

The tears slid free before she could stop them, and Salt didn’t move. Just stayed there, warm and solid, a living weight against her ribs. Pepper shifted closer too, her flank brushing the edge of the bed like he wasn’t ready to touch, but didn’t want to be far.

The tears came easy. The understanding came slow—how deep the damage ran, how much she’d buried just to keep moving. But she didn’t fight it. She let it settle.

And when the worst of it passed, she gathered the pieces. Not all at once. No, one by one. Carefully. Methodically. Because she’d need them. Every sharp, painful shard. She couldn’t afford to fall apart tomorrow. Or any of the days after for that matter.

She didn’t dream. She didn’t want to. The dreams knew too much.

She wasn’t better.

Not yet.

But for now—pressed between two quiet creatures and the silence they offered—she was safe.

And that was enough.

Chapter Text

Charlie dragged a hand down his face, slow and resigned, like he was peeling off the last shreds of dignity after another long night in dragon shit and denial.

Merlin, he was knackered.

The kind of tired that settled behind the eyes and refused to budge, no matter how many mugs of tea or bitter brews his colleagues swore would “fix you right up.” He’d taken the night shift with Harry. Not because he fancied moonlit strolls through dark, deserted, and frostbitten areas, but because someone bloody had to—and lately, “someone” always meant him.

Katya was healing. Slowly. Her leg still looked like something out of a cursed anatomy book, but the swelling had gone down, and Dennis’s special paste actually worked—which was saying something, considering it smelled like expired vinegar and despair. She was stubborn as hell, of course, muttering about wanting back on rotation, but Charlie had threatened to duct-tape her to the cot if she so much as looked at her boots. That had earned him a scowl and a string of Russian that sounded distinctly murderous, but she’d stayed put. So, he counted that as a win.

Anton was… trying. That was the generous term. He’d stepped into the logistical role like it was a pair of dragonhide boots two sizes too small—functional, but clearly chafing. He handled the roster, snapped out route assignments with military precision, and glared at maps like they’d personally offended him. But you could see it in the flicker of his eyes, the way his attention slipped mid-sentence. The man was fraying at the seams. Had been, ever since Katya hit the ground, Hermione had been kidnapped, and the inner reserve's wards had started bleeding.

Charlie had sent him to bed two hours ago. Used the Lead Handler Voice and everything.

Didn’t even argue.

Which said it all, really.

As for Bill—yeah, that one stung.

He’d vanished back to Gringotts. He'd been in contact only once since. A quick and rushed floo call. Something about the Reserve's location. “Highly active magical zones,” Fahrrod had said. “Unstable intersections of ley lines.” All that mystical gobbledygook Bill normally loved to explain over pints.

But tonight? Nothing but clipped syllables and a brief apology.

Charlie had barely gotten a full sentence out of him before the Floo flared green and spat smoke across the rug.

Classic.

Sure, it made sense. Dragons liked nesting on old power veins. Places where magic pooled and twisted. And the Carpathians were nothing if not ancient and volatile. Still, he hated the way Bill had gone. Rushed. Vague. Like he knew something and didn’t want to say.

Never a good sign.

Charlie exhaled hard through his nose, rubbing the bridge of his nose like it might stop the tension headache brewing between his eyes. The dragons were getting twitchier. The handlers were running on fumes. And the so-called plan—Katya’s mad, brilliant, no-choice-left kind of plan—was skating on thinner ice than a kelpie in July.

The outer reserve had been fortified. Not with magic—Hermione would murder him if he so much as grazed a spell near the wards—but with bodies. Manpower. Good people. The big dragons were out there, stomping through snowdrifts like pissed-off tanks, and Charlie had personally made sure no handler went out without a partner, a flare, and at least three exit strategies.

Poachers had been spotted twice in the past few days. Brazen. Stupid. One even tried to bait a bloody Ridgeback. They’d found what was left of him fifty miles out. Not much to bury.

Still, one success story wasn’t enough to call it safe.

The inner reserve was worse. They’d thinned out the team there on purpose—needed to make it look vulnerable. Bait, essentially. The injured dragons were tucked away in reinforced enclosures. The hatchlings were being monitored round the clock. Hermione had personally designed most of the protective charms before Dennis smacked her with a no-magic order and nearly wrestled her wand out of her pocket.

She hadn’t been happy about it.

Charlie hadn’t either.

And the last group—the ones on patrol? They were the ones who knew how to bleed and keep standing. The old guard. The ones who still flinched at loud noises and had maps of the Forbidden Forest burned into their skulls. Charlie, Anton, Thomas, a handful of scarred veterans, and the younger crowd who’d grown in the tail-end of the war. It wasn’t just about fighting. It was about remembering what it was like to be abandoned and choosing to stand up anyway.

They were the last line.

And gods, Hermione had been right. Again. Bloody clever woman that she was.

They’d all given too much already. Lost too much. And yet here they were—being asked to stretch just a little thinner, bleed just a little longer.

Because no one else would.

Because Kingsley and his damned polished speeches weren’t coming. Because the Ministry only seemed to act when the fires reached their front door.

Apparently survival wasn’t enough—they had to save the world again, too.

Because that was where it all came to, one way or another. This wasn't just a lone Death Eater. This was a man with a plan. And bloody hell, if that wasn't worrisome.

Charlie spat into the snow. The wind took it without ceremony.

Fuck the Aurors.

Well—except for Potter, obviously. He was actually doing the work. Shoulders hunched like Atlas and eyes shadowed with too many sleepless nights, but he kept showing up. Kept reinforcing the pens like his life depended on it. Maybe it did.

More importantly, Hermione needed him. Not in the way people always assumed. Not to fix things or hold her hand or fight her battles.

Just… there.

Charlie saw it every time Harry entered the room. The way her spine relaxed half a degree. The flicker of something softer behind her eyes. A breath she didn’t even know she’d been holding.

And Charlie couldn’t resent him for it. Wouldn’t.

Because most of all—more than the dragons, the damn poachers, the ancient magic, or the cracked skeleton of a war no one wanted to name—Charlie was worried about her.

Hermione, with her bitten nails and thousand-yard stare. The girl who saved the world and now flinched at her own shadow. The woman who swallowed grief like it was duty and still found time to scold him about hydration and his bloody sleeping habits.

She didn’t need a hero. She needed quiet. A hand she could reach for without explanation. A presence that asked for nothing and stayed anyway.

Charlie gave her that. Unquestioningly. Steadily.

So did Harry. And Charlie had never felt insecure about it. Not like Ron used to, back when he’d sit fuming beside campfires, watching Harry and Hermione like betrayal was inevitable. Like needing each other too much meant something sordid. But Charlie had always seen it clearly—Harry looked at Hermione the way Charlie looked at Ginny. Like family. Like blood and loyalty and bone-deep care. And Hermione returned it in kind. Fierce. Protective. Familiar.

Years of war would do that to people. Would tie them together in ways most wouldn’t understand. But it was never romantic, never threatening. Just oxygen. Just survival.

Bill had mentioned it once—how Hermione had changed. Gone from bookish and brilliant to the one holding the whole damn trio together by sheer will, empathy and brainpower. Charlie hadn’t seen it. Not then. He hadn’t been there at the start of the war. Not even near the end. He’d been too far buried in dragonfire and Romanian frost, guarding flame-scaled beasts from Voldemort’s reach.

But he’d been there for the final battle. And for everything that came after.

He’d watched her transform in the aftermath—sharpened by loss, hardened by necessity, but still Hermione beneath it all. Only now she walked her own path. First with Ron. Then—quietly, without fanfare—without him. She chose herself. Chose Romania. Chose work over comfort, purpose over safety. She carved out something new from what was left of the world she’d helped save.

And somewhere along the way, she’d chosen him, too.

They hadn’t said it aloud. Not yet. But they didn’t need to. Not when her hand kept finding his. Not when she leaned into him with that same unspoken surety he felt in his bones.

And Merlin, it warmed something fierce in his chest—because soulmate tattoo or not, there was never any doubt in Charlie’s mind.

He would choose her. Again and again.

Come hell, high water, or dragon fire.

So yeah. Charlie was tired.

But not too tired to care. To stay.

Not now.

Not ever.

Charlie woke to the sensation of hot breath puffing steadily against his cheek, followed by something rough and damp nudging the side of his face.

He cracked one eye open. “Pepper,” he mumbled, blindly patting the scaly snout looming far too close. “Mate. Personal space.”

The dragonlet – or more like dragon, they were getting pretty big after all – gave a low rumble that sounded suspiciously smug.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m up,” Charlie groaned, rolling halfway onto his side.

A second voice piped up—not Pepper’s, unfortunately. “I hope so,” Harry said dryly from somewhere near the flap of the tent. “Otherwise I’m going to need to drink both cups of this swamp-water coffee, and I think we both know that would be a health hazard.”

Charlie sat up with a grunt, the blanket slipping down to his waist. Morning air slapped against his skin, and the familiar scent of bitter roast and dragonhide smoke hit his nose. He stretched an arm back, bones creaking, tattoos catching the low gold of sunrise like war paint. His chest, shoulders, and stomach—all inked and scarred from decades of fire, fang, and magical mishaps—were on full display.

Not that he cared. Harry had seen worse. Hell, one or two had happened while Harry had been there.

Still, when Charlie reached out for the mug Harry handed him, he caught the younger man’s raised eyebrow as his gaze flicked down his chest and over one particularly bold rune near his ribs.

Charlie just grunted. “Ta.”

Harry handed over the coffee with a wink and no further comment. Smart man.

Charlie took a long sip—strong, horrible, blessed—and stood, stretching again before twisting his hair up into a rough knot at the crown of his head. A faded jumper followed—one of those old Weasley knits full of holes and good intentions—then dragonhide trousers, boots, and his reinforced flight jacket. The usual.

“Forgive me,” he said, voice still gravelled with sleep, “but what ridiculous plan have I agreed to again?”

Harry smiled faintly, cradling his own mug like it might bite. “Perimeter duty. We Apparate to the east corner and fly disillusioned from there.”

Right. That plan.

“Katya and Anton are setting up for the party,” Harry added, glancing out toward the main camp. “Hermione’s still asleep. She’s been doing that a lot lately. But she asked for you last night, when I brought her dinner.”

Charlie paused, mid-button.

He’d been so busy yesterday, he hadn’t had the chance to visit her. At least not when she was awake. He'd quickly peeked into her tent, where Salt had unimpressedly puffed at him, and Hermione had been hidden behind her hair and soft snores. It had been adorable, really. But he hadn't wanted to wake her up.

Afterward, he’d meant to send a Patronus. Just a quick message. But… well. It had changed. Recently. And with everything going on—the traps, the patrols, the added risk of casting across wards—he hadn’t.

Didn’t mean he hadn’t wanted to let her know that he'd been thinking about her, like all the bloody time.

Harry must’ve read something in the silence, because he offered, almost too casually, “I told her you’d come by after our rounds.”

Charlie nodded, mouth tilting into a crooked smile. “Thanks, mate.”

Harry shrugged. “That’s what your only brother-in-law’s for, isn’t it?”

“Bold use of that title there, Potter,” Charlie said with a smile.

He stepped outside, coffee in hand, boots crunching over frost, cold wind hitting his face.

Harry just grinned and followed. Pepper yipped along.

Their brooms leaned against the outer post, waiting.

The dragons were restless. The sky was grey.

And they had a border to patrol.

The waterfall roared somewhere behind them, a constant, pleasant growl that made it easier to pretend they weren’t knee-deep in someone else’s battle plan. The Thestrals drank quietly at the edge of the pool, skeletal heads dipping low, bone-thin wings twitching in the morning sun. Charlie tried not to look at them directly.

He’d never said it aloud, but it was always a bit grim, being in company like that. Made it clear—too clear—who could see them and who couldn’t. And the fact that Harry and he both could? Well. Said enough without needing a bloody conversation. It was one thing to survive a war.

He shook the thought off and bit into his sandwich—ham, dragon-spiced mustard, one slightly stale bit of bread from the reserve's endless stockpile of "rations"—and turned his attention back to the conversation at hand.

“I’m thinking Auror robes,” Harry said between bites, nodding like it was a well-thought-out strategy and not just pure paranoia dressed up in black wool. “Only thing I own that’s remotely presentable, and you know. Spell-reinforced. Just in case Katya’s grand idea blows up in our faces.”

Charlie arched an eyebrow. “Festive.”

Harry shrugged. “I like to be ready.”

Charlie chewed, swallowed, and leaned back against the rock. “I was just gonna wear dragon leather. Fireproof, bloodproof, mostly weatherproof. What’s the worst that could happen?”

Harry made a thoughtful sound. “You do look good in leather.”

Charlie barked a laugh, sharp and sudden—and immediately clapped a hand over his mouth. Right. Disillusioned. Hidden. Silent. Bugger.

“Shut it,” Harry muttered, still smiling.

Before he could retort, a soft whoosh cut through the air. A silver ball—no bigger than a snitch—zipped past them and hovered mid-air, pulsing faintly like a waiting heartbeat.

Charlie blinked. “Friend of yours?”

Harry didn’t answer at first. Just smiled, waving his wand to renew the Muffliato around them, before leaning forward. “Always the sword, never the dagger,” he whispered.

The ball of light stilled. And then it unraveled.

Shimmering silver ribbon twisted outward, curling and blooming until a full otter Patronus hovered in the air. Hermione’s.

Her voice burst through the clearing, sharp and breathless. “Harry! Shit. I need you! It’s an emergency—”

A pause.

“Well, not an emergency emergency. But still. Quite urgent!”

Then softer, smaller. “Please come. And don’t tell Charlie, please.”

The otter gave a sudden bounce, like it’d just realized what it said, paws flailing in the air before it landed and tucked its head with an audible squeak. Then—almost sheepishly—it darted off into the trees, tail flicking like it knew exactly how obvious it had been.

Harry, mouth twitching, while he let out a low laugh. “Well. Bit late for that.”

Charlie blinked. “What the hell was that?”

Harry, clearly trying not to grin, said innocently, “Haven’t the faintest.”

Charlie narrowed his eyes, suspicious, but mostly just curious. Hermione didn’t sound panicked. If anything, she sounded mildly annoyed, which was somehow more concerning.

“Probably forgot she couldn't do magic again,” he laughed.

Harry smirked. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

Charlie finished the last of his sandwich and grabbed his bottle of water. “Right then. Let’s finish our meal and head back so you can check on her.”

Harry cocked an eyebrow. “You’re not going to ask why she didn’t ask for you?”

Charlie shrugged. “She clearly needs you. And you’re like her brother. Why wouldn’t she?”

Harry blinked, as if that answer hadn’t occurred to him. “Oh.”

The silence that followed was comfortable. Unspoken things hanging easy in the air for once.

Charlie glanced back at the thestrals. One of them had lifted its head, nostrils flaring like it could sense the shift in mood. Maybe it could. Magic did weird things around grief. Around memory.

Then Harry, before taking another bite of his sandwich, cleared his throat, tone casual. “So… about that new Patronus of yours—”

Charlie squinted. “How the hell do you know it’s new?”

Harry gave him a look. “Anton talks. So does Bill.”

Charlie rolled his eyes. Of course they bloody did.

Harry took another sip of his tea. “So? What do you think it means?”

Charlie hesitated. “Thought I had a feeling. But… y’know.”

He didn’t finish. Didn’t need to.

Harry nodded slowly. “Never heard of one changing. It’s rare. And Salt? Of all things?”

Charlie hummed noncommittally, but the name—the image—sent his thoughts skidding sideways.

Salt, with his massive frame (he was really growing by the day now) and war-scarred hide. Protective. Loyal. The kind of creature who didn’t follow, but watched. Judged. Waited. And then chose.

He’d picked Hermione first, of course. Which made sense. Hermione had a way with ancient things. With broken things. With powerful things that refused to be tamed.

But the night his Patronus changed? That had been different.

He hadn’t cast one since the war. Not properly. Not until that night, when he found Hermione in that cabin. He'd had to inform Dennis. And the other three. It had taken everything he had—every ounce of strength from the soles of his feet—but still, he conjured it.

He’d expected a dragon again. Maybe the one from his first casting—familiar, primal. Or something abstract, indistinct.

Instead, he found Salt.

Not Pepper, who had been trailing Charlie himself like a protective shadow. Not any of the others he'd worked with over the years. Salt.

Fierce. Singular. New.

And unmistakably hers.

It didn’t take a genius to suspect what had changed. He thought he knew then. That it meant something—everything. That the Patronus had shifted because his soul had, too. Because maybe, after all this time, fate had gotten off its arse and finally aligned the pieces.

But now, watching that silver otter bob away into the woods, Hermione’s voice still echoing in its wake, doubt crept in where certainty used to live.

Her Patronus was an otter. Always had been. Which meant—

Charlie glanced down at his abdomen, where hidden away under his shirt, was the one tattoo that haunted his days. The one that had prompted him to get the others. To hide. To mask. Everything to get away from the fact that for eleven years he knew he was spoken for. That there was someone in the world who—

Yeah, Charlie hated those thoughts. He hated the certainty. The inevitability.

And still, somehow, over the past few months, he'd come to accept it. He had hoped— no, wanted, it to mean something. Anything.

But no, it was an otter. And that realization him like a wind shift—cold, sharp, sudden.

It wasn't her. It couldn't be her.

And yet, the doubt didn’t undo the certainty.

He loved her. Full stop. Even if the magic was still catching up.

The two of them finished lunch in silence. The kind born not just of understanding—but reflection.

Eventually, Charlie stood and brushed crumbs off his trousers.

“You go,” he said, flicking a hand toward the trail. “I’ll finish the patrol.”

Harry gave him a look—searching, sharp. The Auror look.

“Thanks, Charlie. You’re a good egg.”

Charlie froze mid-step and spun on his heel. “Dragon,” he corrected sternly, although he couldn't hide his enjoyment. “If you're comparing me to something ridiculous, I am definitely a dragon. Or, bare minimum, something dangerous with wings and a complicated reputation. Not a bloody egg.”

Harry smirked. “Sure, Egg.”

Then, with a crack of displaced air, he vanished.

Charlie stood alone at the edge of the glade, the sound of the waterfall rising again in his ears. The thestrals had moved on. The sandwich was gone. The questions weren’t.

He didn’t move at first. Just let the breeze settle over his skin. Let his thoughts rattle.

He knew Harry wasn’t trying to be clever about it. The joke, the Patronus, Hermione’s message—it wasn’t about rubbing anything in. If anything, it was the opposite. Harry was worried, too. Maybe not in the same way Charlie was, but close enough. They’d both seen her stretch herself too thin. Both watched her carry the war and all its aftershocks on shoulders too narrow for the weight.

But Charlie had something Harry didn’t. Not history—Harry had that in spades—but future.

Hermione had chosen him.

Not in some dramatic, candlelit declaration. But in the way she leaned toward him when she was tired. The way her hand found his without thinking. The way her eyes found his every single time they were in the same room.

It was like magic.

He looked up, finding Pepper in the sky. Turning around lazily, playing with a flock of birds. Charlie smiled.

That was a promise too. A promise he hadn’t understood.

Not until now.

He mounted his broom with a sigh, coffee thermos clipped to the side, wand tucked into the strap across his chest. He cast a reinforcement of the disillusionment spell with a flick of his wrist and kicked off the ground, rising above the tree line just as the sun broke through the clouds.

The air up here was colder, thinner, but it bit less when you had purpose. When you knew where your feet would land when you dropped back down.

Charlie banked left, eyes scanning the reserve below.

He didn’t know what the night would bring. Whether Katya’s trap would hold. Whether the Death Eaters still sniffing around the perimeter would finally make their move.

But he knew this much:

Hermione was safe.

And he’d keep her that way.

Even if it meant flying straight into hell itself.

Again.

Chapter Text

Harry Apparated directly into her tent, smelling like mustard, wet snow, and battlefield nerves.

“Merlin’s bollocks, Hermione,” he muttered, brushing a bit of sandwich crust off his old black robes. “You interrupted lunch. There were still biscuits in my pockets.”

Hermione didn’t answer.

Instead, she stood in front of the mirror, the open back of her dark green jumpsuit turned towards it. Her eyes narrowed, her shoulder bared, and spine rigid. Her reflection looked calm. Relatively. Her insides? Less so.

Harry glanced at her. Then the mirror. Then her again.

He squinted. “Huh.”

It didn’t catch Hermione’s attention.

Harry scraped his throat. That usual sound, one of utter confusion. Still, she didn’t look at him.

“Huh.”

Her eye twitched.

“‘Huh’?” she said, voice pitched like someone trying very hard not to shriek. “That’s all you’ve got?”

He walked a little closer, inspecting her back like it was one of Snape’s formulas during potions. “Is that Salt?”

Her head whipped around so fast it might’ve popped off.

“Salt?!”

“Yeah,” he said, pointing helpfully at the pale dragon slowly stretching his wings across her shoulder blades. “Little horns, pouty face, super white, very dramatic. Honestly, it’s kind of flattering. Where’d you get it done?”

“Get it—Harry, I didn’t get it done. It appeared. This morning. After I got out of the bloody shower.”

“Oh.” He wandered closer, inspecting her like a walking exhibit. “You sure it only showed up today?”

She opened her mouth to say yes, instinctive and sharp—but stopped. Frowned.

Because—was she sure?

She hadn’t exactly been… well. Looking. Not since the cabin. Not since the bruises bloomed across her throat and magic sparked wrong beneath her skin. She hadn’t wanted to see herself. She’d avoided the mirror like it might speak back.

And now that he said it—her stomach turned.

Rookwood.

Rookwood had said something. About a mark. A tattoo. She’d dismissed it—mocking words from a madman. And she’d been bleeding, burning, barely conscious. She hadn’t exactly been in the mood for decoding cryptic villain commentary.

But now…

“Fuck,” Hermione breathed, staggering back like the mirror had just punched her.

Harry blinked. “Whoa, hey—slow down. What is it?”

Salt, sprawled in the corner like a great, scaly thundercloud, lifted his head and padded over; nudging Hermione’s knee with his snout, then curled heavily around her boots, anchoring her to the floor with all the ballast she didn’t know she needed..

It didn’t help. The panic was already rising.

She dragged a shaky hand through her curls. “He mentioned a tattoo. Back then. I didn’t think— I didn’t see—I haven’t—” Her voice cracked. “I didn’t want to look. Not since—”

Harry’s expression softened immediately. “Hermione. You’ve been through hell and back again, covered in bruises and cuts and not even able to use magic for days. I don’t think anyone expected a self care routine.”

She let out a hollow breath, eyes still locked on the sharp ink curling over her shoulder.

He tried for a smile. “Anyway, I think Charlie’s going to be thrilled.”

Her head snapped toward him. “Charlie?!”

Harry froze. Then blinked, guilt dawning. “…oh. Shit.”

She didn’t respond. Not really. Just stared, numb, as the pieces began to shift.

Charlie. Warm hands. Tired eyes. The quiet way he steadied her without asking. The way he anchored her breath, her body, her entire self—just by being near.

Of course she adored him.

That wasn’t new.

But this? This mark—Salt?

It didn’t fit. She’d seen Charlie’s Patronus. Hogwarts. Seventh year. Charging into a swarm of Dementors to pull Luna from the edge. It had been a dragon. Hungarian Horntail, to be exact. A bloody great one, too—wings like a storm front, fangs gleaming.

It couldn’t be him. It just… couldn’t.

But… fuck. Whose—

Her throat closed. The room tilted. It felt like ownership without permission. Like fate had drawn something permanent before she had the chance to choose her own path.

The mark burned. Or maybe that was just her heartbeat.

Harry, sensing the spiral tightening, glanced between her face and the tattoo.

Then sighed.

“I’m going to get Katya. This feels… distinctly girl-adjacent. Uh. Sorry.”

And with a familiar crack, he vanished.

Leaving Hermione alone.

Tent. Mirror. Dragon.

And far too many questions.

Katya arrived like a miniature storm front—limping slightly, cheeks flushed, and carrying a bottle of vodka, a sober-up draught, and the exact kind of chaotic energy Hermione hadn’t realized she needed.

She dumped the lot onto the small table with a grin that could only mean reckless intentions. “I bring medicine. For nerves, for love, for night before war.”

Then, eyeing Hermione from head to toe, she nodded once. “Jumpsuit looks good.”

Hermione blinked. “Oh. I’m not wearing it.”

Katya paused mid-pour. “Why not?”

“Well—” Hermione began, fully intending to explain—

But Katya flicked her wand before the sentence made it halfway out.

Magic zipped over Hermione’s skin, golden lines lighting up along the seams of the jumpsuit. She felt heat swell beneath the fabric, the slight tug of reinforcement charms sinking into place like a protective second skin.

Katya sipped her shot and gave her a pointed look. “Now is warm. Is strong. You are prepared. You wear it.”

“That wasn’t the reason—”

Another shot glass appeared in Hermione’s hand like it had been summoned by force of will. Katya raised her own expectantly.

Hermione drank. Of course she drank. It was easier than arguing. The vodka hit just right, the alcohol leaving a burning trail down her throat that drowned out everything else.

Katya squinted. “You can do magic now. Again?”

Hermione nodded, setting her glass down with exaggerated care. “Apparently sleep helps core restoration. And, surprise surprise, I’ve done a lot of that lately.”

Which was true. She’d slept like it was a full-time job. But Charlie hadn’t come by. Not once in the last day and a half. And she wasn’t bitter about that. Not really. Just… quietly gutted in a highly dignified way.

“But I still have to take it easy,” she added, more to herself than Katya. “Or Dennis will have my head.”

Katya barked a laugh and wiggled her eyebrows. “Dennis can have more than that,” she said, clearly delighted with herself. “After he save me? He deserve whole dinner. And after, natural compensation, of course”

Hermione choked on air. Katya just smirked and poured them both another.

Salt, now more calmed down, had made himself at home on Hermione’s desk, his head pillowed on what looked like Hermione’s annotated ward schematics. She should’ve cared, probably. But at this point, dragons on parchment were the least of her problems. Katya, entirely unbothered, scratched him between the horns and muttered something about majestic bastards.

Then, Katya turned to Hermione, eyeing her critically. “You look amazing. Very sharp. Very powerful. You wear this, men will be thrilled.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Right.”

Katya leaned closer. “One man, in particular.”

Hermione went very still. She turned around, eyes trained on the mirror. Her voice—annoyingly—came out small. “But… what about the tattoo?”

A glint lit in Katya’s eye. “I have one too, remember? Was surprise, too.” She shrugged. “Is magic. What does it matter?”

Hermione said nothing.

Katya reached out, fingers warm where they landed on her shoulder. They trailed Salt, his wings flapping under her soft touch.

Katya’s voice was softer. Her face lit by the lantern in Hermione’s tent as her gaze trailed from the tattoo to Hermione’s eyes.

“You happy, da?”

Hermione hesitated. Then nodded.

Katya smiled. “That is what matters.” She lifted her glass again. “Now drink. We have two hours left. Is maybe party. Is maybe battlefield. Either way—better drunk in time before than anxious.”

Hermione couldn’t help it—she laughed. And this time, when she raised her glass, her hand didn’t shake.

“To surviving either,” she said.

Katya smirked. “Nastrovje, Hermione.”

And they drank.

The sober-up potion tasted like bog water filtered through regret.

Hermione gagged, blinking back tears. “That’s vile.”

Katya shrugged, utterly unfazed. “Is better than puking on Charlie’s boots, da?”

She had a point. Unfortunately.

To be fair, everything probably would’ve tasted like shit at this point. They’d downed nearly an entire bottle of vodka between them—medicinal, of course, and extremely necessary. Hermione had savoured every chaotic minute.

Katya had been… perfect. The kind of friend you didn’t know you needed until she arrived with alcohol, reinforced clothes, and absolutely no tolerance for self-pity.

She’d just… sat there. Listened.

To everything.

The things Hermione hadn’t even told Harry. The horror of Rookwood’s sneer. The silence in that damned cabin. The moment her magic had sparked back this morning and she didn’t trust it. Didn’t trust herself. Katya hadn’t flinched. Just muttered what Hermione assumed were Russian curse words with such passionate venom that Salt let out a sympathetic growl.

Hermione made a mental note—learn Russian. At least enough to know if Katya was cursing her enemies or offering baking tips. Honestly, could go either way.

Then—somehow—they’d migrated to the subject of Charlie. Or more accurately, Hermione had.

She'd waxed poetic. On his arms. His hair. His voice. His literal warmth, like he carried the sun under his skin. His stubborn loyalty. His hands. His bloody hands, for Merlin’s sake—

Katya had quietly taken over detangling her curls mid-monologue, nodding along until she couldn’t hold it in anymore.

“In love with the boss,” she’d said, eyes dancing. “Dangerous territory, Hermione.”

And just like that, Hermione snapped out of it.

Love?

She wasn’t—was she?

Sure, she fancied him. A lot. Liked the way he smelled like dragon smoke and leather and something distinctly him. The way he listened. The way he stayed.

But love? That was… bold. Premature. Inappropriate.

Wasn’t it?

Also—he was technically her boss. That felt like it should be illegal, or at least a violation of some interdepartmental conduct clause. She was certain there was a memo somewhere. And even more certain she’d ignored it.

And then, of course, she now had a soulmate mark.

Fuck.

She hadn’t asked for this. Not now. Not when the world was balancing on a blade and she was barely holding her footing.

Salt had bumped her leg at that precise moment, helpful as ever, leaving a dark green spot on her trousers like a stamp of “you’re doomed.”

Katya had howled with laughter. Then laughed harder when Hermione glared at the dragon and shrieked something truly incoherent. It wasn’t her best moment.

When she noticed Hermione’s expression veering from poetic to utterly mortified, Katya had wiped tears from her eyes, dug out the sober-up potion, and declared it time.

And now—now, Hermione was marching through the camp toward the main area with Katya at her side and Salt nowhere in sight, thank Merlin. She’d thrown on her leather dragon jacket before leaving her tent—mostly for a bit of extra protection, just in case things got dramatic (which, let’s face it, they always did). That it conveniently covered her back? Well. That was just a bonus. A very aesthetically pleasing, perfectly reasonable bonus.

She smiled.

The party started in fifteen minutes. The moon was out. The sky was clear. Her wand was strapped to her calf, her curls were behaving, and her jumpsuit fit like the world might end tonight—which, to be fair, it might.

Was she excited?

Yes.

Was she worried?

Also, a massive, echoing, bloody yes.

The fairy lights had no right being this pretty.

Strung high above the main square like ribbons crafted out of of starlight, they floated in elegant lines across the night sky, each one humming faintly with magic. It was, frankly, a bit absurd—this delicate canopy of charm and light, dangling above a group of underfed dragon handlers in mismatched coats who were all very much bracing for an ambush.

But still. Gorgeous.

Hermione was about to ask who’d gone to all this effort when Katya leaned closer and whispered, “Lights tied to ward grid.”

Hermione looked up.

Sure enough, the pattern wasn’t random. The lights were mapped—carefully, precisely—into the layout of the reserve. Each golden flicker marked a sector, forming a delicate web above their heads.

“If breached,” Katya added under her breath, “area with foreign magic signature lights up.”

Hermione let out a low whistle. “That is so smart.”

Katya beamed. “I am not just body or impressive dragon girl” she declared, then cackled and yanked Hermione forward, striding past the crowd of handlers like a general leading her second-in-command.

“Where exactly are we going?” Hermione muttered.

“To socialize,” Katya said with cheerful menace. “You will smile and be loved.”

“That’s threatening.”

“Da,” Katya grinned. “That’s the point.”

Hermione rolled her eyes but followed, noting how Katya limped only slightly now, leg bandaged beneath an oversized peacoat that absolutely did not belong to her.

They reached the edge of the handlers’ gathering just in time for one of them—blond, broad-shouldered, possibly named Vlad—to let out a whistle sharp enough to make a Ukranian Ironbelly reconsider its life choices.

Katya whirled. “I will kill you,” she said sweetly, in rapid-fire Romanian.

Vlad, wisely, looked at his boots.

Hermione tried very hard not to laugh.

They approached the bar, where a small gathering had formed—Bill, Thomas, Charlie, and Harry, all of them clustered around one of the reserve’s makeshift tables. Anton was off to the side, deep in conversation with a tight-knit group of handlers who were clearly pretending not to watch everything.

Harry straightened slightly but didn’t speak, just offered her a soft smile that said I see you, I’m glad you’re okay, and also: you better not cause trouble again tonight.

Charlie looked up as they joined, a slow smile tugging at his mouth. It wasn’t much. Just a soft tug at the corner of his lips. But it landed with terrifying accuracy—like her entire nervous system was wired to react.

Her body betrayed her instantly. Heat climbed up her neck, her magic humming under her skin like it knew that smile too well. It meant safety. It meant home.

She tried to play it off. Fairy lights. Cold air. Anything but Charlie Weasley, looking like the end of a very long road.

And Merlin, he looked good. Dressed in full black dragonhide, his jacket fitting like it had been tailored by a vengeful Greek god, sleeves rolled up just enough to show ink and scars. His hair was tied back, the line of his jaw carved with more shadow than should be strictly legal. He looked like sin and salvation and the very inconvenient truth that Hermione would follow him into a volcano if he asked nicely.

Charlie raised a brow.

She blinked and immediately tried to recover by taking an overly aggressive sip of the alcohol free punch Harry had pushed into her hands. It was terrible. It tasted like fermented citrus and terrible choices.

Bill, of course, noticed everything.

Hermione tried to move away, but Katya looped an arm through hers like a steel trap.

“They’ve all been briefed. Da?” she asked Thomas, voice clipped.

He gave a grim nod. “Everyone knows what to do. I just hope your plan works. People are exhausted. We can’t stretch this any thinner.”

Katya’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Da. Me too.”

Hermione’s gaze found Bill’s. “So,” she said, “what did you find out?”

Bill ran a hand through his hair. “Nothing good,” he said. “The ley lines here—they’re… intense. Overlapping in a way that amplifies magical resonance,”

Thomas groaned. “Because of course it would.”

Bill nodded. “The dragons aren’t here for nothing”

Hermione pursed her lips.

Bill continued, “Fahrrod found something buried in Gringotts archives—a goblin prophecy. Cryptic as hell. Something about two halves of a whole. If joined, they could create magical parity. Reset hierarchies. Level the playing field.”

Hermione’s stomach twisted. “You mean—blood status? Magical dominance?”

Bill nodded grimly. “Possibly both. And if it’s true, then whatever’s buried here… someone wants it. Badly.”

“Great,” Harry muttered. “A prophecy. Because those always go well.”

Hermione agreed. Nothing good ever came out of a prophecy. Especially not one someone else was willing to kill for.

Charlie just shrugged. Ever the pragmatist. And yet—Hermione couldn’t help noticing the way the firelight played along the edge of his jaw. It held his usual tick.

His eyes caught hers. Steady. Grounding.

Hermione lost herself for a second.

Bill, of course, chose that exact moment to clear his throat and zero in on Katya.

“You and Anton set all the defenses?”

Katya nodded, expression sharpening. “Multiple layers. Automated zones, like ones in dragon emergencies. If activated, they port intruders directly to Romanian Auror main room. They are warned.”

Hermione blinked. “They’re cooperating?”

Katya’s mouth twisted. “As much as they can. They say it is English problem. Not enough resources. But they will take prisoners.”

Hermione nodded slowly. “That’s something.”

Before anyone could say more, the music changed—something jaunty and entirely too optimistic for a party that might double as an ambush.

Yet, it was their signal. Within seconds, the group dispersed with smiles plastered on their faces. Strategic chaos, just like they’d rehearsed.

She didn’t get far before the music started up again—low and pulsing, a deep bassline thudding through old speakers charmed within an inch of their lives. Around her, the crowd of handlers began to move: shoulders loosening, feet finding the beat, conversation shifting into the rhythm of something that almost resembled a celebration.

Almost.

The lights above held steady. Soft yellow. A sea of golden stars.

Hermione let out a slow breath and let herself breathe into the illusion. Katya tugged her toward the open space near the fire pits where people were already dancing, and behind her, Charlie threw a glance over his shoulder. Just checking. Just looking. Harry knocked into a floating tray of drinks and tried to apologize to a candle. Bill, true to form, stood like a curse was building behind his eyes, scanning the crowd like someone had just insulted his kids.

It was almost normal.

Almost.

Hermione turned her face toward the music, letting the rhythm hum through her bones. If she didn’t think too hard—if she stayed here, swaying lightly on her feet, Katya’s grip loose around her wrist—she could almost believe it.

She let herself move. Not quite dancing, but not standing still either. Just... moving. Her hips found the beat, slow and easy, her breath syncing to the bassline.

For a moment, it felt alright.

It was fleeting, however. Soon, just as snow started to drift down idyllically from the night sky, something itched along the base of her neck. Not quite pain, not quite warning. The way air changes before a thunderstorm.

And then—then she heard it.

Laughter.

Not just any laughter. Familiar, bright, too loud over the music. It came from the direction of the main tent, drifting across the square like it didn’t know it was unwelcome.

Hermione’s body stilled. Something about the laughter—it was wrong. Too bright. Too familiar.

Then came the flash of red hair, unmistakable in the firelight… Ginny. Laughing. Unbothered.

Followed by Fleur, arms looped casually around her.

Hermione’s heart jackknifed. No.

Her name echoed in her own ears, the sound bouncing off her ribs like a curse. She moved forward instinctively, the air thick with something ancient and cold.

The lights above them flickered—just once.

And another voice—her voice. Laughing right along with them.

Hermione froze.

No one else seemed to notice yet. The fairy lights stayed steady. The music kept playing. But Hermione's stomach turned to stone.

Her eyes darted to the sky.

Yellow. Still yellow.

Then movement to her left—another Hermione, emerging from the edge of the trees, steps dainty, smile wide, hair curled in a way hers had never been in her life.

Her blood went cold.

She spun.

Another one. Near the pens. Waving at someone.

And another. Laughing, head tilted, speaking to a handler Hermione had never met.

“No,” she breathed.

The lights above flickered again—just once. And then—still yellow.

But Ginny’s eyes had caught Hermione’s, she stopped laughing. Her voice cut off like a blade had slid through it.

The world paused.

Every breath, every footstep, every note of the song—it all held for one terrible, suspended second.

Then, all at once—chaos.

A blast of heat surged from the wards, crackling the hairs on her arms. The grid above them lit up like wildfire, patches of red and violent orange flaring across the sky. The air cracked with magic. Someone screamed—raw, wordless, and then abruptly silent. A handler was thrown against a supply crate, limbs askew. People shouted. Dragons roared. The speakers screamed with feedback before exploding in a spray of sparks. A shriek ripped through the square—inhuman, shrill, awful.

Wards buckled. And Hermione felt a stab in her midriff so intense she had to steady herself in order to keep on standing.

Hermione reached for her wand before remembering—right. No magic. At least, not too much.

Charlie was already moving, his jacket flaring behind him as he shoved past handlers, barking orders in clipped Romanian. Harry was pulling out his wand, shielding someone, dragging another to cover. Thomas had vanished entirely.

“Hermione!” Katya grabbed her arm, dragging her toward the pens.

“But the others—” Hermione began, but then saw it.

One of the fake Hermiones turned toward her.

And Hermione’s breath caught—hard—because those eyes weren’t hers.

Not even close.

One was a washed-out blue, sharp and lifeless as chipped porcelain. The other, a cloudy, rotting brown. Both dead. Both watching. Both familiar.

The grin followed—slow, stretching too far, as if the face itself didn’t know how to hold it.

Hermione’s heart thudded against her ribs, every instinct screaming.

She knew those eyes.

She had seen them before. Up close. In pain. In fear.

And now they were looking back at her, wearing her skin like a costume.

She didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink.

Then she moved.

Ran.

Followed Katya without thinking, straight into the dark.

And behind her, something laughed—a sound that wasn’t hers, but came from her mouth.

And as the fairy lights blazed above them like a broken constellation, and shadows moved through the crowd in shapes that wore her face, Hermione knew three things with a brutal kind of clarity:

This wasn’t an ambush.

This was the opening move.

And Rookwood? He was coming to collect what he was owed.

Chapter Text

Bloody hell.

It all went to hell faster than Charlie could process.

One second, he was admiring the way Hermione’s curls had somehow survived the evening wind. The next, he was choking on the sudden realization that something was wrong.

He’d been smiling. Actually smiling. Laughing at some sarcastic quip from Harry as he observed Bill, who looked like he was about one second away from setting the speakers themselves on fire. Charlie tried to let himself feel—just for a second—like maybe things weren’t completely doomed. Hermione had looked halfway like herself again, all green jumpsuit and glint-eyed cleverness, standing across the dance floor like she wasn’t a heartbeat away from running toward danger.

And then Bill moved.

It was small. Subtle. A shift in weight. A twitch of his fingers near the inner seam of his coat, hovering above the wand Charlie knew was charmed into his rib holster.

Charlie raised a brow. Bill didn’t meet his eye. Just gave a faint shake of his head.

Which was bad.

Bill didn’t get twitchy over nothing.

Charlie looked over his shoulder while his hand dropped instinctively to his own wand, sheathed inside his boot, and he began to move—cutting through the crowd with a calmness that wasn’t real. The music was still playing—too loud, too cheerful. Katya’s doing, no doubt. She had a soft spot for war-drum bass lines disguised as party songs.

“Shift right,” he barked at two handlers loitering near the fire pits, not waiting to see if they listened. They did. Good.

Next to him, Harry bumped into a floating tray of drinks he should’ve seen coming a mile away.

Charlie scoffed. Sometimes, he really wondered how the boy-who-lived had not become the boy-who-died.

Across the dance floor Bill’s mouth moved.

Charlie strained his ears, but couldn’t hear him. Not over the damn music.

Around them, handlers danced—shotting back alcohol free punch like it packed anything that could make the anticipation feel lighter. Like Rookwood was just a drip of blood that could easily be burned away by dragon fire—feet moving out of duty, not joy. And still, for all of them standing under those yellow fairly lights, the message was clear. There was not a care in the world.

Bill stepped closer, face unreadable to most, but Charlie saw it—that flicker of worry sharpening into thunder.

Again, Bill’s mouth moved. Charlie took a step. Another one. But, to no avail. He still didn’t hear a thing.

But he didn’t need to. He followed Bill’s gaze—across the crowd, past the swaying lights—

And there.

Ginny.

Arm-in-arm with Fleur. Laughing.

Which was… wrong.

Neither of them were supposed to be on-site. And certainly not looking like they were off to a bloody brunch.

Charlie’s stomach dropped.

The fairy lights flickered.

Just once. Yellow to orange. Barely a blink.

But it was enough.

Bill moved in like a predator, so graceful that no one in their right—or wrong—mind was even the slightest bit alarmed.

Charlie calmly looked around. Whatever was happening, they needed to keep their cool.

Then, in the corner of his eye, he spotted her. Fuck.

The lights overhead flicked again. A second later, chaos detonated.

Magic exploded through the air—too fast, too loud. Fairy lights burst into reds and deep, furious orange, igniting overhead like a sky on fire. Screams tore across the square. The speakers shrieked with feedback, then blew out in a spray of sparks. Something—someone—was thrown backward into a crate, bones crunching.

Charlie moved.

No time to think. No time to ask how the hell they’d gotten through the wards, the Anti-Polyjuice wards, the bloody magical grid Katya had wired into the atmosphere with all the paranoia of someone who expected a bloody trap.

It didn’t matter.

They were here.

“Positions!” he shouted. “Sector D fallback—handlers to emergency formation!”

His voice cut through the din like a whip. Around him, the trained ones reacted instantly. Others floundered.

Then he saw her. Again.

Hermione.

Or—Hermiones.

Everywhere.

Across the square, near the pens, emerging from the dark. Identical faces, identical curls, identical bloody smirk.

Charlie blinked once, twice, but the image didn’t clear.

There were at least a dozen. Maybe more.

And every single one of them felt wrong. Too smooth. Too clean. Too…off. Like someone had crafted a doll out of Hermione’s memories and forgot that she frowns more than she smiles.

And that wasn't all of it. A shimmer clung to their edges—faint, like heat haze, but colder. Illusion magic, maybe. But twisted. As if someone had bent memory into skin and forgot to hide the seams. The air around them buzzed with static, like the wards themselves were trying to reject the fakes.

And then the first one cast.

A streak of blue light tore through the air, hitting the ground with enough force to leave a crater.

“Well,” Charlie muttered, quickly casting a shield around him, “that’s a problem.”

Another curse flew past his ear.

He ducked, spun, shouted for the east line to reinforce the barrier. Someone screamed Anton’s name. He turned.

Anton was down, clutching his leg. Ginny—real Ginny, it had to be—was standing over him, blasting a poacher in the chest with a nasty Stunner. Harry joined them, wand slicing the air like he was carving space out of chaos. The three of them moved in perfect rhythm.

Bill and Fleur were fighting back-to-back, a picture of marital efficiency. Spells flew from Fleur’s wand, razor sharp and crystal clear; Bill’s wand glowed with a hex Charlie couldn’t name, but it looked vicious.

He spared one last glance for the square, searching—

No Thomas.

Fuck.

And then the fake Hermiones turned to him.

Two of them.

One had eyes the colour of rotted milk and stormwater. The other looked like someone had made a Hermione out of clay and forgotten to finish.

They closed in.

The wrong-eyed Hermione tilted her head. Her voice—Hermione’s voice, but not—was low and curling.

“Just who we needed.”

A shiver ran down Charlie’s spine. It was the exact same voice that had laughed earlier across the square—bright, wrong, hers.

Charlie grimaced. “Sorry to disappoint,” he said, and fired.

Bombarda.

It hit them both, sent one flying and the other staggering. But they were fast—too fast. They moved smoothly. Elegant. And still, it looked like they were wearing her like a second skin.

The fight turned quick and brutal in an instant.

He ducked a slicing hex. Returned a Diffindo. Blocked another aimed at his throat—just barely. His shield cracked. The one with dead eyes laughed.

They weren’t even trying to kill him, not really.

They were toying.

Which was worse.

Red and green flew around him, and slowly but surely, Charlie separated from the others.

The square was breaking—handlers scattering west, blond and red hair moving north. Bill and Harry driving east—but Charlie was angling south, toward the other tree line. Toward dark cover, or maybe just a better line of sight.

The trees loomed now. So did the silence between spells. The darkness was a threat—but it was also where he might find space to end this faster.

A slicing hex grazed his cheek. He cursed under his breath. Then, he returned spellwork in equal measure. Again, and again.

And then, a roar split the night.

Charlie didn’t have to look to know. Backup had arrived.

Pepper landed between him and the attackers, a stark contrast against the white ground. She was snarling; teeth bared and smoke rising from her throat like the promise of something worse.

The fake Hermiones faltered. But only slightly. One deep breath, a quick glance, and all the bravado came back rushing in.

One cooed. “Oh, poor boy. Needs his little dragon to rescue him?”

Charlie didn’t answer.

However, he did mentally scoff at that idiotic remark. Tiny? She was currently the size of a small bear and full of murder. Clearly, they didn’t know dragons.

Which was good. They would bloody well find out how dangerous these creatures could be.

Then, as if they were talking to each other without saying a bloody word, the Hermiones cast together.

Charlie’s heart stopped.

The first spell—a slicing curse—he blocked, wand snapping up just in time to deflect it from Pepper’s neck.

The second—a sharp red bolt—Pepper met with her wings, scales flashing as the spell shattered against her like glass on stone.

The third—Crucio—hit her square in the chest.

Pepper screamed. A sound no dragon should ever make—high-pitched, cracked, begging. Charlie’s heart seized. He staggered forward without meaning to, chest tearing open like it could shield her from the pain.

Something primal snarled low in his throat—not quite a word, not quite a curse, just the sound of a man being broken alongside his beast.

And the fourth—a brutal, blunt-force curse—slammed into Charlie’s ribs while he was still turned toward her...

But the pain didn’t register, because Pepper was still screaming. Those high-pitched bleeding screams that tore his chest in two.

And so, Charlie moved without thinking.

Shield up—Protego Maxima—he charged, boots pounding over scorched dirt and melted snow as he closed the distance to Pepper.

His dragon. His partner. His. No bloody way she was going down like this.

"Oi! Enough!" he barked, voice sharp as flint, wand steady despite the tremor working through his spine.

He shot curse after curse. Every single one of them darker than the last.

And somehow, he was still too slow.

The murky eyes Hermione kept casting, as the other countered every single one of his spells. The Cruciatus kept burning.

Pepper writhed, tail lashing. Smoke turned to flame. Her legs buckled. Her cry shattered something inside his chest.

He didn’t realize he’d left himself exposed until the next curse hit him square in the sternum.

Red. Crude. Brutal.

Fucking painful.

The breath left his body.

Pain bloomed—sharp, hot, all-consuming. The world narrowed.

And in front of him—her face.

But wrong.

One eye blue. The other rotted brown.

One half mercy. The other, madness.

And if this was what Rookwood did with her face, Charlie didn’t want to imagine what he’d do if he got the real thing.

The eyes stared into his soul. Words echoed—Bill's voice, distant now. Not a mask. A message.

The prophecy. "Two halves of a whole. If joined..."

But there was no balance here. No unity. Just a fracture wearing Hermione’s smile and casting torture like it was poetry.

And gods—he wished it was her. Wished he could see her. Know that she was alright.

The real her.

Green jumpsuit, clever eyes, the kind of hands that steadied dragons and hearts alike.

If he was going to fall—

He wanted it to be toward her. With her. For her.

Not this.

He tried to speak. Curse. Anything, really. But his voice caught in his throat.

The world tilted.

Pepper screamed.

And then—

Nothing.

Just smoke.

And silence.

Bloody brilliant.

Charlie came to with the delightful sensation of a railroad spike driving through his neck. He tried to turn his head—mistake—and immediately saw stars. Not the pretty kind. The black-edged, nausea-inducing kind that made him vaguely nostalgic for concussions past.

His hands were tied. Chair. Metal. Old school, by the feel of it—sturdy, ugly, absolutely not regulation. The cuffs—the bastard kind with blood crusted in the hinges—bit deep into his wrists every time he so much as breathed wrong.

The view around him didn't make his predicament any better.

To his right: Bill. Out cold. A new scar slashed over his cheek, angry purple already stretching like a curse that had lost its temper.

To his left: Thomas. Also out. Covered in so much blood he looked like he’d tried to wrestle a Vlad the Hungarian Horntail and lost. Spectacularly.

In front of him, Harry. Awake, barely. Glasses snapped in half, one lens missing, sitting in a dried puddle that had definitely once been part of him.

So. That was promising.

A wave of nausea hit him.

Charlie groaned and shut his eyes against the pain. Which, apparently, was an invitation.

One of the poachers swaggered over, grabbed a fistful of his hair, and yanked his head back like a bloody melon.

Across from him, he heard Harry hiss. “Don’t say a thing.”

But Charlie never did like good advice. Instead, he opened his eyes—and was promptly greeted by a set of yellow teeth, green eyes, and breath that could wilt a dragon.

Thank Merlin. This one didn’t look like Hermione.

“You gonna tell me where it’s hidden?” the poacher asked.

Charlie blinked. “Hidden? Mate, I don’t even know where my socks are.”

The hand tightened around his throat. Charlie smiled sweetly, then spat in the poacher’s face.

A fist answered.

The taste of blood bloomed bright and coppery. The world spun sideways.

Then, darkness.

He woke to arguing.

Which, considering the state of his skull, felt vaguely like being dragged out of hell by two people throwing rocks at each other.

Charlie didn’t open his eyes—couldn’t, really. Someone had replaced his brain with a sack of hot coals and possibly kicked him in the temple for good measure. But he knew those voices.

Bill. Pissed off.

Harry. Indignant.

Standard.

“I’m telling you, we can get out,” Harry snapped, defiance practically dripping off his shredded vocal cords. “There’s always a way.”

Charlie groaned low in his throat. Not because he wanted to join the conversation—no, definitely not—but because shouting.

Or, at least, it damn near felt like it.

Bill growled, and it wasn’t metaphorical. “There are ten of them outside, Potter. At least. And judging by the way the ground’s rumbling, they’re not just camping—they’re looking for something.”

The sound of Harry huffing dramatically followed. “We trained the entire reserve. All twenty-four handlers. They’ll hold their ground.”

A new voice—wet, slurred, sarcastic in the most exhausted possible way—cut in.

“They won’t.”

Charlie didn’t need to see to know every eye in the room turned to Thomas.

Bill spoke first. Sharp. Suspicious. “And why would that be?”

Thomas coughed. It didn’t sound great. More like his lungs were half soup. “Because,” he rasped, “one of Rookwood’s merry little bastards carved a curse straight into the wards.”

That got Harry’s attention. Sharp inhale. No words.

Bill made a noise Charlie hadn’t heard since the early days of Greyback's bite—a low, guttural sound that meant something between murder and disbelief.

“Fuck,” Bill muttered.

Charlie silently agreed.

Harry, bless his eternal Gryffindor optimism, still sounded outraged. “How the hell did that happen?”

Another cough. More blood. “Because at a certain point,” Thomas rasped, “you bleed enough, they can do whatever they want with you. Ancient runes. Blood anchors. Bit of whispering in the wrong moonlight. Take your pick.”

Silence. One beat. Two.

Then, Bill’s low and sarcastic voice. That was never a good sign.

“So, Head Auror Potter, what do you propose we do now?”

Charming.

Charlie tried opening one eye. Just a crack. As if that would help. Instead, light stabbed him in the face like a blade. He shut it again with a noise that might’ve been a whimper.

No one noticed. Or if they did, they were polite enough to pretend.

The room went quiet. Not the good kind. The kind before a storm—or worse, a reckoning.

Then—

Footsteps. Wet. Rushed. Angry.

The door slammed open.

“You!” someone snarled.

A voice like cracked gravel and poor dental hygiene.

Charlie, regretting both is innate curiosity and every life choice that led him here—including, but not limited to, taking this bloody job—cracked his eye again.

Big mistake.

Light seared through his skull. Every nerve screamed. But even through the blur, he saw it: a meaty finger aimed straight at him, shaking with rage or excitement or both.

Brilliant.

He mustered all his energy, dragging it from the soles of his feet. Hopefully, it was enough.

“Don’t suppose we’re skipping the small talk?” Charlie croaked.

The poacher ignored him. Wand flicked. The other hand grabbed his shirt and jacket, yanked him forward like he was just a sack of bloody dragon feed.

Charlie’s legs gave out as he was dragged across the floor, knees scraping over wood that felt splintered and unforgiving. His body screamed in protest. His head spun. He thought he heard Bill growl again. Thomas cursed something vile in Romanian.

And Harry—bless him—made the sort of noise that meant he was either about to do something heroic or something very, very stupid.

Either way, it didn’t matter. With every step the man took, his head pounded. His knees chafed. And before he knew it, Charlie was dragged through the threshold into sunlight—too bright, too sharp, too fucking rude.

His eyes slammed shut again as pain spiked behind them. It felt like his skull might split open and spill out all the half-formed thoughts rattling around in there, most of them involving the words kill me now and Merlin’s hairy arse.

His knees hit something—stone, maybe. Or ice. Or just his own limit.

He didn't care.

He was outside. The headache was winning.

His brain felt like it was splitting. Random thoughts moving in and out, like a song that was on repeat and just wouldn’t quit.

Ginny’s red hair. Fleur’s determination. Antons clipped German-laced Romanian. Salt and Pepper’s purple stare... Hermione’s smile and beautiful eyes.

And he wasn't there to protect them. Any of them.

Red. Narrowed. Harsh. Violet. Love.

It didn’t stop. It wouldn’t stop. And he couldn’t bloody get it to stop.

It was there. In his mind, in his soul. Again. And again. And again.

And in the same rhythm, his knees kept dragging. The light kept digging.

“Fuck,” Charlie muttered, and meant it.

And then, his body gave out.

Chapter Text

Hermione ran, boots sinking into the thick snow with every step. Her breath came fast and ragged, each exhale a sharp puff of white in the freezing air. The forest was darker than it should've been, dense pines pressing close like they had something to hide.

Overhead, the wind picked up to a full howl, dragging brittle branches together with the sounds of clacking bone.

Katya was ahead—far ahead now. The limp she’d been nursing for days? Gone. She darted between the trees like she belonged here, barely leaving a mark, and Hermione was left to stumble after her, wheezing and increasingly unsure whether they were running from something or toward it.

Hermione glanced back—just once. Hoping for movement. A blur of familiar coat, a flicker of wandlight. Someone. Anyone. Instead, she regretted that decision immediately.

Behind them, distant roars cracked through the night—dragon, definitely. Screams followed. Human. Less definitely alive. The sharp snap and crackle of spells echoed faintly too, dueling spells lighting up the treeline in quick flashes. Somewhere back there, someone was still fighting. But each sound felt further away, muffled by the trees or by something else entirely. Hermione’s mind couldn’t seem to keep pace. Everything sounded like it was happening underwater.

She hated that. Hated the way the world blurred now that her adrenaline spiked, the way her brain kept skipping like a broken memory charm. She was used to thinking under pressure. That used to be her thing. But now? She could feel herself drifting. Detached.

Cold in places that had nothing to do with the weather.

She’d seen worse. She had. But it didn’t stop the sting of panic from rising, didn’t stop the way her magic curled in on itself like it didn’t trust her anymore. Her ribs screamed with every breath. She’d barely recovered from her last ordeal, and now? Now she was caught in a brand new one.

And suddenly—no Katya.

"Katya?" she called, too loud, voice cracking.

No answer.

The trees pressed closer. Snow creaked underfoot as she picked up speed, nerves sparking. Her wand was still in her grip, but it felt distant. Dangerous.

She couldn’t afford to waste even a flick of magic. She had no idea how much she had left. Technically, she could cast again. Her core was stable. Dennis had confirmed it. But it still felt bruised, sharp-edged. Like a blade that might cut her back if she swung too hard. So no, she wouldn’t risk it. Not unless it was life or death. Not yet. That thought came with another: I should’ve paid more attention. I should’ve planned.

A roar split the air—closer now. Hermione spun on instinct, slipped—

—and hit the ground hard. Snow punched the air out of her lungs. She let out a sharp cry before she could stop herself.

Her heart dropped.

She’d given herself away.

Panic surged as she scrambled up, wand raised, the air so quiet it roared. Then—

A hand on her shoulder.

Hermione twisted around, wand jammed under a chin, only to freeze.

Katya.

Blonde hair, sharp eyes, calm expression like she hadn’t just scared Hermione halfway into a cardiac arrest. “Shh,” Katya whispered, then placed a cold hand over Hermione’s mouth, suppressing even her soft breaths that curled in the air.

A crack. Behind them.

Hermione’s eyes widened. Something was still on their tail—slow, deliberate. Hunting.

Hermione’s eyes looked pleadingly at Katya. She shook her head.

They stayed like that for one breath. Two.

Then the wards pulsed.

Not the outer ones. Those had already broken. This was deeper. Older. Like the bones of the forest itself were waking up.

Hermione felt it in her spine—raw, ancient magic, reacting to something it recognized.

The entire forest lit up—blinding white for a heartbeat—as if lightning had ripped the world in half. Thunder cracked so loud Hermione felt it in her teeth. For one horrifying second, the trees were nothing but silhouettes, and two shadows stood in the snow behind them. Watching. Not moving.

Katya’s hand slid to the pendant at her neck, her fingers curling around it. She swore under her breath in Russian—low and vicious. Her fingers tightened around the pendant. "Chert vozmi,” she hissed, then mumbled something Hermione couldn’t make out.

The hand on Hermione’s shoulder tightened.

Then the world ripped sideways.

No light, no sound. Just the punch of displaced air and the sickening lurch of side-along Apparition.

Hermione didn’t scream. Not because she was brave. Because she was too tired to waste the breath.

Instead, as the world turned, she only saw one thing.

Her white dragon. Salt. Hers.

Even when her own face wasn’t.

They landed hard.

The kind of Apparition that tore something sideways in your ribs and dropped you like a sack of potatoes on the wrong end of a cliff. Wind screamed past her ears, and when Hermione blinked the world back into focus, it was to the sound of rushing water and Katya swearing.

Not loudly. Not panicked. Just under her breath, a sharp curse in Russian and eyes wide—rare for her, and never a good sign.

Katya had her wand out a second later, pointed straight at Hermione’s chest.

Hermione froze. “Okay,” she said, hands lifting. “This about me or about those dozen copies that are apparently now roaming the reserve?”

“About location. This is not right place.”, Katya’s wand dug into Hermione’s chest. “Undress,” Katya said, over the roar of the waterfall.

Hermione blinked. “Sorry, what?”

“Your back,” Katya snapped. “I need to see it. Now.”

She didn’t sound angry. She sounded clinical. Focused. Which somehow made it worse.

Hermione hesitated, then sighed. “You really need to work on your bedside manner.” But she was already unzipping her jacket, stiff fingers fumbling against wet fabric. Cold mist clung to her skin as she turned, water splashing her cheeks from the spray. The warming charms unfortunately didn’t help against this.

Katya stepped in. A soft tap on her spine. Then silence.

“Is fine,” Katya said. “You have tattoo.”

Hermione gave a dry smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Well, better safe than sorry.”

Apparently, she wasn’t the only one who thought so.

The waterfall behind them shuddered—not with water or rock, but with magic. Old. Heavy. The kind of ancient hum that made the air pulse and the hair on Hermione’s arms lift. Something stirred behind the cascade.

Then, with a silent crack like the world itself had just hiccuped sideways, Salt emerged.

Not walked. Not flew in.

Appeared. Out of bloody nowhere.

One moment there was only falling water and mist—then Salt stepped through it like reality had politely opened a door just for him. No flash, no noise, just that ripple of ancient, dragon-deep magic. The ground vibrated. Even Katya stiffened.

Hermione stared. Salt stared back, all silver and bone-white wings and smugness in dragon form. And then he made a sound like a pleased trill and trotted forward.

But he wasn’t alone.

Behind him, out of the mist, came three more figures. Anton, limping hard and half-conscious, was slung between Fleur and Ginny, who looked battered but moving. Ginny had a cut slicing across her brow, but her wand hand was steady. Fleur’s robes were singed and her jaw was set, but she looked every bit the war-trained witch she was.

Hermione’s breath hitched.

Anton. Fleur. Ginny.

That was it.

Her eyes scanned the mist behind them, heartbeat rising in her throat.

No Bill. No Harry. No—

Charlie.

He wasn’t there.

And suddenly, the chill of the waterfall cut deeper than the wind.

Without thinking, she moved. Walked straight to them like she’d been magnetized, Salt mimicking her movements almost exactly.

And than, that idiotic dragon, started to run.

Salt picked up speed, wings flaring, and hovered—hovered—right in front of her. Hermione didn’t think. She just threw her arms around his neck.

He hummed against her ribs.

Ginny waved her wand in a lazy arc. A shimmer of silence dropped over them like a curtain.

Then she grinned. “Hermione,” she said, eyes flicking from dragon to witch, “is this your dragon?”

Hermione, stunned, still holding Salt, nodded. He chirped again. Show-off.

Anton groaned like death itself. “A fucking hero, if you ask me.”

The corner of Fleur’s mouth lifted. “’e saved us.”

Ginny nodded. “Found us near the treeline. Anton was down. I was cornered. Fleur had a wand in each hand and murder in her eyes.”

She glanced at Salt. “He didn’t even roar. Just... appeared, fire and all. No warning. No sound. Like a flaming bloody ghost in the snow.”

Fleur added, quieter now, “And when ‘e touched us, it was like... something shifted. Reality bent. Next thing we knew, we were ‘ere.”

Hermione’s mouth opened. Ready to ask questions. To get to know the exact how and why.

But Katya wasn’t playing around. She advanced quickly, wand raised and aimed at Anton.

“What was the first thing you ever said to me?” she demanded.

Anton blinked, looked like he wanted to argue, then sighed. “What is a pretty little girl doing in a place like this?”

Hermione’s mouth twitched.

Anton winced as Katya’s wand poked his neck. “And I regretted it immediately. You kicked me full in the groin.”

Katya lowered her wand. A rare smile played at her lips. “You deserved it.”

“I did,” Anton admitted. “I really did.”

Fleur sat him gently on a rock. Katya knelt beside him, already checking his leg. Hermione stepped closer, but Katya was faster, casting neat, clean spells to stop the bleeding.

“Thanks, Katya,” Anton muttered.

She didn’t answer. Just moved to Fleur next, then Ginny, repeating the process with mechanical precision.

Then she stood and gave a short nod. “Name is Katya,” she said. “Katya Romanova. Nice to meet you.”

Fleur extended a hand, charm in full force. “Fleur Weasley-Delacour. Enchantée.”

Ginny arched a brow, eyes raking Katya up and down with interest before her smile broke through. “Ginny Potter. Pleasure.”

Then Ginny turned, wand lowering, and faced Hermione. Her grin softened, voice kinder. “How are you holding up?”

A fair question. The kind people asked when they already knew the answer. She wasn’t. Not by a long shot. Not even by a polite stumble.

Hermione opened her mouth. Closed it. Her voice, when it finally emerged, barely made it past the roar of the waterfall. “How are you even here?”

Ginny exchanged a look with Fleur. Her eyes sparkled like she was about to deliver a punchline. “I think we can do you one better, Hermione.”

Fleur stepped forward, her fingers gliding across Salt’s scales, reverent and curious. “So,” she said gently, “perhaps you can tell us more about this extraordinary dragon... and how he managed to get us here before we were all roasted or hexed into oblivion.”

Ginny’s gaze cut back to Hermione, that mischievous glint still dancing behind the concern. “And why that same dragon,” she added, wiggling her brows, “is now tattooed on your back for eternity?”

Hermione flushed. “Now is really not—”

Ginny raised her hands, mock innocent. “Not the time. Understood. But it’s fascinating.”

Hermione flushed. “It’s complicated.”

“Isn’t it always,” Ginny said with a quick wink.

Hermione didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Her thoughts were still trailing behind the reality of Salt’s arrival, of the pulse of old magic that felt like it rewrote gravity.

Salt blinked slowly. Nudged her cheek again, warm and persistent.

And Hermione exhaled. Not a laugh. Not quite a sob either. Just a breath long enough to feel like maybe—just maybe—it wasn’t all crashing down.

Because in the middle of the chaos, the blood, the smoke, and whatever the hell came next—

She wasn’t alone.

“So,” Fleur said, folding her arms like the waterfall hadn’t just tried to freeze her eyelashes off while reinforcing the wards around their little piece of peace, “on to business.”

Hermione blinked, dragged out of the chaos carousel in her head by the sharp precision of Fleur’s voice. They were all huddled just far enough from the waterfall to hear one another, but the roar still hummed in Hermione’s bones.

Salt lay beside her, a furnace disguised as a dragon, his scales hot under her palms. He purred—purred, of all things—but his violet eyes were locked forward, unblinking, as if daring the horizon to try something. Hermione’s hand stayed on him, half for comfort, half because she wasn’t quite convinced he wouldn’t disappear again.

Next to her, Katya and Anton were deep in hushed Romanian—fast, clipped, all consonants and tactical worry. There was blood on Anton’s shirt, dried now. Wind scraped through the trees and the spray from the falls turned Hermione’s skin raw, but it didn’t matter. Her mind was too full.

Puzzle pieces. That’s what it felt like. A hundred floating fragments of the last three hours drifting in her head. Pain. Magic. Roars. Doppelgängers. Screaming wards. And now… here. Somehow.

Ginny’s voice sliced through it all. “Right. Everyone breathing and no longer bleeding? Good. Let’s talk.”

She and Fleur stepped closer. Both of them looked like they’d been through a war. Which, to be fair, they had.

Fleur got straight to it. Of course she did. “Bill returned to Shell Cottage. ‘E told me about your plan.” Her voice clipped, angry under the elegance. “Under no circumstances was I allowed to come. Because of the children.”

She said children like it was personally offensive.

“Honestly,” Fleur added, flipping her damp hair back like a weapon. “As if zat would stop me. I am a cursebreaker too. Not some delicate porcelain vase to be left on a mantel.”

“I tried to talk her down,” Ginny added helpfully. “Got as far as ‘maybe it’s not the best idea to rush into a—’ and then I was apparated mid-sentence.”

“Oui,” Fleur said flatly. “So. I dropped ze children at Percy and Audrey's. And there I find Ginny, ranting about ‘Arry and his spectacular disappearance act. Percy, second in command at ze Ministry, had no idea where he was either. Inutile, honestly.

Ginny muttered, “Indeed. Harry as well. Bloody idiot. Leaves a note the length of a chocolate frog card and thinks that counts as an update. But, well... it got me to Gringotts, without warning mind you, and then… here.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “So… you came together?”

“Naturally,” Fleur said.

“Dramatically,” Ginny amended.

Fleur ignored her. “Bill is not the only one who works at Gringotts. And goblins, mon dieu—zey care about family. Procuring a portkey was ze easy part.”

She leaned in slightly, voice shifting to something darker. “Also… ze prophecy. It sparked interest. Officially, I am here on Gringotts business.”

Ginny nodded sagely. “And I’m here for moral support and dramatic tension.”

Fleur rolled her eyes, but there was fondness there. “Yes, yes. She tagged along. But when we arrived ‘ere in Romania… we saw you.”

Hermione frowned. “You saw me?”

“Oui. At first you looked—off. But after what Bill told us… we assumed trauma. Or exhaustion. Or both.”

“Which, let’s be honest,” Ginny said, “is pretty much your aesthetic.”

Hermione cringed. “God, don’t remind me.”

Ginny’s grin faded as she nodded. “We’ve seen worse.”

They had. Right after the Battle of Hogwarts. When Hermione had looked less like herself and more like a collection of shattered pieces held together by spite and tea. That was when Fleur had quietly started appearing with healing salves and Ginny had shoved food and alcohol into her hands with the eloquent toast, “To surviving, albeit barely.”

Fleur continued. “So. We entered the reserve from zhe east border. You greeted us with a laugh. A strange one.”

“Creepy, actually,” Ginny offered. “But we figured… stress. Trauma. Nothing we hadn’t seen before.”

“So, we walked with you,” Fleur said, her tone breezy but clipped. “You 'ad your face, your stride, your wand grip—we had no reason to doubt. We did not expect you not to be... you.”

Ginny snorted. “Rookie mistake, honestly. Should’ve known better the minute you started agreeing with me about anything.”

“And zen,” Fleur said, “When we got to the square, I looked into Bill’s eyes and knew instantly—we had walked into a trap.”

She hesitated. “It wasn’t until we saw more of them around—seven, maybe eight of you at once—that we realized ‘ow deep we were in it.”

She lifted a hand delicately. “How do you say in English…? On a sacrément merdé.”

Ginny snorted. “Yeah, whatever that meant.”

“There was fighting,” Fleur said, back to clipped. “Cursing. Spells flying everywhere.”

Anton nodded softly. “I got hit. Shock of the century.”

Ginny tilted her head toward him. “And then you got yourself cornered, as well as bleeding, trying to hold the left flank while Harry was arguing with Bill about something dramatic—don’t ask, I stopped listening after ‘I know what I’m doing.’”

Anton rolled his eyes. “I was stalling. You’re the one who dragged me out.”

“Yep,” Ginny said, unabashed. “Rescued your arse with about three seconds to spare, I might add. You’re welcome.”

“Thanks,” Anton muttered, clearly uncomfortable with the attention.

“Bill and Harry peeled off one way,” Ginny continued, “we went the other. Thought we could reach you quicker. And then—”

“The wards pulsed,” Fleur said gravely.

“Boom,” Ginny added. “All the handlers? Just dropped. Like puppets cut from their strings.”

Anton joined in from the rock he was leaning on, his voice low. “They didn’t just fall. It was like they just fell asleep. Like wham, out. No clue how they did it, honestly."

Fleur nodded. “Comatose. Ze suppression, eet was deep—very deep. From ze feel of it, ze magic had been altered. Ze wardlines... zey were rewritten. Ancient runes embedded straight into ze structure. And somehow—we, we were not affected.”

Katya narrowed her eyes. “How?”

“Ginny and I are not part of ze wards. We needed the faux 'er to get through,” Fleur said, looking at Hermione. Then her gaze shifted to Anton and Katya “My guess is you are different in ze wards. Other niveau. So not affected.”

Hermione's stomach flipped. “What about Charlie? Bill? Harry?”

Ginny shook her head. “They weren’t in sight. Still aren’t. We have no idea what happened to them.”

“In essence, in a millisecond, we went,” Anton said, “from a relatively even fight to being severely outnumbered. If not for Herman and a few others trapping some Poachers and portkeying them out…” He trailed off, jaw tight. “Most of them were still fighting when they dropped.”

Fleur looked at Salt, who was currently basking in the sound of his own name. “Zhey had us cornered. And zen this one appeared.”

Salt chirped. A preen. A pose.

Hermione rubbed the ridge between her brows. “He’s really not helping the humility narrative.”

“He’s a dragon,” Katya said dryly. “I do not think ‘humble’ is in their vocabulary.”

“Neither is subtle,” Ginny added. “But hey, I’ll take dramatic timing and some toasty poachers over none at all.”

Hermione exhaled slowly, dragging her hand down Salt’s neck, grounding herself in the warmth and hum of him. He didn’t blink. Didn’t twitch. He was still ready to fight.

And that? That was the strangest comfort of all.

She looked around at the circle of them now—her allies, her friends, her miracle-laced dragon—and felt the weight in her chest shift. Not gone. But different.

Her voice was soft. Again, almost falling away against the waterfall. "What do we do now?"

Around them, the wind picked up. It was howling now, an eerie sound against the dark night sky. Katya sat back on her heels, finally still.

“Now,” she said, “we plan.”

Hermione nodded, shoulders stiffening. Her thoughts were still a whirlwind, still half broken. But at least now, finally, they were all in the same storm.

Literally. Figuratively. It didn’t matter.

Either way, they were here. Together.

Chapter Text

Charlie came to with a skull full of broken glass and no idea how long he'd been out.

His heart was beating too loud, his throat dry as sand, and there was a taste in his mouth like copper and ash. He blinked against the sting of sweat and something thicker, sticky—blood, probably his own. The dark pressed in close, broken only by a flicker of torchlight somewhere behind him.

Torchlight. That was new.

The world stopped spinning long enough for the scene to resolve—and Merlin, he wished it hadn’t.

Before him, where not so long ago stood an improvised dance floor, there was no snow no more. Not even snow. Nope. Instead, there was a gigantic crater.

Charlie cursed quietly. All that came out was a low grunt.

Thinking it couldn’t get any worse, he looked up. Well, that was a bloody mistake wasn’t it.

Above him, his handlers hung in midair like marionettes with the strings half-cut. Suspended in slow rotation, each was surrounded by a crackling swirl of green light, and a lit up rune on each of their chests. This were not just stasis. These were feeding spells. Threads of pale light pulled from their skin—magic, or what was left of it—drifting upward to a warped and sickly green hue of the dome above them.

Old Jakob was closest. His head hung forward, mouth slack. Still breathing, maybe. Hard to tell.

The night sky looked like someone had taken polar lights and cursed them to hell and back again. Hm, maybe Rookwood had.

Charlie tried to move. Reflex more than strategy.

The ropes disagreed.

They bit into his wrists, tore at his shoulders, and reminded him—rather pointedly—that he wasn’t going anywhere.

The panic came fast, sharp and cold. He shoved it back just as fast. Couldn’t afford to let it in. Not here.

Breathe.

He forced it slow. Counted.

One. Where was Pepper?

Two. Where was Hermione?

Three. Were the guys okay? Bill, Harry, Thomas, even Anton?

Four. What the hell had happened to the Reserve?

He remembered the square. Shouting. Spellfire. Green light. Then the tent, the blood, the injuries.

Now, there was only silence.

No dragons, no yelling, no alarms. Just the low crackle of cursed runes and the quiet hum of power bleeding off his friends and into the sky.

The Reserve was lost. Blasted apart and turned inside out. And he was part of the prize.

His jaw tightened. Fury, sharp and clear, finally cut through the fog. They’d taken his team. Twisted his home. And left him strung up like a side of meat in the middle of it.

Well.

They were going to regret not finishing the job. That is the last thought he had before the darkness took him once more.

He was trussed up like a bloody scarecrow.

That was Charlie’s second great revelation of the evening, right after the “everyone’s dying and magic’s bleeding out of the ground” one. His boots scraped against hard-packed earth, and his arms were yanked high above his head, bound to a thick wooden post with ropes that bit like they’d been hexed by someone with unresolved control issues. Numb fingers. Aching ribs. Splinters digging into his back like the wood itself resented him.

Excellent. Just what he needed. Humiliation and a view.

They’d propped him up at the edge of the clearing, front-row seat to the apocalypse. A warning to the rest, if there was a rest left. His breath came shallow, ribs screaming with each twitch. A few of them were probably cracked, maybe broken. Didn’t matter. He wasn't giving them the satisfaction of so much as a groan.

Dragon handlers didn’t whimper. Even in hell.

Especially in hell.

Charlie squinted past the haze of magic still lingering like smoke, taking in the additional pyres of fire that lit the area; solemnly observing the state of his square. Or what used to be the square. Now it looked more like the set of a ritual sacrifice with a direct access to hell itself. Shadows scurried everywhere—cloaked figures barking orders, digging furiously in the dirt near the old statue, hurling rune-etched stones into formation. Poachers. Mercenaries. Dregs of the magical world who’d never been good enough for the Ministry but just slippery enough to escape Azkaban.

They moved with the sort of speed that screamed deadline. This wasn’t some smash-and-grab. It was planned. Coordinated. And it was working.

The ground throbbed beneath his boots. Not metaphorically—actually. A low hum pulsed through the soil, vibrating in his bones. Ley lines, disturbed. Tangled. Bleeding.

Here and there, sparks flew when a wand touched too close to a node. The ones that had been put their Millenia ago.

Charlie’s lips pursed into a thin line at the sacrilege.

Half-formed runes glowed midair like vultures circling something not quite dead. Overhead, the Reserve’s protective ward—a thing of delicate ancient magic infused with modern reinforcement (and, since a short while, Hermione’s blood)—had warped into a sickly green lattice, its lines crackling with dark energy.

The whole place felt wrong. Like a wound that hadn’t scabbed but wasn't actively bleeding either.

Charlie swallowed hard.

If these bastards finished what they’d started, the Reserve would fall. The wards would collapse, twisted into something unrecognizable. The dragons would die—or worse, be harnessed. Turned into weapons. And the handlers—his family in everything but name—would be drained dry feeding whatever twisted spell was chewing through the land and kept its inhabitants calm.

They didn’t have long.

And, by the way he swayed on his feet, neither did he.

A gust of wind stirred the dirt, kicking it across the square in a sharp sweep. The temperature dropped by a few degrees—just enough to raise the hairs on the back of Charlie’s neck.

A bloody omen if he ever had one.

Augustus Rookwood appeared from the shadows like a bad smell with a wand.

He strode into the clearing like he owned it, cloak flapping behind him in theatrical tatters, dark curls yanked into a ponytail that was rapidly losing the fight to the wind. His gait had a hitch to it—a limp on the left side—and his multi-coloured eyes were highlighted by a jagged scar across his face. Still, they sparkled with the unmistakable gleam of a man who’d gotten away with too much for too long.

Mad, then. Or close enough to pass for it.

Charlie arched a brow. He needed the upper hand. His voice rough as his words caught in the wind. “Well, that’s unfortunate. You’ve gone full dark-lord-wannabe-villain, haven’t you.”

Rookwood’s grin was all teeth, stopping too close to Charlie for comfort. “Evening, Weasley.”

Charlie said nothing. Just stared, chin lifted, blood drying on his jaw. He wasn’t about to play conversational chess with a lunatic who looked like he’d licked a Dark artifact one too many times.

But he watched. Every twitch. Every falter.

His wand hand trembled—nerves or excitement? Hard to say. That limp…maybe a parting gift from Pepper? Or even Hermione?

God, he hoped so.

Rookwood took his time circling. Prowling. Showboating. “A pity our Hellcat isn’t here to enjoy the spectacle,” he mused; his eyes arched up, casting a glance toward the unconscious handlers like they were a particularly interesting cloud.

Charlie didn’t flinch.

Didn’t let the nickname land. Because everyone in the vicinity knew Rookwood was referencing one particular witch.

So he showed nothing. Not even when Rookwood’s voice turned syrupy with pride. “You’ll be pleased to know she played a key role in tonight’s success. Her hair, her blood—perfect for crafting the constructs. Charming little things, weren’t they? A bit tedious to wear, though.” He smiled menacing, “Not that it mattered, it got us past every ward you so valiantly set.”

Charlie’s teeth clenched. Not because of the words. But the truth in them.

He thought back—Hermione had screamed, once, just before everything went sideways. Had it been her? One of the fakes? How close had Rookwood gotten?

And how much had he taken?

“You know,” Rookwood went on, “it’s always the quiet ones. Brilliant witch, that Granger. Bit intense. But you knew that already, didn’t you?”

Charlie said nothing. Nothing but a look sharp enough to cut.

The bastard leaned closer. “I saw it, you know.”

Charlie didn’t respond.

“Saw what?” he rasped, before he could stop himself.

There it was. Rookwood’s smirk turned reverent. “Her tattoo. That little white dragon on her shoulder. Intriguing magic, that. Very… intimate.”

Charlie’s blood went cold. She had a tattoo?!. A white dragon?!

It couldn’t be. Could it?

He forced his face blank, trying to get that numbness that was spreading from his fingers down his wrist towards where it mattered. His bloody core.

It didn’t work.

Inside, rage curled like fire licking at the edge of control.

The tattoo—their bond—if she had it… it wasn’t for anyone else’s eyes. It was sacred. A soul-thread, not a party trick.

And Rookwood had seen it.

“Does it happen often?” the man asked, head cocked. “Such… unusual pairings?”

Charlie stayed silent. Let his eyes speak.

Rookwood didn’t like that.

“Very well,” he said, too lightly. “We do it your way.”

The pain came with no warning.

No Cruciatus. No flash.

Just… strings of barbed wire threading through his nerves like they were building a fence.

Charlie arched in his bonds with a sound that wasn’t a scream but came bloody close. The ropes dug deeper. His vision went white. Then black.

When it passed, he was shaking. Breath shallow. Sweat cold on his brow.

Rookwood stood watching like a man admiring his handiwork. Wand still raised. “Takes the fight right out of you, doesn’t it?” he said softly.

Before Charlie could reply—not that he could speak through the bile in his throat—a sound rose across the clearing.

A low, bone-deep roar.

It echoed off the trees, warbled and raw with fury.

Pepper.

Charlie’s head snapped up.

She was close. Close enough to hear him. Fuck. How she got here? He didn’t know, but she had.

And that was a bloody problem.

“Easy, girl”, he whispered, heart pounding. “Stay hidden.”

Across from him, Rookwood paused. His smile stretched wider. “Ah,” he said. “Your menagerie misses you.”

Charlie, through grit teeth and fire-laced lungs, managed a smile of his own.

It wasn’t kind.

“You’ll regret it,” he rasped. “If you touch her.”

Rookwood laughed. High. Bright. The sound of someone halfway to snapping.

Charlie’s wrists bled. His chest burned. His world had narrowed to pain and noise and torchlight flicker.

But he was still standing.

And if Rookwood thought this was enough to break him, then he didn’t know dragon handlers at all.

Charlie barely had time to brace before Rookwood was back in his face, all twitchy hands and fever-bright eyes.

He’d been murmuring under his breath for a while now. Changed it up every now and then by yelling at the poachers. They were digging, searching, for something. But Charlie could barely hear a thing over the sound of his pulse.

“Two halves of a whole,” the man muttered, louder this time, pacing like a madman on the verge of a breakdown. “Two halves, two halves—of course!”

Charlie didn’t like the sound of that. Or the way Rookwood’s eyes unfocused mid-rant, like he was reading straight from the Book of Unhinged Revelations. Madmen were always the worst at conversation—no sense of pacing.

Then a fist gripped Charlie’s hair and yanked.

Hard.

He let out a strangled grunt as his neck wrenched back, forced to meet Rookwood’s manic gaze. Up close, his breath smelled like ozone and spoiled citrus.

“You and Granger,” Rookwood hissed. “She and you. Did you know you fit the prophecy so neatly?”

Charlie’s pulse jumped at the sound of her name—but his face stayed stone. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Just stared like the stubborn bastard he’d always been.

“Of course,” Rookwood continued, releasing him with a shove, “I assumed it meant literal halves—split artifacts, paired heirlooms, some ridiculous bloody medallion. What else could that bumbling idiot have meant? But it could be something else, couldn’t it be?” He let out a bark of laughter. “I wasted years chasing trinkets!”

Charlie said nothing.

“But it wasn’t medallions, was it?” Rookwood purred. “It was the mark you bear.”

He drifted a hand over a rune carved in the pole near Charlie’s head, fingers brushing it like it was sacred scripture. His face lit with near-religious awe.

Charlie wanted to vomit.

The prophecy. The tattoos. Their bond. If Rookwood thought that was the key to whatever he was building here—then this was worse than Charlie had feared. Hermione was in real danger. Their dragons too.

His stomach twisted. He kept his mouth shut.

“Still so stubborn,” Rookwood snapped. “But, I will find answers”.

And then he pressed the tip of his wand to Charlie’s temple.

It took less than a second. A cold spike of pressure exploded behind Charlie’s eyes as the Legilimency hit.

He didn’t have time to shield. No time to build a wall, no clever trick to hide behind. Just the raw instinct to fight.

His memories weren’t ready.

The day his mark appeared at the Quidditch World Cup. Evenings drinking with Bill. Salt and Pepper as eggs. Hermione’s laughter. The first time he’d seen the tattoo shine in moonlight. Nights by the fire with the handlers. Heat. Magic. Trust.

No.

He shoved everything away, clawed at mental doors, slammed them closed as fast as they opened. He didn’t know how to Occlude properly—but he was a Weasley. Stubborn counted for something.

The intrusion continued. Charlie tasted copper on his tongue, the pressure behind his eyes growing with every passing second.

For a highly trained unspeakable, Rookwood was a lousy legillimens

The mental pressure kept building, unbearable and suffocating—until Rookwood hit a wall.

And bounced off.

With a hiss of frustration, the contact snapped.

Then, with a flick of Rookwood’s fingers, Charlie’s boots and jacket disappeared. The cold om his feet a welcome reprieve from the pain in his head. Yet, the maniac didn’t follow up. Yet.

Charlie didn’t question it. Instead, he sagged in his ropes, breath heaving, vision flickering like a dying torch. Blood dripped from one nostril, thick and warm.

But he was still here.

Still his.

He coughed wetly, spitting blood at the ground near Rookwood’s boots. “You… still didn’t answer me,” he rasped. His voice sounded like gravel poured through smoke. The taste of metal was everywhere. “What’s the endgame, Rookwood? Why all this?”

And, with asking that question he’d forgotten the cardinal rule: these guys never know when to shut up.

Rookwood, naturally, didn't either.

“All of this, Weasley, is for a cause far greater than you,” he said, stepping back, arms wide. Voice booming like he fancied himself on stage.

Charlie resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Barely.

“After only two days’ time, the stasis will become permanent,” Rookwood announced, practically glowing with pride. “I’ve bound the ley lines to a grid powered by your handlers—sleeping beauties, the lot of them. Hermione’s blood tied it together. Her magical signature was already embedded in the Reserve’s wards—thanks to her heroic way of locking us out—so it let us slip past every binding undetected. It’s poetic, really. The brightest witch of her age, and she cracked open her own defenses.”

His eyes gleamed at Charlie. “The Dormiens Exilis curse did the rest. Painless, really. Efficient.” Another maniacal smile. “And now, they only have a less than a day left.”

Charlie’s ears rang.

Dormiens Exilis. That’s why the wards dropped so suddenly. Why they’d all felt that wave of drowsiness, like sleep being dragged down their throats. The bastard had planned it to the second.

Rookwood kept going. “The women I that escaped? Not a threat. Just noise. And your clever blond handler? Ran off into the woods with them; bless him. Irrelevant.”

Wrong on both counts.

Charlie smiled. Just a little.

If you thought Ginny, Fleur, Katya and Hermione were ‘not a threat’, you were going to get hexed straight into the next prophecy.

But then again, he had seen it happen too many times before.

“And you,” Rookwood said, voice low, circling again. “You were supposed to be bait. But now…” His milky and murky eyes focused on Charlie’s arms. His tattoos peeking out from under his sleeves. “Now, I believe you are something more.”

Charlie stared at him. “You’re insane.”

Rookwood just grinned. “Perhaps. But I’m winning.”

Charlie hung still as the man turned away again, barking orders. The pain was everywhere—ribs, wrists, skull—but he forced it aside. The cold wind and snow under his bare feet were just enough to change it from unbearable to barely there.

Focus.

His fingers twitched. Not much. Just enough.

Rubbing his thumb in slow circles against his index finger—Bill’s trick. Wandless casting, shaky at best, but it was something. He whispered a breath of magic. A tiny warmth sparked.

Too late. Too bloody slow. And too close to fucking Rookwood.

The rope on his left wrist smoked faintly.

Not much. But it was a start.

Rookwood was on him in an instant however, reinforcing the bindings with whatever spell. He then turned away, inspecting the pit while laughing manically. “Don’t waste your breath, Weasley.”

Charlie sighed. Closing his eyes. At the same time, he reached outward. Not with his hands—with his heart.

The dragons.

The bond between them tugged faintly. A sense of nearness, of fury, of waiting. He closed his eyes. Just for a second.

I’m here. I’m alive. Hold on. Please.

He pictured her scales under his hand. Her weight leaning into him like she always did. Hermione had once said, back when Salt and Pepper were just tiny dragonlets, she could feel it, sometimes—when Pepper was distressed. Like the bond rippled sideways, catching her too.

I’m sorry, he thought, to whom he wasn’t sure. I should’ve stopped this. I should’ve protected you.

Pepper, however, gave no indication that she’d heard him.

The pain in his ribs flared again. He gasped but kept the pressure on the knot. If it loosened even a little—

He could still fight.

He would fight.

The second round of legillemency was hell. The third one even more so. Charlie was happy for the short reprieve, taking the time to assemble his throbbing mind, when Rookwood turned suddenly. Too suddenly.

Charlie froze.

The bastard was looking at him differently now. Calculating. Suspicious.

“You’re a tough one, Weasley,” Rookwood murmured.

Charlie let his head hang. Slack in the ropes. Fake brokenness. One of the oldest tricks in the bloody book.

Rookwood didn’t buy it.

With a flick of his wand, he sliced Charlie’s shirt open from collar to hem. The tattered fabric dropped away, baring Charlie’s chest to the cold.

He shivered. Couldn’t help it.

Laughter came from somewhere in the clearing—one of the poachers. Charlie ignored it. Dignity was long gone. But pride? Pride he still had.

Rookwood stepped close, eyes locked on the ink over Charlie’s chest.

The dragon.

Not just any one of them. Her.

Dark lines that moved over his abdomen, like she’d done for the past decade. A promise in ink. For something. Someone.

And since the day it appeared, the bane of Charlie’s existence.

“There it is,” Rookwood whispered. Reverent. Triumphant.

He reached out. Traced a finger along the curve of the dragon’s tail.

Charlie jerked at the touch, disgust twisting low in his gut.

Then came the knife.

Ceremonial. Thin. Dagger-sharp.

“Let’s take a closer look, shall we?”

Charlie didn’t get a chance to protest.

The blade kissed skin. Pressed. Cut.

It wasn’t just pain—it was desecration. Like the blade was peeling back a truth he hadn’t spoken aloud. The tattoo had never been for anyone else. Not a brand. Not a flag. A promise. And now it was bleeding.

He arched in the ropes, a strangled sound escaping his throat. The pain was white-hot, sharp and precise—a line drawn slowly, deliberately around the tattoo. Blood beaded and ran. The cut wasn’t deep, but it was surgical.

Rookwood was dissecting him.

Charlie bit down a scream. Managed only a grunt. But his knees buckled and his vision dimmed at the edges.

When it was done, Rookwood stepped back to admire his work.

A ring of blood framed the dragon now.

And then—

“Aha,” Rookwood whispered. As if the implication of his actions only solidified now. Like bloodshed was critical for his understanding.

Rookwood’s face twisted in stunned delight.

“The matching mark…” he breathed. “Of course. The dragons are part of it, too.”

Then he snapped upright. Eyes gleaming with revelation.

“Bring the others!” he shouted. “And bring the dragon—bring that little black Hellion! NOW!”

The camp exploded into motion.

Charlie twisted in his bonds. The knot he’d worked on was wet with blood now—his blood? Whatever spell Rookwood had cast, it was too slick now to catch flame, magic fizzled out. He hissed, frustrated.

All he could do was watch.

Bleeding. Bare-chested. Tattoo burning. Helpless.

But not hopeless.

Not yet.

Not while Pepper was still out there.

Not while Hermione was still fighting.

Not while he still had breath to burn.

Charlie didn’t have time to process the fresh wave of pain in his ribs before his worst nightmare came dragging into the firelight.

Literally.

Poachers emerged from the treeline, hauling three limp, bloodied shapes with all the delicacy of sacks of dragon dung. His stomach twisted hard.

Thomas was first—his friend and boss, one eye swollen shut, covered in blood, and limping like his leg had been snapped and badly reset. Then Bill, older brother, hair matted with blood, cheek now an angry deep purple, and face set in a grimace that could cut glass. And finally, Harry bloody Potter, pushed forward at wandpoint, he’d clearly lost his glasses since Charlie’d last seen him, and blood streaked across his jaw, but those famous green eyes were still sharp and spitting fire.

Charlie exhaled a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding. They were alive. Battered, bruised, likely concussed—but alive. Relief made his knees nearly buckle, which was impressive, given he’d lost most of the feeling in them a while ago. He caught Bill’s eye across the clearing. They didn’t need words. It was bad. Very bad. But not over. Not yet.

Then came the growl.

Low, rattling, furious.

Pepper.

She came roaring into view like a star fallen wrong—chains biting into her scales, four poachers pulling at enchanted poles to keep her back. She looked wrong. Her glossy black scales, usually shining like polished obsidian, now flickered with sickly dark green veins, like she’d absorbed too many curses. Her violet eyes—normally sharp and blazing—had gone pale and milky, fogged with magic and pain. Her eyes found him instantly, and her whole body strained toward him. She let out a scream, wild and raw.

Charlie’s heart cracked clean down the middle.

"Pepper! Easy, girl!" he croaked, voice shredded.

She lunged, but the chains held, jolting her back. Spells lashed across her again, making her stumble, teeth bared. Charlie pulled against his bindings with everything he had. The post groaned. His ribs protested. Didn’t matter. His dragon was hurting.

Rookwood, ever the bastard, sauntered into the chaos with a grin like a knife wound. He surveyed the scene like a man admiring a painting.

"Well, well," he drawled. "The gang’s all here. Except the Mudblood."

Charlie snapped. "Leave her out of this."

Rookwood barely glanced his way. "This is your mark, isn’t it?" he barked at Charlie while signalling his men to bring Pepper over.

No one answered. Because none of them bloody knew.

So Rookwood answered himself. "She’s the key, isn’t she?"

Charlie’s brain scrambled for something—anything—to throw him off. "She’s no one," he said roughly. "Just a hatchling. Training project. Not worth the time you’re wasting."

It was a poor lie. He knew it. So did Rookwood. The way Charlie had cried out, the way Pepper had responded—it was too much.

Rookwood breached the space between them. His foul breath ghosting Charlie’s stubbled cheek. The knife pressed against his ribs again. "Perhaps you’d like to revise your answer."

Charlie hissed as the blade bit in. Blood warmed his side. His vision spotted red.

Thomas suddenly blurted, "She’s no one! Her mother’s a grown Opaleye—mean as sin. You hurt her, that mother will come running and sing you to ashes."

It was a good bluff. Too good.

Rookwood barked a laugh. Then lashed out with a flick of his wand. Thomas dropped with a grunt, clutching his head. Charlie winced.

"Touching," Rookwood sneered. "You lot and your fairy tales. But I’ve seen enough. She’s special. And we have one of the halves now, don’t we?"

Charlie had no idea what that meant, but the look in Rookwood’s eyes made his stomach drop.

Then the man clapped, sharp and theatrical. "Time to end this little game. Midnight draws near. The Two Halves will unite!"

He gestured to the dig site—runestones glowing, a cracked stone arch surrounded by nodes half-uncovered. The prophecy was building to something. Something ancient. Something stupid.

When nothing happened, Rookwood twitched. Literally.

Silence.

Until Bill, bless him, said loudly, "All this fuss for a bedtime story?"

Charlie bit back a mad laugh. Bill wasn’t done.

"Really, Augustus. If you’d just need someone to take care of your tiny cock, I’m sure the dementors in Azkaban would be willing. Probably a better option than a dragon." Bill smiled, but his eyes were full of fire. He was pushing it. “They’d probably also be the better option, I heard they’re good at sucking.”

Harry barked a laugh.

Rookwood didn’t.

He flicked his wand. A slicing hex cut Bill’s lip open. Bill just smiled wider, blood staining his teeth.

Then one of the poachers slapped Harry, hard. Potter hit the ground, spitting blood but grinning.

Charlie felt pride burn in his chest. Broken, bound—but not beaten.

Rookwood turned away from them, summoning an ancient scroll. Its seal shimmered darkly.

"Orficius Rookwood," he announced. "My ancestor. Buried something beneath this very Reserve. He foresaw a great power—one that needed a convergence of leylines and required two halves to awaken and restore a power so great a hundred dragons would kneel before it."

He pointed at Pepper. Then Charlie’s chest.

Charlie’s breath hitched. No.

Not the tattoo.

“When part of the Dragon’s Mark anoints the sacred root, and its bond answers in kind, the dormant power shall rise.”

He grinned, like he was tasting it on his tongue. “Two halves of a whole—flame and bone, heart and scale. I always thought it was a relic. A medallion, maybe. A charm split down the centre, meant to be joined at the right time.”

Charlie bit his lip. And that maniac had just found out it wasn’t. It was about the bond. Him. Pepper. And somehow, Hermione. Salt.

In what combination? Well, that remained to be bloody seen.

Charlie choked on bile. "You’re barmy. You’re turning the entire reserve upside down on the words of a hallucinating relative? Orficius probably died of dragon pox."

Rookwood’s eyes flared. He stalked forward, mouth twisted in rage.

"You think this place was built to protect dragons? It was built to wake one. And you—a boy with fire on your skin—are going to bleed for it.”

Rookwood took a step towards Charlie, who unceremoniously tried to kick him.

Rookwood’s laugh was a rasp of delight. “You’re still blissfully ignorant, Weasley. When your blood baptises that rune stone—yes, the one at the heart of my altar—my destiny will rise. And as the world kneels to me and the creature I command, you’ll finally grasp the truth… while the life drains out of you, your Mudblood, and these two pets of yours.”

The air pulsed. Pepper snarled, sensing the spike in danger.

The ropes dug deeper. Charlie’s wrist twisted—and slipped.

Just a little. Just enough.

He stilled. Didn’t breathe. One hand was free.

Then Pepper screamed.

Not a dragon call.

Magic.

A blast of raw violet energy pulsed from her. The poachers fell back. Chains snapped taut. Sparks flew.

The rune circle shorted. One of the handlers stirred in the air.

Charlie felt it—deep in his marrow. Worry. Concern. A bond flaring.

Rookwood shouted, "Restrain her!"

More chains. Magic slammed her down. She snarled, lashing her tail, smashing crates.

"Pepper, no!" Charlie shouted. He felt her pushing too hard, risking herself.

He moved. Wrung. And then, his other wrist came free. He took a second, to observe his surroundings.

Rookwood approached Pepper, watching the magic like the Death Eaters used to admire the Dark Lord.

Then he looked at Charlie. At his chest.

Pepper had moved again. Back to her normal resting place. And now? Now the tattoo glowed.

"It’s you," Rookwood whispered, assurance backing his voice. Then, his eye twitched, doubt clouding his features. "Impossible. Is she bonded too you directly?."

A tendril of purple arced between them.

Rookwood’s eyes widened.

"Let’s test that."

The knife rose.

And fell.

Across Pepper’s back.

She screamed. Muffled. Bleeding.

Miles away, Hermione staggered, nearly buckling as pain knifed across her spine like a brand. Not imagined. Not metaphor. Real.

Her breath caught in her throat. She tasted copper.

Salt wasn’t doing any better. He was limping. Keening. But still, between his painful hisses, he pushed through.

Hermione bit down on her teeth, as Ginny’s hand steadied her back.

They had to move. And fast.

Back in the square, Charlie didn’t feel a thing.

He only saw Pepper collapse under the weight of her scream, the sound ripping the night wide open.

The runestones in the crater flared violet, chains spit sparks—handlers lunged as one. For just a second, it seemed that Rookwood's hold had loosened.

Bill took advantage of the commotion; drove his shoulder into the nearest poacher, fingers flashing with a wordless Confringo. A crate of hexed iron exploded, shrapnel hissing through torchlight.

The spell around Thomas faltered for just a second. It was all he needed. He tackled another, fists made of years on a dragon line.

Harry, bleeding and half‑blind without his glasses, still found his footing—Stupefy, Stupefy—red bolts cracking against hastily raised shields.

Charlie clenched his teeth, a growl reverberating in the back of his throat. His hands flared with raw magic—Incendio. The other ropes caught; smoke stung. He dropped to one knee, sucking air like glass.

“Enough.”

Rookwood’s voice hammered the clearing, too calm to be human. He lifted a fistful of black‑glass runes and snapped them together.

A shock‑ring blasted outward.

Spells died mid‑arc. Bodies froze mid‑swing. Charlie felt every nerve lock, as though barbed ice threaded his veins. Pepper’s roar garbled to a choke; she collapsed, eyes wide but unmoving.

Rookwood tutted, like they were mere toddlers. “So predictable.” Then, as everyone seemed settled, he lowered his hand, pleased. “There. Quiet children.”

He strode to Charlie, seized the ragged remnant of his shirt, and hauled him upright. “Down we go, Weasley.”

Before them the ground yawned—a pit so deep that only the lights of the nodes and runes showed the arched uncovered below. Rookwood dragged Charlie to its rim, chains clanking as the poachers muscled Pepper after them. A jagged stair of broken stone spiralled into blackness, lit only by the sickly grid above.

Bill managed a single step forward. “Touch him again and—”

A flick of Rookwood’s wand. Crack. Bill’s scream knifed the air; his leg folded the wrong direction. Thomas caught him before he fell, voice thick with fury‑laced comfort. Harry bellowed after the retreating Death Eater, words lost to rage.

Rookwood ignored it all. At the first landing he shoved Charlie. The slope was steep, slick with frost; Charlie skidded, battered ribs shrieking, until a stone altar loomed from the crater’s heart—veined granite, already stained with older blood.

Pepper’s chains dragged behind, her claws scoring sparks across basalt. She tried to reach Charlie, but magic yanked her short, pinning her beside the altar like a living gargoyle.

Rookwood traced a groove in the slab, whispering to himself. “The scroll never said the blood had to be given at the same time…”

He smiled—something ravenous—and raised the knife again.

Charlie pushed to hands and knees, vision tunnelling. Up on the rim he could still hear Bill swearing through pain, Thomas pleading strategy, Harry shouting for Rookwood to think.

The knife descended. Stone bit Charlie’s cheek as he was forced flat, pain blooming in his neck. Blood was already seeping into the carved channel that snaked toward a fist‑sized depression at the altar’s centre.

Overhead, the dome groaned—green lightning crawling like roots toward the crater.

Charlie’s last clear thought before darkness flirted with him again was of Salt, somewhere in the night, and of Hermione, not here yet. Hopefully, they'd never get here.

Blood crept into his eyelashes as his eyes angled upward. One of the last things Charlie saw was the warped and cursed wards overhead shivering; sickly light bled down the crater walls while Rookwood’s rasping chant slithered across the stone, seeding a sunless dawn around the altar.

Move, he told them both in silence. Get away from here, as far as possible.

But part of him knew—they were already coming.

Because dragons defend what’s theirs.

And so did he and Hermione.

Chapter Text

The plan wasn’t stitched with logic so much as desperation. That much Hermione knew for sure. It was thin and uneven. Fraying at the edges. But it was the only one they had left—and even that was melting fast under the weight of snow and time.

They’d tried sleeping on it. Reworking it. Talking it to death over three cups of pine cone tea in hastily conjured cups. None of it helped.

Not one bit.

And now, although it was barely past noon, the pressure seemed to be building. The hum of magic hung low in the air, thickening the atmosphere and making Hermione’s hairs standup more than she’d like to admit.

She stood at the edge of the waterfall, frost biting through her jumpsuit as Katya's spells were wearing off. Her breath caught in sharp clouds. The roar of water behind her didn’t just fill her ears—it pressed against her ribs, reverberated in her bones like war drums.

Above them, the sky bruised darker, but the snowfall had picked up, fat, wet flakes layering over the last of the broken pine needles and white ground.

They didn’t have long.

“Somezing eez building,” Fleur said suddenly, her voice low and certain as she crouched near ze ground. She had been analyzing several spots during the past hours. Picking and prodding the air with her wand or fingers, while murmuring in French under her breath. Searching for a different outcome. A different reason.

Hermione hoped for the love of Merlin and Morgana she’d be successful.

Ar the very least, Fleur had tried her best. Now, as her blond hair was tied high into a ponytail, she had one hand buried in the snow, the other brushing a flicker of silver light that curved in a broken circle around her. “Zere eez... how you say... resonance. A call-response structure. Anchored from three points—north, south, and one just beyond ze main stone in ze centre. It eez getting stronger.”

Hermione’s heart clenched, stepping closer. “What does that mean?”

Fleur’s lips disappeared into a thin, pale line. “Somezing eez feeding ze wards. Subduing what zey are meant to protect.”

Katya, who got pulled from her small get-together with Anton, cursed under her breath. “Ritual magic?”

Hermione gasped.

Fleur nodded. “Ancient. Root-deep. What Rookwood eez doing... he eez not just trying to subdue somezing—he wants to control it.”

Ginny cocked an eyebrow, sceptical.

Fleur continued, “And, from what we 'ave seen, it involves ze handlers. Zey are part of ze binding.”

Anton swore, his German slicing through the cold like a blade.

Hermione glanced toward the looming silhouette of the mountain, connecting the dots. “The dragons?”

“Probably,” Fleur said, standing. “He eez trying to turn ze reserve itself into a weapon.”

“So,” Hermione said slowly, “we stop the ritual.”

Another nod. “I need to get to ze north and south stones before dismantling the main one,” Fleur replied. “Eet eez buried beneath ze nexus, inside ze second ring of ze wards. Where everything converges. If I can alter zhe leylines he eez using to anchor zhe call—”

“Then he loses the tether,” Katya finished, eyes bright with interest. “And the dragons remain... themselves.”

Fleur nodded again. “I am not sure ‘ow long—”

“Even if it’s temporary,” Anton cut in. “He’ll try again. But if we buy time—”

He trailed off. Looked north. Thought turned into decision mid-step.

“I’ll take Katya and head for Derobyn,” he said. “There’s an entrance through the lower caves. The creature’s movement will have left a trail, even underground. We can use it. As a distraction.”

Hermione’s thoughts stopped. Just refused to process anything else. Her eyes immediately flicked to Katya, hoping to see any indication that she wasn’t up for that. Instead, she found a smoldering fire that could set the entire reserve ablaze.

Okay. Breathe, Hermione.

She did, in and out, albeit shakily.

“You actually want to go back there?” She asked Anton with a shudder. Although she hadn't been awake for it, the aftermath as well as Charlie's stories had said enough.

Anton’s smile was all teeth. “To save my friends and colleagues? Always.”

There was no arguing with that tone. He was already preparing to vanish into shadow. He moved across the clearing, waving his wand. Conjuring. What, Hermione didn’t know.

Katya just gave her a small wink as she followed him and joined his efforts. Casual. Elegant. Like they weren’t about to hike into a mountain possibly playing host to an ancient apocalypse.

Hermione turned to Ginny, her tone resolved. “We go south. Back to the square. Check for wounded, dragons, and anyone still alive. If he’s already started the tethering, we’ll need a disruption point before Fleur or Anton and Katya get here. Something loud.”

Ginny cracked her knuckles, eyes flashing. “You want loud?” she asked, already bouncing on her toes.

Hermione nodded. Confidence growing under the familiar banter. “Think you’re up for it?”

Ginny scoffed and cracked her knuckles. “Please. I had Fred and George for brothers. I’ve been trained since birth to make things explode, collapse, or look dramatically accidental. Just point me at the problem.”

Fleur was already stripping off her outer cloak and tying a runed band around her wrist—a blood offering, by the look of it. Hermione wasn't too familiar with it, and she knew better than to ask.

For a while, no one spoke. Snow fell thicker now, clinging to their hair, their lashes. It made everything quieter than it should’ve been, like they were standing at the edge of a grave.

She exhaled once, sharply. Cold air tore through her lungs and sparked the nerves beneath her skin. Magic crackled just under her surface—restless, alive, like everything was back to normal, like it wanted out.

She decided to give in. Better now, in a controlled environment, than figuring out she wasn't there yet when it really mattered.

Her wand rose instinctively, and this time, it wasn’t just for communication—it was for control. For herself.

“Expect backup to arrive late or not at all,” she murmured, more to herself than the others. “But I’m still sending the message.”

The Patronus burst out of the tip of her wand with no effort at all—too easy. For the first time, she didn't shape it. It shaped her. Silver light expanded, twisted, surged forward. She expected whiskers, soft steps. Something familiar, warm. Something that reminded her of safer days.

It wasn’t.

What came instead shook the trees.

A dragon.

Tall, sleek, glittering in the half-light—its wings spread wide, and its gaze landed directly on hers. It looked like Pepper, because it was Pepper. But made of starlight and certainty and purpose.

Salt yipped at the sight.

Ginny stared, blinking snow out of her lashes. “That’s new. Isn't it?”

Hermione didn’t answer right away. Something inside her shifted. She’d seen soul magic before. Had lived together with it for a while actually, and, since a few days, had a tattoo herself. But a changing patronus? That meant more. It was deep. Ancient. A rewriting of yourself. And well, that? She hadn’t expected to become part of that.

Pepper nodded at her, and Hermione snapped back to attention.

“Message to Percival Weasley,” she said quietly, swallowing back the last of her surprise before squaring her shoulders and falling back into her ministry mode. “Rookwood’s anchoring a ritual—possible a magical creature binding, which is in violation of the Centaur act of 1829. Experts from Gringotts are on site and helping us to breach the nexus. We need immediate Auror response. Lives are at stake. Your family’s lives are at stake.”

The dragon dipped its head. Then launched into the sky with terrifying grace, light scattering off the snow as it vanished over the treetops.

Salt yipped and skidded in a tight circle behind it, sending flakes flying.

Anton and Katya looked at Hermione, then at each other—and smiled. It wasn’t mocking, or smug. Just a quiet, knowing thing. Like they’d expected this. Like they knew what it meant.

Fleur, still working her way through the edge of the wardline, didn’t look up. “Zat Patronus eez true,” she said. “You should listen to it.”

Hermione didn’t answer. Her throat was thick, and the adrenaline made her fingers shake.

Not from fear.

From the knowledge that she wasn’t the same girl who clung to time-turners and tidy logic. That girl would’ve waited. Would’ve second-guessed.

This one had learned to run toward the fire.

Fleur stepped lightly toward the edge of the wardline, cloak already discarded, blade in hand. She didn’t hesitate.

“Do not wait for me, and under no circumstances interfere” she said without turning back. “If you see ze wards go down, zat means I 'ave succeeded. Or died trying. Either way, do not stop.”

Hermione’s throat tightened. “You’ll make it. You always do.”

Fleur offered a small smile. “I survived a dragon before, non? What’s a few more?” Then, with a shimmer of light, she was gone.

Hermione turned to Anton and Katya, who were already stepping toward the trees. The cold air cut between them like a blade, but still she called after them.

“Take care of each other,” she said, softer than she meant to. “And come back.”

Anton glanced back with a shrug. “We’ve faced worse fires.”

Katya snorted. “Name three.”

Anton didn’t answer. Just grinned. And then they, too, disappeared into the dark.

Only Ginny remained, slowly moving her weight from one foot to the other.

“You done with the emotional goodbyes?” she asked, eyes bright. “Or should I start composing an incredible loving goodbye letter for Harry? I am pretty sure a chocolate frog card could give me some inspiration...”

Hermione huffed a breath that might’ve been a laugh. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s head for the square. If there’s fire coming—we might as well meet it halfway.”

They moved forward. Toward the wreckage. Toward the fight.

The sky above cracked wide open, pale green light bleeding into the clouds like something toxic.

Boots hitting snow, hearts pounding, the two of them moved into the dark. Salt trotted behind them, tail high, his white scales almost disappearing with the snowfall. Hermione glanced back once, saw him there—steady, silent, loyal—and something in her chest settled.

She wasn’t alone.

She had Salt. Pepper.

Ginny, and Fleur. Katya and Anton.

Harry and Bill.

And most of all, she had Charlie.

They didn’t Apparate.

Not because they couldn’t—Hermione had plenty of magical juice left, thank you—but because walking gave them something to do. Something steady. Predictable. Which was more than she could say for anything else in this cursed slice of mountain.

And, frankly, they needed to do some recon before getting in the middle of a battle.

Besides, the weather was playing hopscotch with reality again. They'd cycled through every season in under four hours—each one dipped in that same queasy green tint that clung to the air like the reserve had a sickness it couldn’t quite shake off.

First it had snowed—fat, soggy flakes that soaked straight through Ginny’s boots and made Hermione’s hair curl in directions previously unknown to science. Then the clouds broke for all of three minutes, sunlight filtered through like it had somewhere else to be, and now? Now it was doing that miserable half-light thing, where the sky couldn’t decide if it was two in the afternoon or nearing the end of all things.

The kind of light people had visions in. Or died under dramatically. Delightful.

Salt padded ahead of them in the slush, snout low, tail twitching. He didn’t speak, of course, but he didn’t need to. His movements were getting jittery. Tense. He'd pause too long, snarl at nothing, then dart forward again like he was chasing ghosts.

They passed Elena first—the Swedish Short-Snout who’d singed Hermione’s right boot and part of her self-esteem two weeks ago. She was dozing in her pen, wings slack and peaceful.

Except… the enclosure fence was split down the middle, and the protective wards had gone soft at the edges. A small shiver crept up Hermione's spine.

“Still breathing,” Ginny muttered. “That’s something.”

But, with every step, Ginny’s posture became more rigid.

Next was Davide.

The Spanish Sparkclaw looked like a bloody oil painting. Curled just outside his pen, scales polished to a dangerous gleam—unnaturally bright for midday. Or maybe it wasn’t midday anymore. Time was fuzzy. The green light that saturated everything around them didn’t help.

Salt froze at his side. Then circled Davide with low, urgent hisses. Hermione didn’t need a translation. He was worried.

So was Hermione.

But dragons didn’t faint. And they definitely didn’t polish themselves to death.

“Something’s wrong,” she said, mostly to herself.

And then Salt cried out.

Not loud, not theatrical. Just… a sound that cracked in the middle. He kept walking after, but slower. He limped now. Badly.

Blood ran down his nose.

Hermione stopped.

“Salt—”

“Hermione,” Ginny warned, glancing around. “We have to move.”

“He’s—he’s in pain.”

“He’s a big boy,” Ginny said tightly. “And a strong dragon.”

Her voice was calm. Her eyes weren’t. And Hermione didn’t miss the way her jaw tightened—like the words brothers and husband were clawing their way up her throat, but never quite made it out.

Salt staggered again.

Hermione’s fists clenched.

But she turned. And kept walking.

Because Salt wasn’t the only one hurting. And they had twins to cosplay. Mischief to make. And real monsters to beat to it.

They were getting closer now. She could feel it—not metaphorically, not emotionally, but in the magic. It buzzed through the air like a low drum readying itself for war, thin and bone-deep and entirely wrong.

The wards had gone rancid. The ground pulsed. Again and again.

It was visible in the way the trees leaned away from them. In how the wind didn’t move right. In the hum beneath her skin that made her teeth ache and her wand hand twitch. Every step felt like wading through a swamp laced with broken glass.

And, on top of that, the pain just wouldn’t stop. Her headache had been brewing for the past half-mile, slow and steady. It had now blossomed into a full-blown migraine behind her eyes, hot and pulsing. Her shoulders ached. Her calves were threatening mutiny. But of course, Hermione Granger kept walking.

Because that’s what she did.

They’d run into poachers, here and there. Strung like thorns around the wardstones, defensive and twitchy. They weren’t attacking so much as standing guard—waiting, like they knew the real show hadn’t started yet. Like someone else was supposed to show up and handle the messy bits.

Hermione snorted. Apparently, Rookwood had more faith in the Ministry than she did.

Still, she and Ginny made quick work of them. Quiet, efficient, pointed. Hermione hadn’t killed anyone, but it had been close. Very close. A few inches to the left, one spell held a second too long, and someone would’ve been mulch. And frankly? After everything they’d done to her, she didn’t feel particularly bad about the temptation.

But Katya had given them the incantation—a neat little trick that chucked their unconscious bodies straight to the Romanian Auror Office. Paperwork included.

And so, Ginny had stopped her before she’d taken things too far. Sometime in the future, Hermione would be thankful for that. Maybe.

So far, seven poachers had gone flying through these neatly created magical channels, all tightly trussed and hexed into silence.

It felt... satisfying.

The day had slowly given way to the night. And they kept walking. Kept fighting.

They were maybe three miles out from the square when it hit her.

One moment she was upright. The next, she was not. Her knees buckled. The world tilted. Something stabbed across her spine like someone had heated a blade and slammed it straight between her ribs.

Her breath hitched. Copper flooded her mouth—she’d bitten her tongue. Or maybe her own magic was bleeding out of her. Hard to tell.

Salt let out a sound that wasn’t quite a scream. More a keening growl, cracked and high, laced with pain that wasn’t supposed to be his. He stumbled forward, dragging his front leg. Blood still traced the side of his snout, dried now, dark and crusted. But he didn’t stop.

A hand on her back. Ginny.

Hermione’s lips twitched.

Salt picked up his pace.

So did she.

One step. Two.

Again, pain bloomed sharp. Bright. Familiar in a way she hated.

A flash. A scene. Charlie. Tied to a pole. Blood running down his abdomen. Pepper’s growl in the air.

Something had happened.

She pushed forward. Because she had to.

Because if Salt could crawl through the pain, then so could she.

They hadn’t made it more than a hundred yards—Ginny hauling her like a woman on a mission who’d drank one too many pepper up potions—when Salt stopped dead, lifted his head, and let out a sound that didn’t belong in any part of this world.

It wasn’t a howl. Not quite a roar either. It was deeper—like thunder cracking inside one of those cathedrals she used to admire with her parents. A low, resonant pulse that vibrated through Hermione’s ribs and made the hair on her arms stand up in revolt. The sort of sound you didn’t just hear. You felt it, deep in the old bones of the earth.

Salt’s throat lit from within—ancient fire caught beneath translucent scales—and then his eyes found hers. Steady. Knowing. Dreadfully calm.

And that’s when the world folded.

Not like a door closing—no, like an entire tapestry being yanked from the wall. Threads pulled tight and then—gone. Salt disappeared in a flicker of gold-edged light, as though he’d never been there at all.

Hermione just stood there, blinking.

“That—” she croaked. “That was—”

“Exactly what it felt like,” Ginny said breathlessly, her grip tightening around Hermione’s waist. There was a reverence in her voice, like she was remembering something holy and slightly terrifying. Then again, Ginny had experienced it first hand.

Hermione swallowed. Ancient magic. She knew the theory. Had read the scrolls. Underlined footnotes. But seeing it in motion—feeling it curl through the fabric of reality like a thread pulled from time itself—was something else entirely.

“Merlin’s beard,” she muttered. “What is he?”

Ginny just smiled, grim and proud. “Yours.”

But the awe was short-lived.

Something pressed in—wrong and sudden and far too close. Hermione felt it first in her teeth, then her gut. A magnetic wrongness pulling the air too tight.

She turned, Ginny’s hair brushing her cheek.

“We need to move. Now.”

Ginny didn’t hesitate. Wand up, weight shifted forward—ready to bolt or brawl.

“You know where to go?”

Hermione nodded once, sharp and thin-lipped. “I hope so.”

And oh, did she mean it.

As soon as the world twisted, her feet hit the ground.

Surprisingly, the Apparation had worked. Clean, steady, a neat little landing that put them right on target. Her boots struck solid stone with only the faintest echo of nausea in her gut—dizzy, yes, but no worse than a decent spin on a dodgy Portkey.

That was... a good sign. Her core was holding. That mattered.

Ginny recovered faster, of course. Had her wand out in a blink and cast a Disillusionment Charm over them both without even blinking. Cool, calm, competent.

Completely Ginny.

“Show-off,” Hermione muttered, mostly because the alternative was admitting how relieved she was not to be doing this alone.

She steadied herself on the roof tiles—slippery underfoot and groaning ominously under their combined weight—and exhaled. A glance confirmed it. She could see her tent. They were exactly where they’d aimed for.

Around a hundred meters from the square. On top of the medical wing. Still intact. Mostly.

Well. That was something.

The sky above them had grown worse. That damned green dome—sickly, throbbing like a heartbeat under glass—was closer now. Pressing. Heavy. Like being trapped under the wrong kind of blanket.

Hermione squinted through it.

And then Ginny gasped.

Hermione spun, wand already in her hand, curse forming on her tongue—and then froze.

There, in the space where fairy lights had once twinkled like something out of a daft wedding catalogue, was a crater. Massive. Smouldering at the edges like the earth had been burned open.

And at its edges—oh, Merlin.

Bill. Thomas. Harry. Tied like sacrificial goats at the bottom of a very dark joke. Bloodied, bruised, but still raging against their restraints like they had something left to give. Which, knowing them, they probably did.

They weren’t looking at her. They were staring at something else—off to the side, deep down. It was like gravity itself had taken a sudden interest in one direction. Hermione’s eyes followed theirs.

And her breath stuttered.

Dennis. Jakob. Herman. Suspended high in the air above the crater like cursed marionettes, limp and glowing faintly with runes and unnatural light.

And beneath them, at the lowest point in the pit, lay Charlie.

Her Charlie.

He wasn’t moving—why wasn’t he moving?—eyes closed, blood trailing through them in a slow, steady drip from a wound near the base of his neck up to his ear. It wasn’t gushing, which was somehow worse. Hermione knew wounds. Knew how they bled. She'd spent too much time preparing for the worst all those years ago.

And that one? It should’ve been arterial. It should’ve been deadly.

It was deadly.

But something was off. Something was glowing. A faint violet shimmer, barely visible unless you’d spent months watching the way light caught on a man’s jaw when he was talking about dragons at every hour of the day.

Which she had. Obviously.

There was magic at work. She could feel it in her teeth.

Her eyes flicked to Salt. He was thrashing against his captors—Rookwood and his little army of poachers—tail lashing, fire threatening at the edges of his throat. But something was off there too. His scales were veined with green now, threading under the surface like poisoned roots. His eyes—the familiar violet of Charlie’s wound—burned too bright.

Ah.

Hermione sent up a silent, slightly frazzled thank-you to Merlin, Morgana, and whichever chaotic cosmic force had seen fit to throw not one, but two dragons onto their side of the board.

And then Rookwood, smug bastard that he was, turned to Salt and traced something in the air.

Runes. Ancient ones. Ones Hermione recognised.

Her stomach dropped. She didn’t need to translate them to know what came next.

Salt buckled. Just a fraction. But enough. Enough for Rookwood to smile like someone had handed him the key to something godawful.

“Ah,” he purred, like this was theatre and he fancied himself the star. “It seems we are three-thirds of the way there now. Just our hellcat missing.” He grinned, all teeth and thunder. “It won’t be long.”

Hermione’s hands trembled. Not fear. Not quite.

Focus.

She flicked her wand, silent and small, and summoned her Patronus. And she changed it, subtly. A light. Tiny. No bigger than a Snitch. Just enough. Just like they'd trained.

The light floated in front of her, bright and trembling. Hermione whispered to it. “Get to him. Once opened, wreak havoc. As much as you can.”

She had no clue if it would work. But frankly, she'd try anything at this point.

The light darted downward—quick and clever, tracing the line of the rooftop like a firefly on a mission.

Ginny’s breath hitched against her ear. “Hermione—?”

“Ready to cause some chaos, Gin?” Hermione asked, voice dry, even as her heart kicked like a beast in her ribs.

Ginny didn’t hesitate. “More than ready.”

The light hovered in front of Harry. His head jerked up, eyes wide. Besides him, Bill noticed it too, eyebrow cocked. Thomas still had his gaze locked on the dragons like a man waiting for the end.

A poacher lunged for the light—but Harry was faster. Spoke the spell. Mouthed the words Hermione had etched into the core of her Patronus.

And suddenly—the tiny ball of light exploded.

And so did the reserve. It lit up. Covered in a silver light as her Patronus form unfurled like wings made of moonlight and vengeance. Where this form of Pepper had been beautiful before—it was now utterly divine. Her form arched above the crater, illuminating everything in a silver blaze.

And the ropes holding the men below him? Gone. Dissolved like snow in the summer sun.

Ancient soul magic. Best not to question it.

Ginny Disapparated without a sound, landing beside Bill with the speed of a hawk and the efficiency of a war medic. Hermione saw her cast the first round of healing before she’d even finished blinking.

Hermione followed.

Apparated straight into the pit, her knees cracking against stone as she landed hard beside Charlie. His blood had pooled beneath him, thick and clinging like it had no intention of letting go.

Her heart stumbled. Then surged. Her fingers frantically searched for a pulse.

She quietly gasped. He was breathing. Just barely—a fragile rhythm, like a spell she didn’t quite trust.

She didn’t panic. She didn’t cry. And she didn’t dare make a sound.

She cast—sharp, clean, and silent. Every movement precise, every incantation buried behind her teeth.

Revival spells. Stabilisers. Healing. None of them graceful. But they worked.

And Charlie’s breath puffed out into mist. Visible, this time.

Alive.

She almost collapsed with the relief.

Instead, she stood, turned, and raised her wand toward Pepper—still bound, still fighting.

She used one of the old spells. The obscure ones. The ones from the back pages of creature liberation manuals and anti-poacher crusades no one had touched in decades.

The ropes fell away.

Pepper’s roar shook the pit. Rookwood finally looked up from the blazing sky toward what was happening right in front of him. His eyes—one brown, one milky and storm-clouded—widened.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered.

Too late.

Pepper lunged for Salt. Her scales flared obsidian and red, fire dancing in her throat. And Salt—free, glowing with clean flame now—met her halfway.

They didn’t clash. They didn’t fight.

They synchronized.

Magic boomed.

Hermione ducked as fire swept overhead.

Rookwood staggered back, fury in his every movement. His face twisted into something almost inhuman.

Hermione didn’t have time to admire the poetry.

Charlie was still unconscious, and her hand was pressed to his neck, muttering another revival spell through gritted teeth.

The fight outside the pit had exploded. Ginny, Bill, Harry, Thomas—they were casting like the bloody Order reborn. Spells cracked through the air. The sound of thunder and explosions echoed around them.

And then—

Rookwood laughed.

She didn’t like that sound. Not one bit.

A hex—sharp and slicing—shot straight for her. She threw herself sideways. It grazed her cheek, hot and biting. Hermione hissed, raised a shield, and fired back. Confringo. Not elegant. But it did the job.

Rookwood dodged it, that half-smile still plastered on his face like it belonged to someone else.

Salt and Pepper circled now. Watching. Waiting.

Hermione touched her cheek. Too late. Blood. A slow, deliberate drop.

It hit the stone like it could split the earth.

The sky cracked.

Loud. Deafening.

Thunder tore through the air.

The world held its breath.

Even the dragons looked up.

And all that could be heard was Rookwood’s laughter, low and curling like smoke through the silence.

Hermione’s fists curled tight. Below her, Charlie stirred—barely—but it was enough.

Her heart pounded.

The thunder faded.

But the dread didn’t.

A whisper of magic stirred the air.

Then—footsteps. Soft. Measured. Certain.

Fleur.

She emerged at the edge of the crater, her hair, now dark with dried blood, a stark contrast against the eerie green sky. She Slowly walked around the rim. Wand raised high. Eyes bright and burning with something cold and holy.

Hermione exhaled. But not relief. Not yet.

Because Rookwood was already turning. Because the magic still crackled in the air.

And the runes beneath their feet were beginning to glow.

The ritual hadn’t failed.

It had just begun.

Rookwood didn’t even blink. Just laughed louder and flung curse after curse at Fleur like he was hunting for sport. She deflected each one with maddening grace, not even winded. She might as well have been doing Pilates.

Across the other side of the crater, Bill locked eyes with his wife. He raised his wand with a nod. Lifting his arm—bruised, scarred, still bleeding. Fleur cast her shield and nodded back. That was all it took.

Meanwhile, Hermione had stopped watching them. She was elbow-deep in Charlie’s torn shirt, hunting for the least horrifying wound to work with. He had bruises that looked weeks old and gashes that could only be described as cursed. Honestly, it was like someone had dragged him through every flavour of hell and then dipped him in leftover trauma.

Bill and Fleur Disapparated with twin cracks and landed beside her in the pit. Fleur sliced a clean line across her forearm. Blood dripped onto the carved arch towering from the earth.

Rookwood sneered. "You think this will work? The ritual is almost complete."

Fleur paid the man no attention. Instead she met Hermione’s gaze and mouthed: Leylines converge here.

Bill stepped beside his wife, grip tight on her hip, and added another gash to his arm; letting his own blood fall onto the stone. Their magic pulsed in the air—older than the war, deeper than memory.

They chanted. One voice lilting and elegant in French, the other grounded and gruff, almost like gravel. Their spell didn’t blaze. It sang.

Rookwood, either too wrapped up in his own worries or brilliance, realized their plans too late. When he did, he acted. Immediately.

"Avada—"

Hermione didn’t give him the chance.

She moved like a woman possessed, wand slashing through the air. Stunner after stunner burst from her fingertips, forcing him to dodge, flinch, block.

From above, Salt and Pepper dropped like twin comets, roaring their defiance as they shielded her from the poachers trying to rejoin the fray. Fire cracked across the top rim. There was shouting. Spells. Thomas. Harry. Ginny.

Hermione kept moving. Kept casting.

She couldn’t look back. Couldn’t afford to see what Fleur and Bill were doing, not when her job was to hold the bloody line.

But she heard it.

That spell.

Beautiful. Ancient. Threaded through with pain and hope and something she didn’t have a name for.

And then Rookwood opened his mouth.

"He’s dying, you know," he purred. "Your Charlie. Bleeding out like a Gryffin in a ritual pen."

Hermione snapped.

Her scream ripped through the pit, wild and sharp. And when the Crucio left her wand, it wasn’t clean. It wasn’t noble. It was red. It was hot. It was fury.

At the same time, Fleur and Bill’s chant ended abruptly in a silver light that curled upwards from their wands, as if it were on a mission.

And once it hit that green dome—the one that had sickened the sky for hours—it shattered with a sound like glass being crushed under boot.

Hermione blinked. Heard a whisper: "Ready?"

And then the suspended handlers—all of them—dropped.

Bill and Fleur caught them mid-air, flicked their wands, and flung them to safety at the top of the crater rim. Then, just as cleanly, they Disapparated.

The handlers didn’t move. Asleep. Alive. No longer bound.

Rookwood howled.

The poachers surged.

Hermione cast until her knuckles burned.

She saw Ginny and Harry exchanging a quick nod on the rim. The incantation Katya taught them lit the air like a flare. One by one, poachers and handlers alike vanished—banished straight to the Romanian Auror Office.

Hermione managed a grin.

Then her world exploded.

Crucio hit her square in the chest.

She screamed. Pepper screamed too, her agony echoing Hermione's like some awful duet.

Her body seized. Her jaw locked. Copper flooded her mouth.

Salt roared.

She barely felt the snow as her cheek hit it. The pit spun sideways.

Then—movement. Next to her. Rising like vengeance from the ashes.

Charlie.

He was up. Wand in hand. Casting like a man who had seen death and decided it wasn’t his bloody time.

Rookwood’s Cruciatus broke.

Hermione gasped. Sat up. Shaking.

Charlie’s voice, hoarse: "You okay, love?"

She actually laughed. Spat blood. "I should be asking you that, you idiot."

On deep breath. Then she stood up. They turned together. Back to back.

And they fought.

Spells danced from their wands in perfect synchronicity. When she cast, he followed. When he shielded, she reinforced. Not just a team. Not just a pair. High above them, Salt and Pepper tore through the air, fire and wing and fury.

Hermione laughed.

It felt good.

"No bag of black magic this time, Augustus?" Charlie called.

Rookwood raised one solitary eyebrow. "Oh, I have something so much better, Weasley."

He slammed a shield into place and whistled—sharp, shrill, commanding.

The response came from everywhere.

Roars.

Dozens.

Hermione froze.

The ground shook.

Wings thundered.

And from every corner of the reserve, dragons arrived.

Dozens of them. Massive. Ancient. Fangs like spears. Magic bleeding off them in waves.

Salt and Pepper cowered. They were small. Brave, but small.

But when one of the Ironbellies landed in the pit, its breath steaming, its eyes glowing—they didn’t run.

They roared back.

Hermione watched, stunned, as her dragons—their dragons—stood their ground.

Even against death.

Rookwood climbed the Ironbelly’s back, robes flapping like a banner, face lit with mad delight.

"Stop now, my friends!" he bellowed. "Lay down your wands, and I will spare those who have not opposed me directly."

Bill, somewhere high on the rim: "Never."

Harry’s spells lit the sky.

Charlie and Hermione didn’t answer. Didn’t need to.

Their silence screamed try us.

Rookwood exhaled slowly, like a man savouring the silence before the storm. “In that case,” he said, voice almost gentle, “let me show you what your precious handlers have really given me.”

His fingers moved—no flourish, no theatrics this time. Just two sharp taps against the Ironbelly’s neck.

And the sky ignited.

Fire didn’t fall so much as crash.

Left, right, centre—like the sky had been holding its breath all day and finally exhaled pure hell. The Ironbelly roared above, flame spilling from its maw in thick ribbons of destruction, and Hermione barely had time to think before Charlie was on her.

“Salt. Pepper. Protect the others!” he barked, voice ragged but commanding.

She couldn’t see if they obeyed—not with Charlie shoving her down, his wand arcing overhead as a shield flared to life around them. Gold-edged. Thick. Not enough.

Hermione knew the spell. Knew its structure. Its breaking point.

They had thirty seconds. Tops.

Heat seared across her cheeks. The snow around them hissed and vanished, steam rolling up in thick curtains. Her lungs ached. Her eyes squeezed shut.

She breathed in Charlie.

Old blood. New blood. Smoke and salt and something warm beneath it—spices, maybe. Leather. That distinctly Charlie scent that clung to him like a second skin, even now. Even here.

His cheek brushed hers, scruff catching on her skin. His lips pressed to her temple, feather-light.

“Thank you,” he murmured, soft, steady. “For saving me.”

She turned her head. Their mouths brushed—warm, trembling. The shield above them flickered again. She didn’t reach for her wand. Didn’t try to fix it. That wasn’t how this worked.

Her voice stayed steady. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Charlie’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. But it was real. It was him. His wand moved, slow and sure—ready to recast the shield he wouldn’t get the chance to.

She looked at him. He looked at her.

And there it was.

That damn feeling she’d been dodging for weeks. Months. Maybe since the first time he welcomed her at the reserve and looked at her like she was fire and not just another war-torn witch trying to keep breathing.

She loved him.

And she would choose him. Every time. In every life.

Even if they didn’t get another.

His smile cracked. His eyes dipped down to the curve of her coat. The line of her jacket. Then lower. Like he knew.

A twist of his lips, and he averted his eyes.

She followed his gaze. Didn’t mean to. Couldn’t stop it.

Her eyes found the spot she’d healed earlier in the chaos. Lower ribs, just above the waistband. One of his tattoos—normally a mess of beasts and battle scars—looked different now.

Dragons and thestrals. A bloody hippogriff parading like he owned the prime real estate that was Charlie's six-pack. But right there, nestled in the curve of a Horntail’s wing…

Pepper.

Tiny. Elegant. Inked in firelight and moon-shadow. Not just a dragon. Her dragon.

Her breath caught.

Her eyes met his.

Blue. Fierce. Honest.

And suddenly, she knew.

That was hers. He was hers. Somehow, impossibly—claimed.

Another tremor shook the earth beneath them—more earthquake than dragon fire this time—but Hermione barely registered it. Something was coming. Something massive.

Didn’t matter. They wouldn't be here much longer anyway.

She leaned in.

Her hands found his hair, threading through soot and sweat. Their noses brushed.

Her voice dropped, barely more than a whisper.

“God, I love you.”

And then—

A sound like shattering crystal. A crack that split the air and painted it in a thousand broken rainbows.

The shield collapsed.

And with it—

The fire stopped.

The sudden coolness was what registered first.

Hermione blinked. The night around her had returned—blacker, colder, starker than it had any right to be after all that flame. Her brow was slick with sweat, her lungs still full of smoke. The air smelled like burnt hair.

Hopefully her own.

But the other smell—the one curling beneath the char and ozone—was worse. Burnt flesh. Ash. She didn’t have to squint to see where it came from: patches of scorched earth where poachers had stood not thirty seconds ago.

Well. That was one way to thin the herd.

Rookwood was unraveling. Fast.

Charlie tugged her close, one arm a solid wall across her back. Protective. Warm. A little too tense to be reassuring.

As her sight adjusted, the carnage came into focus. The sky still swirled with dragons, more than she could count. The ground was blackened, pockmarked like a battlefield. And not just from the Ironbelly.

All of them. Every last dragon had let loose.

And then, like a switch had flipped, they’d stopped.

Hermione squinted. That couldn’t be good.

On the Ironbelly’s back, Rookwood barked orders Hermione couldn’t hear. But as the Ironbelly bellowed and two Horntails dove down, her stomach dropped. Salt and Pepper’s answering shrieks were too sharp. Too real.

Oh, no.

The ground shook again.

Charlie yanked her tighter, wand up. She matched him. Back-to-back instinct. Old training.

Rookwood’s voice echoed as he descended. He looked awful—sweaty, red-faced, vibrating with rage. “How dare I need to repeat myself?” he roared. “You beasts should be obeying!”

The Horntails grabbed Salt and Pepper like misbehaving puppies, claws digging in at the scruff. Salt snarled. Pepper lashed her tail.

Charlie’s jaw flexed.

Somewhere far off, Fleur cursed. French. Furious. Hermione’s heart leapt. They were still here. Still fighting.

Another rumble. Softer this time.

And then the Horntails shrieked. Something was wrong. They flapped harder. Tried to gain altitude.

Hermione’s eyes flicked to Rookwood. His wand was carving lazy eights into the air, more vicious with every loop.

Charlie growled, low and hot. “He’s controlling them.”

Hermione didn’t answer. She didn’t have to.

Because Rookwood chose that moment to bark his command. “Let them bleed!”

The Horntails sank their teeth in.

Salt and Pepper screamed.

And the earth cracked.

Not a polite tremor this time. Not a warning. A full-body, no-holds-barred quake. Trees toppled. Stones split.

And from the woods rose a thing that should not have existed.

It was a snake. Sort of. If snakes were the size of small castles and made entirely of mountain stone dipped in moss and nightmares. His eyes were haunting, like they knew all the secrets of the universe and were dipped in molten gold. Its hide glistened in the moonlight, not quite rock, not quite slime. Something wrong. Something ancient.

Hermione’s mouth went dry.

Charlie exhaled beside her. Just one sharp breath.

The Horntails jerked upward with their prey. It didn’t matter.

The thing—this ancient monster of legends—rose higher still. Four stories. Eye-level with Rookwood. And glaring.

Every other dragon fled.

Hermione’s voice wobbled. “Charlie… is that…?”

He nodded. Just once. No explanation. No need.

A cry. Her eyes snapped to the right. There, in the centre of the pit, Salt and Pepper crumpled. Bleeding. Barely conscious.

And Hermione—Hermione didn’t think.

She ran.

Charlie’s hand missed her shoulder by an inch.

She dropped to her knees beside her dragons. Her wand moved instinctively, but the second the blood touched stone—

Light.

Blinding. Violet. Terrifying.

A crack of thunder split the sky.

The ground shook so hard her teeth rattled.

Behind her, Gorgoroth slammed his tail. The sound was worse than anything Rookwood had conjured. Like the earth itself was screaming.

Hands grabbed her shoulders. Charlie.

But her magic was already spiralling. Vibrating. The hairs on her skin stood up, warmth threading through her veins like it had always belonged there.

The hand on her shoulder tightened.

Above them, Rookwood cackled. Mad. Ecstatic.

The Ironbelly dove down.

“Burn them. Burn it all!” he commanded.

Hermione braced.

The dragon’s throat flared—amber light pulsing beneath its scales. Fire gathered, thick and trembling. He was too close. Too quick. One more breath, was all they had.

But then—

Gorgoroth moved.

No build-up. No warning.

Just one strike. The earth below, around, above them moved.

And then, everything went dark.

Hermione came to with all the grace of Trelawny mid prediction. Her first thought: stars. Still up. Rude. Her second: her skull had clearly been used as a percussion instrument by a particular angry dragon.

She groaned. Everything ached. Her tongue tasted like ash and bad decisions. Her limbs felt like they’d been flattened under the moodiest hippogriff known to magical kind.

Oh, and she was warm. Which was suspicious.

A twitch of her fingers explained that—scales. Salt. Curled around her like the world’s most possessive, battle-scarred, slightly smoking security blanket. His tail was wrapped snugly around her waist in a way that said, quite clearly: mine.

She blinked again. Groaned. Squinted at the sky. Still stars. Still alive. Arguably a win. Honestly? She hadn’t expected this. It was peaceful. Calm. A strange, blessed kind of quiet hummed in her bones.

“You’re alive,” came a voice from above her, dry as desert sand and twice as unimpressed. "Everyone is. Somehow. Although Bill looks like he has few new scars. By look of it, Fleur does not mind though."

That could only be one person.

Katya.

Hermione made a noise that should’ve been joy. Instead, it might’ve been a grunt or possibly the sound of her dignity limping off into the distance.

Anton piped up, lounging nearby with a dramatic sigh. "Also, for the record, I have now seen far too much of Bill and Fleur for me to comfortably look either of them in the eye for at least twenty-four hours. Possibly longer if they keep that up."

That pulled a chuckle from her.

“Everyone blacked out,” he continued, far too cheerfully. “Apparently, ancient magical snake gods aren’t keen on having their ley lines turned into ritual doilies. Gorgoroth roared once—like, once—and everyone dropped like enchanted flies. Even the dragons.”

Hermione managed to push herself upright. Regretted it immediately. Her ribs whined. Her back cracked. Her brain staged a quiet protest.

“Gorgoroth?” she rasped.

“Gone back to home,” Katya confirmed, brushing soot off her shoulder. “Took Rookwood with him. Just snatched him like a very unpleasant snack and slithered into the night. Explaining situation to him? Not easy.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes. “You explained it to Gorgoroth?”

If her jaw wouldn’t have hurt as much, she was sure it would’ve hit the floor.

Katya gave a regal shrug. “I tried. Ancient being. Doesn’t love verbs. Or nouns. Or questions.”

Anton chimed in, lounging far too comfortably against a boulder. “Good thing Katya’s convincing. And that it all went to plan." A small wince crossed his face, "She offered me up as a sacrifice in case it went sideways.”

Hermione scoffed. Bad idea. Her hands crossed across her chest.

Katya merely raised an eyebrow. “It worked, da?”

Hermione flopped back against Salt’s side with a wheeze. “Honestly? With that outcome? I’m not even mad.”

Anton grinned. “Same."

Hermione laughed, loudly. It swiftly turned into a coughing fit.

Nearby, a groan. Charlie.

Hermione turned just in time to see him stir—head resting on Pepper’s side like a man who’d nearly been killed and decided a dragon made an excellent pillow.

He was breathing. Still bloodied. Still bruised. But alive.

Still hers.

And the ritual—whatever it had been—was done. She felt it in her bones. In her magic. Like an exhale that had waited years to leave.

Charlie opened one eye. Smiled, lazy and lopsided. "You know..."

Hermione arched a brow. “What?”

He blinked at her. “I love you too.”

Hermione laughed—light, tired, and real. That aching, wonderful sort of laugh that came from relief so sharp it felt like madness. She leaned over to kiss him, because what else did you told a person you loved them after nearly burning to a crisp together?

And then, from the far side of the clearing, came a voice that could’ve only belonged to one man.

“The Ministry has arrived!”

Hermione's head snapped toward the tree line.

Percy. Bloody. Weasley. Followed by a legion of Aurors.

A long-suffering groan echoed somewhere to the left. “Merde, Percival! Tu es un idiot! Everything hurts, mon Dieu. Must you yell like that?” Fleur. Definitely Fleur.

Bill's voice joined his wife's. “For the love of Merlin, Percy, if you are actually here with back-up than you are really not cut out for field work little brother!"

Percy, paused, then with a scratch of his chin, ever serious, "How else would I announce us?”

Another voice. This one dry and sharp, cutting through the aftermath like it was his day job. Harry, already upright and stalking past Percy with all the exhausted authority of someone who hadn’t slept in two days and didn’t intend to start now. Wand still drawn, robes scorched, he looked like the battlefield had been personal.

“For Merlin’s sake, Percy,” he snapped. “You don’t shout your entrance when we don’t know who’s still armed or cursed. Element of surprise? Ring any bells?”

He didn’t even stop walking—just delivered the scolding over his shoulder, as though leading a sweep and telling off a particularly hopeless intern at the same time.

Yeah. Head Auror Potter was reporting for duty, alright.

Behind him, Ginny gave Hermione a cheeky wave, her face streaked with soot and a split lip already half-healed. She looked entirely too pleased with herself for someone who’d just stood with one foot in the grave.

From Hermione’s right, Thomas’s voice cut in—muffled, dry, and very much done with the day. “If no one brought biscuits or Firewhiskey, I’m staging a formal complaint with the universe. I’ve earned at least one decent snack and a drink after all that.”

Hermione actually giggled. Like, full stop, undignified giggle. Charlie chuckled too, pulling her down to his chest with a warmth that made everything else hurt a little less.

“Always shows up at the most inconvenient times, that one” he murmured, eyes still half-lidded with exhaustion and affection.

Hermione smiled, “Mhm,” she murmured as her forehead pressed to his. “but he showed up.”

Charlie’s fingers brushed her cheek. Gentle. Steady. “So did you.”

He looked at her like she was the only thing left worth bleeding for—and then he kissed her.

Not tentative. Not sweet.

It was steady and rough, like something carved out of fire and resolve, like he was staking a claim with every breath he didn’t have to spare. His mouth was heat and grit and everything he hadn’t said, and she tasted the truth of it—salt and blood and something warmer beneath it, something real.

Hermione didn’t falter. Her fingers slid across the bare skin of his chest, still slick with soot and magic, and curled into his shoulder like an anchor. She kissed him back—fierce, sure, no hesitation.

Salt yipped, Pepper chirped.

And when she finally pulled back, just far enough to breathe, her voice was low and certain, steady in the commotion that had picked up among the Aurors.

“I’m not going anywhere, Charlie.”

It wasn’t comfort.

It was a promise.

One forged in fire, bound in breath, and tattooed on her skin for all of eternity.

Above them, dragons circled. Around them, their friends slowly stirred. And beyond the trees, the world was still turning.

Hermione closed her eyes.

She’d unpack the trauma later.

For now, she had her friends. Her dragons. The stars.

And most of all, Charlie—his strong arms tightened around her like they’d been waiting to catch her for years. And if this was what survived the fire, it was worth every burn.

Chapter Text

As all good things tend to do—right when you need them most—the hug also ended. A shame, because that hug was the kind that made everything still for a second, like Charlie's strong arms had made the world decide to finally stop spinning. But, as Hermione knew best, nothing lasts forever, especially not comfort.

A few heartbeats later, the sky dulled. The shimmer of first light thinned at the edges, and just like that, the dawn looked less like a beginning and more like a bruise.

The hours that came after felt like borrowed time. Not restful, not even real. Just a fragile stretch of in-between, like someone had hit pause on the apocalypse but forgot to tell everyone in the reserve.

There was this strange kind of energy floating through the camp—too light to be relief, too loud to be silence. Elation, maybe. Adrenaline, definitely. But under it all, something tense and hollow that made the back of her teeth ache.

No one said the word after. Not out loud. Because saying it meant admitting they’d survived. That it was over. And once you admitted it was over, you had to start accounting for the damage.

And Hermione wasn’t quite ready to do that yet.

So, as she meandered around the camp and dawn turned into morning, she counted her blessings instead. No one had died. Somehow. Miraculously. Which meant everyone was working overtime to convince themselves they were fine.

Hermione included.

She moved on muscle memory alone—barely drank, barely sat—just kept her boots moving. If she stopped, even for a second, she was certain the last of the adrenaline would wear off and her body would remember.

It had already started whispering, anyway.

A phantom roar echoed behind her ribs—dragonfire, a memory of an ancient being, or memory, she couldn’t tell. The scent of scorched leather still clung to her jacket.

It still clung to everything, really.

Whenever she twitched too far, a pain stabbed her side so intensely she could barely hide her wince. She had a headache that felt like someone was trying to excavate her memories through her skull. And her magic, oh—her magic was off, twitchy and brittle, like a violin string pulled too tight. But she didn’t stop. Not yet.

She stuck close to Fleur and Bill as they took up the task of untangling the wards. Bill kept trying to foist tea on her. Every few minutes, a chipped mug would appear in her hand with some nonsense about “soothing the soul,” as if chamomile could do anything for cracked ribs or magic that sparked like faulty wiring. She never quite remembered accepting them—just felt the weight in her fingers, the warmth pressed into her palm, the way his gaze didn’t leave until she pretended to sip. Fleur rolled her eyes every time. Still, they moved like clockwork, the two of them. Frayed, singed, snapping at each other like it was their special language.

They looked wrecked—scorched and bloodied, wind-cut and bone-deep tired. Bill’s jacket was in ribbons, and Fleur’s hair was a knotted mess, ash tangled in the silk. Scars old and new lit their skin where their clothes were cut open. But they stood shoulder to shoulder, defiant and unshaken. A lighthouse in the smoke. Familiar. Fierce. Friends.

Hermione could keep pace with that. After all, it was not like she looked any different, and this wasn’t the first time they worked in tandem. She moved with Fleur and Bill as they circled the southern wardline—checking runes, muttering diagnostics, occasionally arguing about who got to lead.

Between two cups of Bill's tea and a very uncooperative rune stone, her wand hand twitched. The diagnostic charm she tried to cast flickered, catching too shallow before sparking out. Her magic was still coming off the rails—shaky, unpredictable, like a wounded bird trapped in her chest.

Luckily, the other two didn’t notice. They were too busy facing the treeline and bickering like newlyweds who knew exactly how to push each other’s buttons. Fleur, all elegance and pointed sass, insisted that her prior dismantling of the wardline gave her directional authority. Bill replied with a grin sharp enough to make her eyes narrow in delight, quipping that he’d set these wards more than a hundred times and still had the rune scars to prove it. She rolled her eyes, but there was a soft edge to it—like she’d let him win if he asked nicely.

Hermione, wheezing slightly, told them both to stop flirting and hold the damn compass stone.

It was almost nostalgic.

The three of them had worked like this before. Back in the war. First at Grimmauld Place, where Hermione had just observed. Afterwards, at the Burrow, she’d helped. Back when she was younger. Before she had acquired most of her scars that marred her body. Back when sleep was optional and death was expected and wards were one of the only things keeping them from losing everything.

She’d seen Fleur and Bill’s relationship grow through all of it—from flirtation laced with fire to something solid, something stitched together with loyalty and laughter and the kind of love that didn’t shatter under siege. She’d stood with Fleur not just through the war, but after it—when they held their second wedding, the one no one crashed. Smaller. Softer. Just family and fireflies and a ridiculous cake shaped like a dragon egg. A throwback to how they’d met. Hermione had been maid of honour that day, hair braided with bits of lavender, a champagne flute finally drained to the last drop. They didn’t toast to survival. They toasted to magical companionship. To life.

They knew how to move in sync, the three of them. One scanning the treeline, one testing the pulse of the ground, one sketching emergency glyphs—though Hermione’s wand stuttered with every sharp shoulder movement, sometimes sputtering halfway through a rune. The glyphs still held. Barely. She didn’t let herself care.

Still, they made progress. The southern and eastern lines had stabilized. The western line? Fractured, but repairable.

The northern line… well.

“That was where Gorgoroth went full biblical,” Bill muttered, squinting at a melted marker stone. “Honestly, we might need to call in the Macedonians.”

“Or a priest,” Hermione offered, voice tight.

“You alright there, kiddo?” Bill asked, looking up sharply.

Hermione blinked. “What? Of course. Just some scrapes. From, you know… getting almost roasted by a dragon.”

Fleur snorted softly. “You ‘ave a rib injury.”

“I have several injuries, actually. It’s called being thorough.”

But she accepted the stabilizing charm Fleur flicked at her mid-step. Didn’t thank her.

Didn’t need to.

The thing about Fleur was—she didn’t ask.

She simply knew.

Hermione watched her work for a while—fingers fluttering over raw spell lines, murmuring incantations in that clipped, lyrical French that made everything sound like both a lullaby and a threat. Bill moved beside her, steady and sure, anchoring the air like a man who’d held collapsing magic in his bare hands more than once.

It was just like their song. It was ridiculous.

Beautiful.

Alive.

Eventually, they looped back toward the crater—the fractured heart of the Reserve. Magic still clung to the air there, faint and restless, like the battlefield didn’t quite know it was over. Charred earth, half covered in newly fallen snow, spiralled outward in uneven rings, a pile of rocks that used to be an arch, scorched stone and shattered glyphs crackling underfoot like broken runes.

And there, amidst the chaos, Charlie stood.

Of course he did.

He was all firelit edges—no shirt, trousers torn to hell, bandage slung lazy around one forearm like an afterthought. The skin beneath was streaked with ash, sweat glinting at his temples, curls damp and wild from the heat still rising off the ground. He looked unfairly good for someone who’d nearly died less than twenty-four hours ago. Solid. Strong.

But not unscathed.

Not really.

There was a tightness in his shoulders he hadn’t had before, something unreadable in the curve of his mouth, like the weight of the day was finally beginning to settle into his bones. He crouched beside a scorched runestone, brushing ash away with slow, deliberate care—gentle, like he was afraid it might crumble under his fingers.

Thomas knelt nearby, scribbling notes, but Hermione barely registered him.

Because Charlie wasn’t okay. Not truly. Not yet.

And still, her heart pulled toward him like tide to moon. Fierce. Constant. Irrevocable.

Gods, she loved him.

Exactly like this. Rough edges. Calloused hands. Quiet eyes that carried too much.

He was standing in the wreckage, surrounded by soot and dirt, and she wanted to walk straight into it. Into him. Because if he was still standing—so was she.

But there were other people here.

And the feeling—the fierce, fluttering ache of it—was too sharp to let loose in daylight. Too raw for witnesses. So she did what she always did when things threatened to crack open.

She buried. Because, that always worked out in her favour, didn't it?

“Oi,” Hermione called out. “You two look like you’re more posing for a muggle fashion magazine than running the reserve.”

Thomas barked a laugh. “Tell him that. He’s been flexing the same injury angle for the past fifteen minutes.”

Charlie didn’t look up. “I’m not flexing. I’m working.”

“You’re shirtless. In winter.”

“Do you want this place rebuilt or not?”

Hermione snorted. “You know that’s not a real argument, right?”

Charlie looked up then. His eyes met hers—and something in her chest shifted. That blue that pierced her soul? It was everything. Warmer than fire. Sharper than pain. Steady, despite everything.

He stood. Wiped his hand on his trousers. Walked toward her with slow, deliberate steps.

And then, without preamble, pulled her into him.

“Still moving, I see,” he murmured into her hair.

“Only slightly cursed,” she said, muffled.

He held her for a beat longer than necessary. Then pulled back, just far enough to press his forehead to hers.

“Let me help,” he whispered.

She shook her head. “I need to keep moving.”

He didn’t argue. He knew better.

Bill joined them, clapped a firm hand on Charlie’s shoulder. “We’ve got about three hours before the wards will need their final push. Think you and Thomas can revamp the center node?”

Charlie arched a brow. “Do dragons breathe fire?”

Bill smirked. “They do. But I’ve seen you do it worse.”

Their grins met in that easy, bruised way only best friends—brothers—could manage after a battle like this. The kind of grin forged in fire and fieldwork and years of surviving each other.

Hermione’s heart twisted. She hadn’t realized how much she’d missed that look between them.

“Fleur and I will head back to Gringotts,” Bill said, already half-turning. “If anything twitches, let us know.” His hand moved—Charlie’s arm, her shoulder, the dragons’ scales—like he was anchoring himself to each of them before walking away. Hermione felt the press of his fingers on her coat sleeve even after he let go. He didn’t say it, not aloud, but she heard the unspoken maybe the goblins can make sense of this in the way his gaze flicked between her, Charlie, and the dragons like connecting dots in a puzzle that refused to solve.

Fleur had moved beside him, one hand ghosting over his back, the other tugging her singed cloak into place. “Prenez soin de vous,” she said softly, to all of them, but her eyes paused on Hermione. Be well.

“Cheers,” Charlie said, casual and lopsided and not fooling anyone.

And just like that, they were gone—Fleur vanishing like a silken whisper behind her husband’s stride.

Hermione turned to go—

—and stumbled.

Just once.

Just enough for the pain to punch through the fog. White-hot. Radiating up her ribs like a curse unspooling.

Charlie was there in an instant.

He didn’t speak. Just steadied her.

She hated that she needed it.

Even more, she hated how he didn’t say anything.

Because it meant he knew.

Back at the edge of the crater, Percy was yelling at a Romanian Auror who looked two seconds from hexing him. His notes were now a veritable scroll winding through the mud, annotated in three colours and stamped twice with “URGENT.”

Charlie smiled, and quickly told Hermione about his day. How he and Thomas had moved through the cracked remains of the inner reserve—checking pens, assessing damage, taking stock of every dragon in the inner reserve that had survived Rookwood’s madness.

Katya and Anton had been lingering nearby, shifting crates and murmuring over scorch patterns—but now they moved in with purpose, spotting their opening to debrief, the weight of the outer line still written across their faces. From what Hermione overheard, they’d found evidence of claw marks and burn residue, but no lingering dark magic. The dragons that had been summoned by Rookwood’s spell were rattled—wings twitchy, scales hot—but ultimately okay.

“She bit me,” Anton announced dryly, holding up his wrist, now swaddled in a crooked bandage. “Apparently, that was her way of saying thank you.”

“Opaleye?” Charlie asked, brows raised.

“Horntail,” Katya answered, deadpan. She didn’t even blink. “He’s lucky that’s all she bit.”

Hermione tipped her head back against Charlie’s shoulder, a laugh snagging in her throat before slipping out in a breath that hurt more than it should’ve. Her ribs flared in protest—right, still injured. Still pretending she wasn’t.

The warmth of him at her back steadied her, but only so far. It didn’t reach deep enough. Not where it mattered. Her magic had gone sloshy again—tingling at her fingertips, spiking sharp behind her joints like it had tasted the battlefield and wasn’t quite ready to settle down.

Dennis had warned her. Told her there’d be a crash—that, in her current state, pulling that much magic through her body, through her soul, would come at a cost. But she’d felt fine at the time. Adrenaline had blurred the edges, kept her upright, kept her moving. It was only now, with the quiet creeping in and her heart no longer racing, that the truth settled in.

She wasn’t doing that great.

Yeah, not even close.

The Patronus had yanked something old and primal out of her, something buried deep—and now her magic hummed wrong. Not broken. Just a bit too tight. A bittoo much.

But it didn’t matter. Because they were alive.

They were alive.

The handlers who’d hung limp in the sky hours ago were now scattered; some still sitting, wrapped in conjured blankets and blinking like owls in daylight, others out and about, pretending not to limp as they helped clear the wreckage. Dennis was dragging chairs into a pile like it was penance, Jakob had commandeered a broom with grim determination, and someone—probably Herman—was passing around something steaming from a dented kettle that smelled suspiciously like vodka pretending to be tea.

Occupational therapy, Reserve-style. Rough, improvised, and—judging by the number of people still upright—annoyingly effective.

The Healers Percy had wrangled in had done their rounds, poked at ribs and magic signatures, nodded solemnly. At least, for the ones who’d bothered to show up.

Harry crouched nearby. He’d finally stopped yelling at his team, and was now giving a report to another one of the Romanian Aurors. Or, at least, he was trying to. The Auror was nodding politely while very clearly scrawling a formal complaint with the other hand. Hermione caught a few phrases.

Gross negligence in international assistance. British incompetence. Magnificent spellwork. Multiple occasions of magical protocol breaches.

She sighed.

Next to her, Percy was dictating something at top speed to his quill.

“And then,” he muttered, “Salt made a high-pitched keening noise before launching into what I would describe as a defensive spin, though my working theory based on eyewitness accounts is that it was actually a dance…”

Salt growled.

Pepper hissed.

Percy, undeterred, made a very official-looking note on his parchment.

Salt, standing nearby, looked like he was planning a diplomatic incident.

Pepper was actively chewing on the corner of Percy’s robe.

“I’m going to scream,” Hermione muttered.

Charlie chuckled. “I already did. Internally. Several times.”

“You think he’s actually going to write a full report on Pepper’s temperament?”

Charlie tilted his head. “Well, she did try to roast his boots.”

“And he deserved it.”

“He tried to interview her, Hermione. He literally asked her for her name, species, and current magical classification.”

“She… is a dragon?”

Charlie’s eyes twinkled. “He tried to correct her on her hissing. Apparently, it’s not proper.”

Hermione choked. “No.”

Charlie nodded. “Even pulled the ‘I am a Department Head’ voice.”

“Oh god. Did he—did he stomp his foot?”

“He arched his eyebrow. Then stomped. Salt hasn’t stopped yipping. I think he’s enjoying it.”

Indeed, Salt let out a delighted snort that sounded suspiciously like smug agreement. And he wasn’t the only one. Charlie’s shoulders were shaking slightly, his mouth twitching in that way it always did when he was trying—and failing—not to laugh. Judging by the glint in his eyes, he was thoroughly entertained by Percy’s escalating frustration. Pepper, not wanting to feel left out, added her own commentary with a lazy tail flick that sent Percy’s quill sailing straight into a puddle.

Hermione gave up trying to look dignified and just leaned into Charlie’s arm. “I might love our dragons more than I love your family.”

Charlie hummed, warm and low. “That’s fair. They bite less.”

She let out a soft laugh as he laced his fingers through hers without asking, like it was the most natural thing in the world. It was. His thumb brushed slow, absent circles against her hand, grounding her better than any spell could’ve.

They stayed like that for a while—shoulder to shoulder, watching dragons glide overhead, snow starting to fall again in slow, soft flakes that melted the moment they touched skin.

No more talking. No more movement. Just space. Too much of it. Her breath caught. Magic curled wrong beneath her skin. Tight. Unfamiliar.

Hermione didn’t move. Neither did he. And when he leaned in to press a kiss just beneath her temple—gentle, unhurried—her heart stilled for a beat before settling into something quiet and steady.

Eventually, the others began to gather. Goodbyes low and frayed at the edges. No one said much. What was there to say, really, after everything burned?

Ginny crushed her in a hug that Hermione absolutely did not yelp at—but stars burst behind her eyes anyway as her ribs protested. Ginny didn’t seem to notice, holding on tight like she could anchor them both with sheer stubbornness.

“Visit us soon,” Ginny whispered, fierce and wet. “Or I’ll send Pig with letters until you cave.”

Hermione almost laughed. Almost.

It felt too much like the old days.

Harry stood nearby, fingers curled around the long, dark curve of a hippogriff feather—silver-gold shimmer catching the last light. Fahrrod’s possession, passed quietly through Bill for ‘easier travels’, but somehow it looked old in Harry’s hands. Reverent. Hermione clocked the slight way he turned it, once, in his hand like it was a wand. A question.

Their eyes met. He cocked an eyebrow.

He’d seen too much. He always had.

But he didn’t press.

Charlie, though… Charlie watched. Waited.

And when the last Portkey snapped into silence, leaving the field too quiet—just the wind and the low rustle of dragon wings above—

He stepped closer. Voice soft. Certain.

“Hermione. When did you see Dennis? Or the Healers?”

Her spine locked.

“I didn’t.”

His brow creased. “You didn’t?”

“I’m fine,” she said. Tried to mean it. Tried to force the word into something solid, but it rang hollow in her mouth. If she just kept moving. Kept breathing. Kept her shoulders up and her face neutral. If no one looked too closely, maybe it would all stay upright.

Right?

Charlie didn’t argue. Didn’t roll his eyes or huff or push.

He just stepped in. Close. One hand brushing her cheek, the other steadying her elbow like he already knew what was coming.

“Love,” he said, quiet as falling snow. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Something shifted.

Not in the air, not in her magic—but in her. Like a knot pulled loose without warning. Like armour unfastened before she realized she’d been wearing it.

Safe. She felt… safe.

And that was when everything started to slip.

Her shoulders dropped before she could stop them. Her breath hitched. The ache in her ribs sharpened, sudden and real. Magic sparked at her fingertips—not violently, but like it didn’t know where to go now that it wasn’t fighting.

She’d patched so many runes that day. Stabilized fracture points. Rebuilt broken edges. But she hadn’t looked at her own—not once.

She swayed.

Charlie caught her before she fell, arms steady around her like he'd been waiting. Not rushing, not panicked. Just there. Salt nosed in close with a low, anxious whine. Pepper circled, her wings stirring the snow in soft, protective gusts.

And then the dark came.

Not scary.

Just final.

Soft.

Safe.

Not fine. Not yet.

But probably… close enough.

Chapter Text

The one thing this place had going for it—and Charlie wasn’t handing out these compliments lightly—was the bed. Thick mattress, actual pillows, sheets that didn’t smell like antiseptic dragon salve. A damn upgrade from the Reserve’s infirmary, where the beds were too small, creaked like they were under duress and the springs had a vendetta against his spine.

At least here, he could lie down next to Hermione without worrying about tetanus.

His fingers moved absently through Hermione’s curls. Soft. Somehow still soft, after everything. And, even in sleep, she leaned into the touch, just slightly.

Salt’s head lifted. Just a fraction. Eyes narrowing, nostrils flaring. He tilted that ridged skull the way he always did when some whisper of the world brushed his senses. It didn’t feel like danger, not this time. More like a pulse—life, maybe. Or magic.

Charlie stilled. Held his breath. Waited for more.

Nothing came. But Salt didn’t lower his head again.

She’d been out for almost three days now. Three full days of nothing but shallow breaths and the occasional twitch beneath her eyelids. It was by far the longest stretch of silence Hermione had had since he’d known her.

Nope. Charlie didn't like it one bit. So he stayed by her side like a permanent sticking charm that only loosened when nature—or a shower—called.

The dragons hadn’t either. Not once.

Salt had wedged himself on her other side, not quite full-sized yet, but just big enough to take up an inconvenient amount of space. His tail curled neatly along Hermione’s back like a scaled support pillow, as if he could anchor her in place with touch alone. Pepper, predictably, had passed out snout-down across Charlie’s legs, snoring like an asthmatic hippogriff. They were a picture, the four of them. One unconscious witch, two emotionally volatile reptiles, and a Weasley who hadn’t slept more than two consecutive hours in the past few days.

A solid recovery plan, really.

And through it all, Charlie kept thinking about the moment she had collapsed—how typical it had been, how incredibly her. One second, she was upright and burning, all energy and wit and snow in her hair. The next, she just… tipped. Like the weight of everything finally caught up and cut the strings.

He had raised a brow, and then without blinking caught her before she face-planted into the ash. Scooped her up, careful as anything, while snow kept falling around them.

Under any other circumstances, one might've called it idyllic.

By the time he reached Dennis back at the Reserve's infirmary, he knew something wasn’t right. Mostly because Dennis—sarcastic, unbothered, and eternally unimpressed even after becoming a suspended puppet for a certain Death Eater—had stopped smiling.

Yeah. Fuck, indeed.

Apparently she’d overdrawn her magic. Which, fine, wasn’t unheard of. Hermione had done the exact same thing just a few days prior. So really, no big surprise there. Rest, tea, biscuits, a lot of naps and absolutely no use of magic; and usually you were good as new within a few days.

But the Healer hadn’t stopped there. No. Dennis had kept casting diagnostics. Again. And again. Layering one obscure spell on top of the other until the whole examination room bloomed gold—not a flicker, but a full burn. Walls glowed. The air shimmered. Even the bloody floor looked like it had been touched by bloody Midaz.

He barely had time to roll his eyes before the wand lit up again—this time the gold pulsed in his chest like a second heartbeat. Not painful. Just... wrong.

Then came the dragons—Salt first, then Pepper, both of whom had followed them into the haunted building with all the casual entitlement of two beings who knew exactly how precious they were. Salt huffed. Pepper yawned. Neither looked particularly cooperative.

That was when Dennis’s face shifted. Not the usual twitchy sort of concern which the healer normally used. No. This was the real kind. Deep frown, furrowed brow, lips pressing into that thin line that usually meant something magical was about to be incredibly inconvenient.

“Linked signatures,” Dennis muttered. “Unsealed. Chaotic and compounding feedback.”

Charlie went still.

He’d heard that exact phrasing once before—just not in English, and not from a Healer. It had been uttered by an old Carpathian dragon-handler after a bonding ritual went sideways. Two dragons, marked for life, magic tangled so deep their fire sang the same tune. Beautiful when it worked. Devastating when it didn’t.

The feedback part? That was code. What the experts said when they didn’t want to say the real thing out loud.

A bond.

Or worse—tangled souls.

It happened. After dark rituals, after grief, after magic that clawed more than it cured; when it was done raw and rushed and bleeding.

Shit.

Charlie’s stomach dipped. Just slightly.

Then Dennis turned, eyes narrowed, and said with all the drama of someone ordering a takeaway, "You’re going to St Mungo’s. All four of you."

Charlie blinked. "Four of us? What, we bringing emotional support dragons to hospital visits now?"

Pepper cracked an eye open, gave a low, rumbling growl that sounded vaguely insulted, and then promptly went back to sleep.

Dennis cocked an unimpressed eyebrow. "Trust me, they’ll need them."

And just like that, it was settled. No explanation, no details, just a curt nod toward the emergency one-way Floo—the only one in the entire Reserve with a direct line to Mungo's and a big red "for crises only" plaque nailed above it. Dennis didn’t even bother pretending it was optional.

Charlie didn’t argue. Not because he agreed, but because it wouldn’t have mattered. He shifted Hermione in his arms, careful not to jostle her too much. Salt and Pepper slithered around his legs like sentient vines, one grumbling, the other determined to step on his boot the entire way.

He threw the Floo powder in, muttered the destination, and stepped through.

The green flames swallowed them whole.

He exhaled into the spinning, ash-scented vortex, shoulders tight and heart beating louder than they’d been in hours. He didn’t like it. Not the magic, not the quiet, not the thing Dennis hadn’t said out loud.

And if the low, throaty growls rumbling from the dragons at his feet meant anything, neither did they.

So that’s where they ended up. In the comfortable beds of St Mungo’s—the ones that didn’t squeak, didn’t bite, didn’t smell like regret and burn salve. Surrounded by the warm embrace of friends, and the harrowing closeness of family.

Yeah. Welcome home.

St. Mungo’s wasn’t particularly fond of dragons.

The dragons weren’t particularly fond of St. Mungo’s either.

Mutual loathing had set in somewhere between the intake desk and the scorched hallway, after some bright-eyed medi-wizard tried to jab a sleeping Pepper “for research purposes.”

Salt had taken offense. Loudly.

By the time Charlie got them into a room, one specific section of the hallway had some newly acquired scorch marks, a clipboard had been shredded, and someone was threatening to file a report with the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.

So, now they were in a kind of violent truce. The dragons growled if anyone looked at Hermione too long, and the staff tiptoed around like they were sharing a ward with a pair of live grenades.

It wasn’t perfect. But it was quiet. And Charlie could live with that.

The knock came like a formality someone had to tick off before stepping into a war zone.

“Mr Weasley,” said the man in Healer green. Middle-aged, polished wand tucked into his belt like a decorative accessory. “Head Healer Thorne. I’ve reviewed the scans.”

Charlie didn’t get up.

Thorne glanced at the bed, at Hermione’s unmoving form, at the dragons that were dramatically draped on either side. He barely hid the twitch in his jaw. “Her magic’s overdrawn. It happens. Sleep is the best remedy.”

Charlie stared.

Salt lifted his head. Pepper huffed a warning into the stale hospital air.

“The resonance,” Charlie said. “The readings lit up like it was Beltane in there. You’re telling me that’s just fatigue?”

Thorne clicked his tongue, flicked through a chart. “Ambient flux. Residuals. Nothing pathological. There’s no sign of a formal bond.”

Charlie stood. Quietly. Slowly. Every movement deliberate, like a man trying to hold himself together.

“She collapsed into my arms almost mid-sentence. Her magic has bled into mine. I haven’t slept more than a few hours at a time over the past three sodding days because the moment I do, I feel her heartbeat stutter like a bloody mandrake readying to let loose. And you’re telling me she’s tired?”

“It’s a strain. Unusual, yes, but not alarming.”

Salt’s eyes flared violet. Pepper’s wings rose. But Charlie was still.

No shouting. Just breath.

“You’ve seen bonded beings, haven’t you?”

Thorne blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You know what it looks like when two beings share a core? What happens when that binding ritual walks a knife edge? In dragons, its truly a magical sight, if you know where to look.”

“I fail to see how that—”

“You’re not looking,” Charlie said.

Not loud. But the room froze, the temperature plunging to the cold, hard edge of steel.

“I saw the echoes,” Thorne replied, already thumbing through parchment. “Stress bleed. Sheer magical output. No formal bond. Not by any modern metric standards.”

Charlie stood.

Rolled up his shirt.

Pointed at his ribs.

Pepper blinked up from ink and skin—coiled, silent, sleeping. Lit faintly against the scarred flesh she’d claimed.

“Tell me whose Patronus that is.”

Thorne glanced at it. Then back at the page.

“She registers an otter.”

Charlie didn’t blink. “Not anymore.”

The Healer sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Residual trauma projection. Irregular but harmless. I suggest you speak with a Mind Healer. You and Ms Granger have clearly been through—”

He reached for Hermione’s chart.

Charlie didn’t breath. Didn’t think. He stepped in, his fists balled. “Don’t.”

Thorne’s eyes flicked up. “I’ll have her moved—”

Charlie’s step forward made the man stop mid sentence. Out of his pocket, he drew his wand. Flicked it. Within an instant, the corridor pulsed red.

Footsteps. Too many. Men. Guards. They moved past Thorne with ease.

“Him.” A single word. A command. Then hands—solid, practiced—gripped Charlie by the arms.

Pepper shrieked first. A high, reedy sound that cracked something open in his chest. She lunged, scrabbling at his leg.

Salt was slower—but when he moved, it was with purpose. His body slid off the bed, blocking the guards’ path to Hermione with a low, guttural growl that didn’t stop.

“Don’t you touch her—”

They pulled harder.

Charlie twisted, teeth grit, jaw locked so tight it ached. Pepper clung to his boot, clawing, whimpering, frantic. Salt shoved forward, snarling, wings half-raised. A bedside stand cracked in half.

Then—

Beep.

Beep. Beepbeepbeep.

The monitors lit like fireworks. Hermione’s magic flared off her skin—wild and hot and wrong.

She twitched. Then stilled.

Charlie’s heart dropped.

The guards froze. Salt snarled louder. Pepper howled.

Thorne’s clipboard slipped. He stared at the rising vitals. The flickering light between Charlie and Hermione like a drawn string pulled too far.

“Interesting. Curious, but interesting,” Thorne muttered. Like a theory. Like he’d just solved a logic puzzle and not nearly killed someone.

“Keep him in the room.”

And just like that, he turned and left.

Charlie didn’t thank him.

He staggered back to the bed, limbs loose with fury and fear.

The dragons followed—Salt thudding down first, curling tight around Hermione’s legs again. Pepper climbed back onto Charlie’s boot like he might disappear again if she didn’t.

The beeping slowed.

Not gone. But not screaming.

Charlie exhaled. Just once.

Then touched his knuckles to Hermione’s cheek.

Still warm.

Still here.

And hopefully, after some more sleep, she would soon be awake.

After that debacle, only one brave soul ventured in regularly. Padma, a healer-in-training with Gryffindor’s quiet death wish, the smile of a Huffelpuff, and Ravenclaw’s unflappable stare. She ran diagnostics, nodded once, and left.

Her verdict never changed: “Magical exhaustion is simple. But not when the exhaustion is braided to someone else’s core.”

St Mungo’s, meanwhile, clung to their theory that sleep could fix all like a bureaucratic security blanket. Charlie had complied. For now. Not because he liked it. But because he was a reasonable bloke. Most of the time.

But at this point, sixty-odd hours in, Charlie honestly couldn’t give a sodding damn if the Minister of Magic himself had endorsed this treatment plan. Because whatever the hell they’d been doing clearly wasn’t working. Was it?

Here they were. Waiting. And Hermione, lo and behold, was still sleeping it off. And Charlie? Well, he’d figured that was long enough for a magical hangover.

Thorne had been wrong. St Mungo’s wasn’t looking where they were supposed to. And that meant Charlie had to do the one thing he was avoiding ever since coming here. He needed to ask for help.

And he would. Soon. Once the seventy-two-hours he had given those incompetent snake-oil charmers to prove their point would be over, he would.

And that, that was an entirely other problem in itself.

Because, of course, he hadn’t told anyone they were here. Not because he was hiding. Just... delaying the inevitable.

He figured the universe could at least give them a few days without expectations. Without reporters. Without his mum. Without another bloody prophecy folded in someone’s coat pocket, waiting to ruin the room.

But that was probably asking too much. It always was.

People had a way of finding him anyway.

Anton and Katya had sent a bottle of home made vodka by owl post. The good stuff. Katya’s babushka’s recipe. There was no note at first glance. But then he saw the tidy handwriting:

Here. We found something to get you through the English winter and your injuries. You two deserve it.

Definitely Anton.

Underneath, in looping chaos:

Liquid courage for when words get sharp. Family wields sharpest knife. Keep bottle close.

Katya. Obviously.

He eyed the bottle. Then he eyed the other item that had arrived: a mean little red envelope vibrating like it had opinions. And, judging by the loopy handwriting on the front, it probably had many. The owl that delivered it had dive-bombed the window like it was on a mission from Merlin him bloody self. And, well, it was safe to say Charlie was not excited to pull on that particular thread.

He had more important things to focus on. Hermione for example.

At least, that is what he'd been telling himself for the past few days. But the howler was still there. Staring at him. Judging his soul. It twitched every few minutes like it was warming up its lungs. Every time it moved, the dragons tensed. Salt had already growled low and menacing, tail twitching like he wanted to bite it. Pepper had made an actual attempt to roast it on sight.

Honestly, Charlie wasn’t sure why he’d stopped her.

He hadn’t opened it. Didn’t need to. There was only one party who could have the nerve to send him one. Charlie didn't have many friends, and all of them had been through the same fucking ordeal he and Hermione had just caried themselves through. So yeah. This was family.

And that? Well, bloody hell. He didn't even want to think about what that meant.

His fingers moved through Hermione’s curls again. Grounding. Familiar. She didn’t stir.

His other hand reached for the vodka.

The tremor in his fingers wasn’t dramatic. Just enough to make the bottle clink as he picked it up. He watched it for a beat. Like the glass might offer him an answer he hadn’t already rejected five times.

Too long in his own head. Too quiet. Too still. Everything felt like a waiting room, but with the presence of a revolving door.

He needed to act. Do something. Take back a sliver of control from the gods or fate or whoever the hell was playing puppeteer this week.

He sighed, set the vodka down with a dull thud, and reached for his wand instead.

Pepper chirped. Salt stirred, like they knew something had shifted.

“Find Bill,” Charlie told the silver blur of his Patronus as his hand trembled. “Tell him to come find us. St. Mungo’s.”

The silver Salt yipped once, then launched through the wall with the kind of focus Charlie wished he could summon for himself.

The real Salt yipped too, tail thumping the floor like he approved the plan. Pepper gave a sleepy grunt of agreement.

Charlie leaned back, let his head tip against the wall, and eyed the letter. Then the vodka.

“Yeah,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. “Reinforcements. We definitely need reinforcements.”

The door opened with the usual creak and none of the ceremony. Of course it didn’t. Bill had always had a way of appearing like the universe had just handed him a front-row seat to the best play in town—serene, smug, and suspiciously well-groomed for someone who’d only recently walked out of a battle with a demented Death Eater, an Ancient creature, and not to mention a goblin-infested bank.

His hair was tied back, the dragon fang earring freshly polished and catching the ward-light just so. Charlie squinted. Had the man… moisturised?

The new scar slicing down Bill’s cheek ruined the effect just enough to keep things honest. Angry purple, freshly acquired. He still looked like a bloke who had never had a bad day in his life.

Salt and Pepper rumbled in tandem, low and resonant—a deep-chested welcome for a man they actually liked. Traitorous bastards.

Bill hadn’t even shut the door before his eyes swept the room and locked onto Charlie. And because he was Bill, of course, he skipped the pleasantries entirely and went for the jugular.

“It’ll heal,” he said, voice maddeningly calm. “Fleur and the goblins did what they could. Only permanent ones are the usual—ritual burns from the job, the arch. And,” his hands moved past his cheek, “Fenrir’s little gift. Souvenirs.”

Charlie lifted an eyebrow. “You say that like you’re collecting them.”

Bill gave him a self-satisfied smile. “Ladies love a scar.”

Charlie scoffed, still, enjoying the short reprieve. “You mean Fleur, Vicky and Dom?”

Bill’s grin widened. “Among others. A certain curly-haired witch may’ve confessed admiration—after a few bottles of wine and a lot of theoretical hypotheticals.”

Charlie tried not to look at Hermione.

Failed.

She lay still. Too still. Not the soft, healing kind of sleep, but the soul-weary, magic-sucked-into-the-core kind. Like even dreams were too heavy.

Bill noticed. Of course he did. He probably had the moment he entered the room. But now, as Charlie acknowledged the elephant in the room, the playfulness bled out of him.

“What happened?”

Charlie dragged a hand down his face. “Overdrawn magic. And…”

His eyes dropped to her shoulder. He hadn’t seen it yet, but he knew it was there—the soulmark. Padma had muttered it during diagnostics, her voice full of wonder.

“Dennis sent us here. He’s been in. But St Mungo’s isn’t exactly thrilled about the whole overdrawn-magic-while-also-anciently-soul-bonded-thing.”

Bill frowned, brow creasing, chewing his lip the way he used to when he was trying to solve an ancient curse or figure out who flushed his toothbrush down the loo in third year.

“Ah. About that. Fahhrod might be able to help.”

Charlie’s head snapped up. “You’ve talked to Fahhrod?”

“We both have. Fleur’s still at Gringotts, going through the library. Kids are with Audrey. There was enough research to do.”

Charlie lifted an eyebrow, sharp and familiar. The Weasley equivalent of spill, mate.

Bill ran a hand through his hair, as he shook his head. Then, he drew his wand.

With one swift motion, silver fire erupted from Bill’s wand—and to the visible dismay of both Salt and Pepper, the shape of a massive wolf surged forward. Four muscled legs, glinting fangs, and a height that rivalled a small horse. His Patronus. Regal. Lethal. All grace and precision.

Bill’s voice was all business, but the softness around the words told you everything you needed to know about who he was speaking to.

“Mon Amour, bring your findings. Bring Fahhrod if he’s willing. Find the head healer on Ms Granger’s case. They need to know. Immediately.”

The moment the light dimmed, Charlie looked at him. “You could explain now.”

Bill shook his head. “I only know the shape of it. Fleur’s got the guts of it. But what I do know—” his gaze returned to Hermione “—is that it’s definitely not just overdrawn magic. You two are bound to one another. Properly. Soulmates. Old magic. Rookwood started it. Finished it, too. It’s ancient. Dangerous. And if not properly conducted, it demands sacrifice.”

Charlie nodded. He’d known. The Caprathian had said as much. Deep down, he’d known that humans didn’t fair any better under badly executed rituals. But knowing didn’t make it easier to say aloud.

“If you weren’t, she should’ve healed by now,” Bill added gently.

“Yeah.”

With two big strides, Bill crossed the room and wrapped him in a hug. Firm, two-handed, all-heart. The kind that made you feel seven again and certain that your big brother could wrestle dragons and nightmares alike.

“You’ll be alright, Char. You both will. We just need to shake some people awake, yeah?”

Charlie held on, arms tightening just a fraction. “Yeah.”

Bill stepped back and gave him that look—the one that said he’d let the softness pass but now wanted the real reason he’d been summoned. “But that’s not why you called me, is it?”

Charlie exhaled, more laugh than breath. “No.”

Salt grumbled. A low warning. Hermione stirred at the noise, a slight wrinkle to her brow.

Bill chuckled, watching her. “That’s a good sign.”

“If this bloody letter wakes her up, I’ll count it as divine mercy.”

Bill’s brow arched. “Letter?”

Charlie nodded toward the window. “Vodka’s a present from the Reserve. The other a present from Mum.”

Bill turned. Spotted the bottle. Spotted the red, twitching envelope vibrating like it was possessed. His face went through three stages: confusion, horror, and an oddly cheerful sort of resignation.

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh.”

Without another word, Bill flicked his wand and conjured two glasses with practiced ease.

Charlie flexed the fingers of his left hand; the joints audibly popped.

Merlin, he was getting slow. And old. In no particular order.

He silenced the room with a charm, poured the vodka with another. His hand trembled ever so slightly, just enough to spill a drop of liquor on the floor.

Bill either didn’t notice or chose not to. Which, to Charlie, amounted to the same mercy.

They slid down to the floor, backs pressed against the door, the bed in their sight. Salt and Pepper curled around Hermione like a pair of ancient sentries. Her breath was still shallow. But there.

Bill raised his glass, crystal catching in the fluorescent lighting of the room.

“You really want to do this in front of her?”

Charlie glanced at Hermione—still unmoving, still terrifyingly pale, her magic barely flickering beneath the surface. Salt had tucked his snout close to her side. Pepper's wings half-shielded her like she was flame needing guarding. Or a secret.

“She deserves to hear it,” Charlie said, voice low. “And if Mum’s screaming voice pulls her out of unconsciousness, I’ll send her a bloody fruit basket.”

Bill huffed softly, but then his head tilted. Studying him. A pause too long to be casual.

“I’ve said it before, but I’ll say it again. You’ve really got it bad for her, haven’t you?”

Charlie didn’t look away. Didn’t blink. His hand traced his ribs, where he knew an inked Pepper was currently roaming around. “There’s never been anyone else, Bill. Not really. And there won’t be.”

There it was. Quiet. Flat. Not dramatic—he didn’t need it to be. It wasn’t a performance. It was just fact. Like gravity. Like fire.

And Merlin, it was true.

He didn’t know the moment it had solidified—maybe somewhere between the dragon’s breath and the blood on her hands, or maybe it had always been there, waiting. But now, watching her slip further away while some ancient bond tried to drain her dry, he knew it in his bones.

He’d told her as much, already.

God, he loved her. Truly. Irrevocably. Without question.

Bill didn’t say anything right away. Just nodded once, sharp and simple. The way you did when someone told you the truth and you respected them too much to dress it up.

“You’ve already accepted it,” he said quietly.

“Barely.”

Charlie looked down at his shaking hand, at the way the vodka trembled inside the glass.

Bill’s voice dropped. “You two will be alright.”

Charlie let out a breath that didn’t hurt quite as much as the last one. “I know.”

They clinked glasses.

“Ready?” Bill asked.

Charlie swallowed the burn in his throat. “Ready.”

And then the Howler, humming with crimson fury, snapped open with the force of a detonation.

Charlie tilted his head. Cracked his knuckles. Murmured a quiet thank you to his friends for their love and foresight. Just as Bill put a supporting hand on his shoulder, Charlie braced.

Then, his Mum’s voice split the room.

“CHARLES SEPTIMUS WEASLEY—”

Chapter Text

Fuck.

That was the only coherent thought Charlie could muster as his Mum’s voice thundered through the hospital room, like the Howler had snorted three vials of Pepperup and was now off to wage magical war while it exploded.

The Daily Prophet could sod off. Witch Weekly, too—those bloody vultures in glittering ink. They hadn’t left Hermione alone since she’d had the gall to walk down Knockturn Alley near someone with a jawline. The original article, which had happened years ago according to Ginny’s comments after Christmas, had been buried deep in the gossip columns, little more than a blurry photograph and a suggestion that she'd been seen 'in intimate conversation with a mysterious man while living together with Ron Weasley.'

You’d think that such a lousy rumour would meet a quick end. But no. Judging by his Mum’s theatrics, had only stoked the fire. The narrative had metastasized. Suddenly it wasn’t one mystery man—it was two, by the name of Salt and Pepper. That turned into three. Then it became five. Then it was ‘Hermione Granger: Golden girl paid in gold as Lady of the Night?” slapped across the front page in crimson ink.

And the implication? That Hermione had finally cracked. That she was out there collecting men like Chocolate Frog cards, to make some sort of point. Especially after someone—Ron, probably, bloody idiot—leaked his engagement to the press. Now the tabloids had a story arc. His Mum illustrated it all in vivid detail: Jilted War Heroine Loses Plot, Turns Tart. Ripe for public consumption.

Yeah, a lot had happened over the past week.

Never mind the reality. That Hermione hadn’t even been in the country. That she’d been kidnapped. Had fought poachers and a bloody Death Eather. Had nearly died doing it—and saved Charlie’s life in the process.

But facts were no match for a juicy narrative, and his Mum had swallowed the lot like it was gospel delivered by owl. This Howler? It wasn’t just fury—it was regurgitation. A sickly spew of tabloid bile, steeped in hypocrisy.

And now Charlie was the problem, too. Because he dared to care. Because Ron, apparently, had implied that Hermione was “trying to be a Weasley” and would “probably move on to Charlie next.” Like she was collecting brothers. Like she wasn’t worth a hundred of any of them.

Fuck Ron.

Fuck the press, and sodding gossip mill.

And fuck himself, too, for daring to hope that maybe—just maybe—this would be one bloody crisis they could get through without something or someone showing up to torch the entire hospital wing.

Bill let out a low, guttural sound beside him—close enough to a growl. The dragons were growling too.

Not full roars, thank Merlin, but enough to stir the air. Salt’s claws dug into the mattress—thin steel talons humming magic—while Pepper’s wingtip traced the air in a sluggish arc. She blinked slowly, head drooping just slightly toward Hermione, who lay between them. Her breath was shallow, but she was protected by scales that confined the power of dragonfire.

Charlie’s palm pressed against Pepper’s flank. Heat rippled up his arm. That’s right, he muttered lowly. Keep her safe.

Hermione shifted underneath them with a low groan.

Charlie’s heart gave a kick.

Alive. Still here. And, now, moving. Albeit ever so slightly.

It was something, at least.

Not that it mattered to his Mum, currently screeching about soulmarks and Lavender Brown and what a shame it was that “only one brother got properly bonded.”

Charlie didn’t so much roll his eyes as internally combust.

“As fucking if,” he muttered.

And then came the pivot. A Weasley classic. One second she was slandering Hermione like a Pureblood gossip witch with a grudge, and the next she was flinging the spotlight straight onto Charlie. Because clearly he was the issue now. How dare he leave with Hermione at Christmas. How dare he not write. Apparently it had been over a week—as if Charlie Weasley was in the habit of sending weekly owl updates home like a schoolboy with a new quill set. But oh no, this week was different. This week he'd vanished with her.

And now, with that syrupy-sweet voice she only used when her claws were buried in guilt, she was cooing that it was time. Time to come home. Face the music. Settle down with a proper witch. “You know,” she’d added with a little sigh, “like Ron has.”

Charlie’s jaw ticked. Bill’s hand stayed firm on his shoulder—anchoring, maybe, or just preparing for whatever fresh disaster was about to march through the door.

Which, as it happened, was now twitching.

They barely moved. Just enough to let it creak open a few inches—Bill still wedged against the frame.

Still, it was enough for someone to get through.

And it wasn’t just someone. It was Fleur.

She didn’t enter so much as descend as she pushed herself through the small openining. Her boots clicking along the floor, silk coat trailing behind her.

Bill looked at his wife with wide and appreciative eyes. Charlie couldn’t help it as the corner of his mouth turned up. She was absolutely perfect for his brother.

Fleur, however, didn’t stop for her husband. She didn’t hesitate either. She paused her step, but not her assessment as her eyes flicked across the scene. Charlie felt them on him before they moved to Hermione, all but entombed beneath two snorting dragons, and his Mum’s screaming red envelope, now spouting some nonsense about how “she’d expected more of him”, still flapping around the ceiling like it had overdosed on chaos and caffeine

One brow lifted. Her eyes narrowed.

Then—flick. Her wand moved like a guillotine.

The Howler stopped mid-wail. Jaw frozen, tongue lolling out like it had choked on its own outrage. Its parchment lips curled into a scorched ‘O’, steam hissing through the crack and scorching the wallpaper next to his head.

Charlie flinched, taste of burnt ink on his tongue. Perfect. His Mum’s magic lingered acidicly in the air.

Fleur turned toward Charlie, expression unreadable. But her eyes sparkled in that particularly way of hers that meant she was either about to kiss someone or set the room on fire.

“Your mother ‘as impressive lung capacity,” she said. “We ‘eard ‘er all zhe way from zhe ‘allway.”

“Genetic curse,” Charlie muttered, without looking away.

Bill let out a choked laugh, raised his glass and took another sip of vodka like Fleur and Charlie had just made a bloody toast.

Charlie squinted at her, brain still fogged from drink, too many worries too count, not to mention getting yelled at, and an intense lack of sleep, but something about her tone made him pause. “We?”

Fleur smiled. The dangerous kind. The kind that usually preceded decisive action and paperwork.

“Oui. Fahrrod is ‘ere as well. After one look at your ‘ead ‘ealer and ‘is papers, ‘e sent for your Reserve ‘ealer. ‘E should arrive any moment.”

Bill brightened, his grin almost infectious. Almost. “That’s wonderful, love.”

Charlie gave him a sideways look. Wonderful was optimistic. Delusional, even.

But useful? Yeah. He could work with useful.

He glanced back at Fleur. Then at Hermione—curled beneath the dragons like some war-wrecked relic, the two of them guarding her like they’d been bred for it. Then the Howler; still suspended mid-tantrum, steam curling from its lips like it was gathering its energy to start a second rampage.

Charlie took a long sip of vodka.

His hand shook slightly on the glass. He told himself it was the burn—just the vodka, nothing else—but the tremble lingered, like his body knew what his brain was too stubborn to admit. He was barely holding it together.

But still, they had survived.

They were alive.

Bonded.

Hermione was still here. And Fleur had arrived like divine retribution wrapped in Parisian silk.

All things considered?

Yeah. They might not be doing great yet. But they sure as hell were doing better.

Dennis was calm. Fahrrod, maddeningly, even calmer. The kind of calm that came with decades of handling cursed vaults, political goblin uprisings, and curse-breaking interns who thought ancient wards could be disarmed with enthusiasm and a wand flourish.

The man looked exactly like the sort of person who’d invented magical bureaucracy just to watch the world squirm. Glasses perched halfway down his nose. Velvet robes that shimmered with authority and had been stitched with wisdom. He didn’t just look like a scholar—he looked like a research parchment generator with opinions about footnotes.

And of course, he stood right next to their bed.

Not his, though Merlin knew Charlie had practically grafted himself to it. Not Hermione’s, though she was the reason half the magical elite had shown up like this was the bloody final act of a Greek tragedy. No. Their bed. Because somewhere between falling in love, fighting a Death Eater, and accidentally fusing their souls, the lines had blurred and never unblurred again.

Charlie sat behind her, legs half-numb from the weight of the dragons, fingers weaving through curls that felt like they belonged to a softer time. He wasn’t doing anything fancy—just a slow, quiet braid. Nothing precise. Nothing clinical. Just... touch. Connection. Something living between his hands when everything else felt like parchment and pronouncements.

The need had started subtle. Background static. But with this many people in the room, it had morphed into a full-body ache. Like his mind didn’t quite believe she was still there unless he was physically touching her.

Fleur had only just swept in and started her explanation, when the shouting had started.

Not from her, obviously. Fleur didn’t shout. She weaponised elegance, and everyone else just withered in the fallout. But she had barely gotten through her findings—an articulate, scathing summary that turned magical theory into bloodsport—when Fahrrod and Thorne, and a meek Dennis trailing behind, had entered the room had started sparring.

It started with academic disagreement. Thorne insisted, in that flat, bureaucratic tone of his, that what Hermione was experiencing was merely a case of magical overexertion.

Fatigue, nothing more. Rest, fluids, and most of all peace is what she needed.

Fahrrod, meanwhile, maintained that what they were seeing was a textbook case of an ancient bond—one that had been triggered involuntarily and ritualistically fulfilled under duress. He gestured with one ringed finger, and a glowing thread diagram unfolded in the air—two magical cores entwined in a triple spiral, pulsing with light, an intricate dance of gold, silver, and violet.

Charlie squinted at the diagram—pretty enough, sure, but all he saw was Hermione’s magical core, still too faint. Let them conjure whatever colors they liked. She needed breath, not theory.

Still, Fahrrod continued.

“This is not post-combat bleed,” he said, tone as gentle as it was lethal. “This is soul-mergence. Carpathian ritual class. Possibly pre-Wand era. Done wrong, it drains. Done right…” He gave Thorne a long, pointed look. “It redefines.”

Thorne’s jaw tightened. His voice, when it came, was sharp—too sharp to be reason alone. “You think I haven’t seen what happens when amateurs dabble in ancient soulcraft? When they chant words they don’t understand, when they fuse cores without safeguards?”

His gaze flicked toward Hermione. Just once. Barely. “I’ve watched someone burn from the inside out,” he said quietly.

A pause. A shadow behind his eyes. Something old, and bitter, and far too personal.

Then, just like that, his spine straightened again, and the sneer returned to his tone. “So no. I don’t take chances on metaphor and theory dressed up as legacy. Especially not in my ward, when my diagnostics imply a different story.”

Fahrrod’s ringchains clinked; a new and shimmering diagram pulsed overhead.

Thorne’s lips curled. “See, you call this healing? Conjuring pretty diagrams and calling it medicine?” His wand flicked—his own diagnostics lighting up the room, pulsing in a rhythm that Charlie assumed was Hermione's heartbeat.

Fahrrod’s smile was polite, yet menacing if you knew where to look. “Those are your diagnostic spells—provincial, at best,” he said.

But then his eyes turned more serious. “But, I call this a ritual gone wrong…” Fahrrod replied, eyes flat. He tapped a particular heavy signet ring, as the diagram flourished to life, but its light faded.

The goblin’s voice was heavier now, “… And potentially lethal if left unchecked.”

And that’s when the room exploded.

Parchment was waved. Illustrative spells were cast. Someone—Charlie couldn’t catch who—said something about jurisdiction. Fleur scoffed, muttered under her breath in French just after she called Thorne an “incompetent excuse for a 'ealer”. Salt seemed to agree as he rumbled low in his throat. Pepper bared tiny, furious teeth.

Bill stood very still behind his wife, hands on her shoulders.

And then came the part where it stopped being academic and started becoming a bloody spectacle.

Voices rose. Again. Fahrrod quoted something in a mix of Gobbledegook and Latin. Thorne barked back in medical jargon. Salt hissed. Pepper snapped sleepily at the hem of Thorne’s robes. And through it all, Charlie kept braiding Hermione’s hair with increasingly white knuckles.

Until she stirred. Again.

Just slightly. But it was enough. Enough for Charlie’s heart to lurch and for the room to tilt. A flicker of warmth ghosted up Charlie’s chest—barely there, but definitely magic. Not dangerous. Not lashing out. Just… present. Like she could feel the noise swirling around her.

Charlie wrapped both arms around her like he could shield her from sound itself.

“Keep your voice down,” he growled. “She’s already handling enough.”

Thorne did not, in fact, keep his voice down.

“This is a violation of St. Mungo’s magical safety policy. If you're all going to play amateur wardmasters and healers, I’ll be forced to call the Aurors.”

Bill stepped forward, all casual confidence and ancient-curse-smirking menace. “Go on then. Call them.”

And Thorne did. With the teeny tiny mistake of mentioning the patient by name.

Which meant, of course, Harry. There was no way the Head Auror would not show up now. And everyone, with the exception of one extraordinarily stubborn Head Healer, seemed to know it.

So the shouting died. Not all at once, but in sharp, jagged steps. Fahrrod adjusted his cuffs. Fleur murmured something to Bill that sounded suspiciously like a threat of bodily harm. Even the dragons settled into a tense coil of breath and growl.

The room became something else.

Not a ward. Not a patient’s room. Not even a holding space. It was tight. The air was heavy. Too many people, and too many opinions.

Then—at last—a knock.

And before anyone could react, Padma’s face became visible. A soft smile playing at her lips.

Harry Potter stepped in beside her, windblown and slightly out of breath, like he’d apparated halfway through the country without a second thought while fury brewed just beneath the surface.

Harry wasn’t shouting—yet—but Charlie recognized the look. The tight jaw, the stillness. It was the same calm that meant something explosive had just been placed very gently on the table.

“Thorne,” he said, voice calm as he’d had this conversation many times before, “please, for the love of Merlin—and my remaining patience—leave the room.”

Thorne blinked like the sun had shone straight in his face, turning towards Fahrrod. “They don’t have the jurisdiction! I am the Senior Healer of Magical Maladies and Overexertion. This ward is under my care, and I will not have it hijacked by goblin scholars and dragon-wrangling amateurs spouting folklore! I will—”

Harry’s tone didn’t rise. It didn’t have to. “Healer Thorne, please, I’ll have the Minister quote that violation back to you personally, in front of the Wizengamot, before you get to your afternoon break. Now, please. Get. Out.”

His mouth opened—twitched, even—as if to argue. But something faltered behind his eyes. Doubt. Maybe his pride trying to recover from a gut punch.

Then he turned on his heel and left without another word.

Which, by every metric Charlie could think of, was the smartest thing he’d done all day.

And, just like that, they were left alone. Without interference of St. Mungo's. So now they were here. Two Weasley brothers, two honorary Weasleys, a goblin, a healer and a healer-in-training, a sleeping war heroine, and two dragons.

Harry just raised both eyebrows.

“Right,” he said, finally, rubbing a hand over his face like he was already regretting asking. “So. What the hell is going on?”

Fahrrod cleared his throat like a man preparing to deliver a funeral address—or a lecture, which, according to Bill, to most goblins was roughly the same tone.

Still, Charlie’s stomach sank. He recognized that cadence. The ceremonial kind. Like when a dragon handler announces you’ve lost a colleague.

"What happened in Romania," he began, "was the activation of an ancient Carpathian bonding ritual. Rare. Unpredictable. And, in this case, clearly involuntary."

Charlie blinked. The air felt heavier suddenly. Not ominous, just... expectant. Like the bloody room was waiting for him to catch up.

Of course it was a ritual. Of course it was ancient. Of course it had to happen in fucking Romania.

"This kind of bond," Fahrrod continued, gesturing idly, "only triggers between soulmarked individuals. It requires a magical catalyst, and—it would seem—spirit animal incarnations." He looked at Salt and Pepper like they were an answer to an equation he’d been working on for decades.

Charlie blinked again. Then reached for the hem of his shirt.

The inked Patronus on his ribs, warm against skin, slithered up to meet the air: Pepper, coiled and calm in dark, swirling lines.

Then he looked down—at the real thing. The actual Pepper, still curled around Hermione like a furnace with attitude.

Fahrrod nodded solemnly. “That is her spirit animal.”

Pepper yipped. Smugly.

Charlie stared. “So... Salt’s mine?”

Salt yipped. Then moved closer, as if waiting for confirmation. Charlie gave him a light scratch under the chin. The dragon practically purred.

Of course the overgrown lizard was his. Probably explained the shared penchant for fighting and aggressively guarding Hermione’s bed like a hoarded treasure.

“That’s why you went to Hermione in Derobyn, isn’t it?” Charlie murmured. "And knew exactly where to take everyone when Rookwood attacked?"

Salt gave another yip. That one sounded like a yes, you slow human.

“Correct,” Fahrrod said, the faintest hint of amusement beneath his polished tone.

Fahrrod paused, tilting his head slightly, the way Salt did right before casually disproving someone’s worldview.

“And still, this bond,” he said, voice lower now, almost reverent, “is not a typical soulmark. What you and Miss Granger have formed is older. Wilder. Spirit-touched.”

His gaze passed over Salt and Pepper—now suspiciously still, like they knew they were being cited in magical history—then returned to Charlie.

“Twin spirit incarnations. Fully manifested. Bonded not only to you, but to each other. I’ve never seen it outside theoretical texts.”

Charlie blinked.

Fahrrod’s next words dripped with weight. “Your bond didn’t just survive. It rooted itself in the quiet, and it evolved the middle of fire—and held. Because you were both willing to burn.”

Charlie’s throat went dry.

Nope. Too much.

So his mouth defaulted to sarcasm. Because, of course, it did.

“So, what—you’re saying we’re magical freaks?”

Fahrrod smiled. Not smug. Almost fond.

“No, Mr. Weasley. I’m saying your bond is singular. Possibly even… legendary.”

Charlie stared at him.

Legendary. Yeah. As if.

Pepper yipped, entirely too pleased with herself. Salt rumbled like he’d been waiting all day for someone to say that.

Charlie pressed his thumb against the Patronus ink on his ribs—warm, pulsing. His knuckles then traced Hermione’s cheek—still breathing slowly into his chest, still not awake, still his.

He didn’t feel legendary.

He just felt like a man holding a braid together with shaking fingers, trying not to fall apart.

But maybe the bond knew better.

Maybe that was enough.

Across the room, Harry cleared his throat, pulling Charlie from his thoughts. "Okay, ancient soulmates, spirit animals, magical fate. Love it. Deeply poetic. But why is Hermione still like this?"

He gestured toward her unconscious form like the question physically burned.

Fahrrod’s expression shifted—serious now, deeper. The kind of look that meant the next part wasn’t going to be pleasant. He turned to Dennis and Padma, hands folded politely.

"Healers," he said, voice soft but somehow ancient, "I will soon require your assistance, if you’re amenable."

Padma looked at Dennis. Dennis smiled and nodded. Padma did the same. The air felt around them exhaled.

Fahrrod turned back to the room. "I believe the stone Rookwood used—"

"The one we exploded," Bill interjected helpfully.

"Yes, that one," Fahrrod said dryly. "—sensed Rookwood’s intentions. The bond between Mr. Weasley and Ms. Granger was already forming. It only needed a push. Rookwood, in his arrogance, gave it one."

Charlie shifted slightly. Something warm itched beneath his ribs. Not bad, just… aware.

So that was it. Not fate. Not luck. Not some romantic prophecy written in the stars. Just a megalomaniac trying to play god, pushing them over a line they hadn’t even seen yet but had existed. Somewhere.

His lips disappeared into a thin line.

Fahrrod’s gaze cut toward him. "Your feelings, Mr. Weasley, are strong. That much is clear."

Charlie felt the heat crawl up his neck. He tried not to look smug. Failed spectacularly.

Bill laughed from the other side of the room. Fleur elbowed him.

“However,” Fahrrod continued, ignoring the snorts from their loving audience, “because Rookwood’s intention was to gain power through sacrifice, the magic recoiled. It did not offer itself freely. It retaliated. And Hermione’s end of the bond absorbed the cost.”

His eyes found Charlie again.

“You were injured, yes?”

Charlie ran a hand through his hair. “Badly.”

He didn’t elaborate. No one needed the details—how the blood had ran into his eyes, how his neck had burned, how the ground had dug into his cheek, how he’d thought that was it.

How the last thing he’d seen was her honey-brown eyes—terrified, defiant, herself.

“Your own magic, even that of your spirit animal, couldn’t shield you from what was happening. But hers could. And so, she did.”

Silence fell over the room as if it were covered by a cloak.

Charlie swallowed hard. His hand was still tangled in Hermione’s hair. She didn’t stir.

“She gave too much,” Fahrrod said quietly. “Her magic is now split. Overused. Fractured. That much Thorne interpreted correctly. However, what he failed to see was that it cannot return unless the bond is properly completed.”

Charlie nodded once. No theatrics. Only acknowledgment. Of what she’d done. Of what he hadn’t been able to stop.

Because he would’ve. He should’ve. But she always ran headfirst into danger like it was her birthright. And he'd always been half a step behind, too damn busy watching her burn to stop her from turning to ash.

“The black one is keeping her stable,” Fahrrod added. “For now. Their magics are aligned. But not indefinitely. We must act.”

He turned, nodding toward Fleur and Bill. "It was correct to involve me. Thank you both."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "No offense, Mr…?”

“Fahrrod.”

”Mr. Fahrrod,” Harry continued with a small smile, “but how exactly do you know all this?"

Fahrrod didn’t bristle. He merely inclined his head. “Because goblins study soulmarks. Ancient bonds. They are our legacy. These are not mere symbols—they transcend species, time, geography. In my line of work, knowing the effects of a bonded pair is not academic. It is survival.”

He paused. Just enough.

“And if anyone understands the strength of a bond forged in war, and how vital they can be, it is you, Mr. Potter.”

Harry’s mouth opened. Then shut. Then he nodded. Once.

Fahrrod looked at Padma and Dennis again. “You know advanced healing spells?”

Both nodded in unison. Fahrrod didn’t waste anymore time.

With a small tap of his nail, he opened his silver signet ring. A small violet gemstone floated out, hovered in the air, pulsing softly. It drifted toward Charlie like it knew where it belonged.

“Take this,” Fahrrod instructed. “Hold it. Cover it with Ms. Granger’s hand.”

Charlie obeyed without asking. The stone was warm. Familiar. The moment her fingers touched his, a flicker of something—not magic, but memory—passed between them.

He saw snow. Fire. Her smile under the moonlight. Her hand in his after the battle. Her voice saying his name like it was something worth saving.

His throat went tight.

This was what it all came down to. Not dragons. Not dark magic. Not blood or scars or war. Just her. Always her.

“Healers—once I start chanting, begin stabilisation. I will recite the incantation from the texts we uncovered. It will complete the bond.”

Fahrrod looked at Charlie, all pretense of formality dropped.

“But be warned. The intent must be pure. This is not a temporary tie. It is for life. For here. For hereafter.”

Charlie looked down at Hermione. Pale. Sleeping.

And still—still—the only thing that had ever made sense.

Then back at Fahrrod. He swallowed. He had to know, didn’t he? “And if we don’t complete it?”

“She won’t survive it.”

Harry flinched. “So there’s no choice?”

Fahrrod’s voice never wavered. “Not since Rookwood took it from them.”

Charlie exhaled. Closed his eyes.

“There never was a choice. It’s her. It’s always been her.”

A pause.

“I just... hope she feels the same.”

Dennis coughed—too loud to be casual. Fleur’s smile sharpened; she’d known for weeks, probably. And Harry? He laughed. Bastard. Of course he did.

Bill made an offended noise. “I think she does, mate.”

“You think?!” Dennis said.

Fleur chuckled. “Non. We know.”

Charlie barely registered them. His arms touched her sides, softly caressing her ribs before brushing her curls from her forehead. His fingers trembled. Not with fear. With the sheer weight of it. Of what it meant.

This wasn’t a wedding vow. This was something older. Blood-deep. Fire-forged.

He looked up. He couldn't make the decision.

Harry nodded. “Do it.”

Charlie rubbed the back of his neck, fingers tracing the scar there. His eyes moved around the room. The healers were ready. Fleur looked at him with strength, and Bill gave an assured nod.

His eyes stopped at Pepper. Asking. Questioning. Without hesitation, she yipped.

Charlie straightened his back as he looked at Fahrrod. He nodded. “Okay, let’s do it.”

Then, just before Fahrrod began, Charlie leaned down—his lips brushing against her temple, his voice so low it almost broke.

“I hope this is what you’d want,” he whispered into her hair.

Her fingers twitched under his. Not much. Just enough to make his heart stop for a millisecond.

And then, just like that, the Goblin began to chant.

The light bloomed gold, bright and whole. Charlie gritted his teeth as warmth surged through him. The bed dissolved beneath them—not literally, but it sure felt like it.

He wasn’t in St. Mungo’s anymore.

He was flying. Soaring.

No, Salt was. He was Salt. Wings stretched wide, scales gleaming in the sun, wind brushing past his face.

Next to him, a blur of brilliant black—Pepper. No, not Pepper.

Hermione.

She turned toward him, violet eyes turning a honey-colored brown.

Her eyes sparkled. No pain. No exhaustion. Just light.

“Forever?” she asked, her voice as clear as sunlight.

His heart answered before his mouth did.

“Forever.”

And for the first time in days, weeks even, everything felt whole.

Everything felt right.

Chapter Text

It started, rather annoyingly, with a rug.

Not a metaphorical rug yanked out from under her feet—no, she would’ve expected that, at least. This was an actual, literal rug. Soft. Fluffy. Warm in that smug, too-expensive-to-own kind of way. Her toes sunk into it as if the universe had decided that, if Hermione Jean Granger was going to spiral into magical unconsciousness, she may as well do it on three inches of enchanted alpaca fluff.

And it would’ve been fine, really. Restful, even. if not for the vague, persistent awareness that she was not alone.

Pepper kept appearing.

Not dramatically, of course. She was far too dignified for that. Just sort of… blink, there. Like she'd taken a casual wrong turn from the astral plane and dropped in to check Hermione’s pulse.

Sometimes she circled once and left. Sometimes she curled around Hermione’s ankles like a particularly judgmental shadow. Once, she’d brought her a stick. Hermione didn’t ask.

And then she was gone again.

And Charlie. Charlie.

His voice trickled in like water through a cracked ceiling—too faint, too distorted, but always there. Threads of sound. Frayed, desperate things. Sometimes murmurs. Sometimes apologies. Once or twice, full-on declarations of something that sounded dangerously close to poetry, which was frankly terrifying.

She tried to answer. To yell back through the static, I’m fine, you daft, lovely man, but her mouth wasn’t really cooperating. Or attached. Hard to say. Her body had apparently gone on sabbatical, and her mind had been left behind to wander the fog with nothing but a sarcastic commentary track.

So she waited. Drifted. Nested in the quiet.

Which, if she was being very honest, wasn’t that upsetting. Not really. Not here. Here, everything was still. Here, nothing hurt. Here, time had politely buggered off, and left her alone.

She wasn’t sure where “here” was, exactly—but it smelled like cedarwood and old parchment and him. Like every safe place she’d ever built for herself, stitched together with borrowed books and dragonfire.

And she could’ve stayed.

Would’ve stayed.

Except—

Molly Weasley shouted her out of it

It came from above, or beyond, or perhaps directly from the ninth circle of Hell where Molly Weasley had been given a megaphone and poor impulse control.

Hermione heard every word.

Heard her name, twisted and spat. Heard the ridiculous gossip about her conquests and Ron and Salt and Pepper like she was part of some sodding condiment-based harem.

It wasn’t even the content that did it. It was the gall. The absolute cheek of that woman to waltz into a hospital room and start monologuing about Hermione’s so-called sexual deviance like she was Maria herself.

And then—then—she pivoted to Charlie.

Her Charlie.

Insinuating things. Ugly things. As if Hermione had been collecting Weasley men like cursed artifacts instead of, you know, bleeding to save their lives.

And on top of all that? She insulted him. His choices. As if they were nothing.

Hermione had never moved so fast in her life. Or tried to. It was like swimming through toffee. Sticky, exhausting, and somehow still too sweet. She pushed through the molasses of magic and memory, trying to claw her way toward the noise, toward him, but it all went fuzzy again. Like her mind had hit the edge of a spell and bounced off it.

Still. The effort had cost her. The warm place took her back—greedy thing—and she folded in on herself once more, tucked inside dreams that weren’t dreams and comfort that was starting to feel suspiciously like a trap.

Time passed. Or didn’t.

And then—one whisper. Soft and foggy as breath on a mirror.

“I hope this is what you’d want.”

Her heart stuttered. Charlie.

He sounded wrecked. Raw. Like a man with a dragon’s heart who didn’t know how to use it without breaking something.

She wanted to answer so badly. Wanted to scream that yes, of course it’s what she wanted. Whatever it was, she would take it. Grab it with both hands and never let go. As long as it was with him.

But she couldn’t scream. Couldn’t speak.

She just felt.

And that’s when the rug disappeared, and the light came.

Not candlelight. Not wandlight.

Sunlight.

Wind.

And Salt beside her—only it wasn’t just Salt.

Blue eyes.

His eyes.

And just like that, she knew.

“Forever?” she asked.

“Forever,” he said.

And just like that, something locked into place.

The bond settled in her bones. A warmth that no longer felt borrowed. No longer frayed. It held.

So did she.

Yet, the cedar still lingered. Not strong, just faint—like memory tucked into skin. The wind had gone, but something of it remained in her ribs, humming with warmth. Like she hadn’t just left the quiet. Like she'd brought it back with her.

And when the wind died, and the light faded, and she felt the bed beneath her again—his arms, always his—Hermione knew it was time.

Time to come back.

Time to fight.

Time to bloody well open her eyes.

So she did.

The introductions were mercifully short—not that she wasn’t grateful for the efficiency, but when a room contained half the British cursebreaker division, a Head Auror, two Healers, and two sentient flamethrowers, brevity was survival. The explanations were even shorter.

Thank Morgana.

Hermione clocked the guest list with clinical precision: Fleur, Fahrrod, Padma dressed just like Dennis in Healer green, Bill, Harry, Charlie—and Salt and Pepper, who looked far too pleased with themselves for dragons who'd spent the last hour curled up like electric blankets. The whole scene had the distinct air of a Ministry summit disguised as a bedside chat.

She didn't resent it. Not really. But Merlin's beard, it was a lot.

And they were all giving her that look. The kind reserved for delicate things. Wilting flowers. People who needed to be protected from hard truths and long Latin incantations.

Honestly.

She was Hermione Granger. She’d defeated a troll, survived a war, argued the Wizengamot to a standstill, and once corrected a Gringotts employee on his magical creature handling—and she had lived. So, no. Fainting wasn’t in her vocabulary.

And, of course, she'd already researched soulmarks the moment Ron’s had shown up and looked suspiciously not like her Patronus. That had been a fun morning.

So yes. She’d done her reading. Her cross-referencing. Her deep magical dives. And when Fahrrod used the word "soulbond" in a sentence that also included "pre-Wand era," she didn’t panic.

She processed.

She listened.

Because that’s what you do when your entire magical identity shifts overnight and you wake up tethered to a man who smells like fire and starlight and has already died once trying to protect you.

She hadn’t heard of this exact bonding type—“soulbonds” came in about a dozen theoretical flavours—but after her patronus had changed into a dragon, and she had gotten a magic dragon tattoo on her shoulder, she’d had her suspicions. Magic didn’t just accidentally change, not to mention stitch two people’s souls together, unless something fundamental had shifted.

And now, here they were. Soulbonded. Officially. The words had been said. The diagrams had been diagrammed. Fahrrod had declared it “extraordinary” with the kind of scholarly reverence usually reserved for cursed vaults or flaming goblet catastrophes.

Hermione smiled, lips curved against Charlie’s fingers. She rather liked extraordinary.

She also liked the man she was now magically tethered to.

A lot.

Unfortunately, she also felt like she’d been hit by three curses, one hippogriff, and a large book. All at once. Her limbs were still heavy with magical drag, like the bond hadn’t quite finished weaving itself through her bones.

Charlie’s hand squeezed hers again. Gentle. Steady. Slightly callused, and still every bit as soft as she remembered them being.

She gave him a look—tired but real—and squeezed back. Because she might not have the energy to explain it to the room, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t here. Still Hermione. Just... operating at lower wattage.

Across the room, Fahrrod, Harry, and Bill were deep in discussion about the ritual’s long-term magical implications, something about core stabilisation and foreign runic interference. Fascinating stuff. Truly.

But Hermione, at present, had two priorities: warmth and silence. Possibly a nap. Definitely not a magical post-mortem conducted at the foot of her hospital bed.

She leaned against Charlie’s arm instead, letting his heartbeat do the talking.

Then came Dennis’s cough—the kind that wasn’t really about clearing a throat so much as clearing a path. Just enough noise to give Padma the space to speak, which she did a beat later with careful precision. “I think it’s best if we leave Hermione and Charlie alone,” she said, tone polite but firm, her gaze fixed on the foot of the bed, as she looked at the magical chart that was bound there.

Hermione didn’t say anything, but her eyebrows did a brief, grateful pirouette.

Even the dragons grunted in agreement. Pepper’s tail flicked. Salt shifted his bulk like a very smug bouncer escorting the room out.

Fahrrod clapped his hands once, like this was a seminar break and not a medically necessary soulbonding retreat. “Very well,” he said, eyes flicking between Hermione and Charlie. “Stay together while the ritual settles. It should not take long—but you will need each other. Both of you.”

Hermione nodded. Slowly. Fahrrod nodded back, then turned to Fleur and launched into perfect, too-perfect French.

Fleur kissed her fingertips and gave Hermione a soft smile. “Au revoir, ma belle. I will see you soon.”

Then she was gone, silk and power in one sweep.

Bill and Harry lingered. Harry stepped closer to Hermione first, giving her that look—the one that said he loved her dearly and also absolutely did not have the bandwidth for another magical catastrophe.

“Take care,” Harry said, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “And please, Hermione—for the love of Merlin and what’s left of my stress threshold—stop doing things that end with me sprinting through half of London and finding you unconscious in some cursed ward. Just... maybe one normal month?”

Then he turned to Charlie and gave him a firm clasp on the shoulder. “Take care of her. And yourself.”

Charlie murmured something in response—probably something brotherly and manly, judging by the shoulder tension—and then came Bill.

Who smiled.

That smile. The kind that meant trouble. The kind that usually preceded large bets or a particularly rigged drinking game.

“Happy marriage, you two,” Bill said.

Hermione blinked. “What?!”

Charlie choked. Pepper snorted. Salt made a sound like a coughing snigger.

Hermione opened her mouth again, shut it, then frowned at her soulmark like it might offer clarification. She understood the bond, yes. The runes. The spirit animals. The energy exchange. The soul mate aspect.

But marriage?

“No one said anything about marriage,” she said, aiming the words at Bill, Charlie, and possibly the entire cosmos.

Bill just winked. “Tell that to the dragons.”

And with that, he followed Fleur out the door, whistling.

Hermione stared after him.

Then stared at Charlie.

Charlie looked like a Niffler had stolen his tongue.

“I swear,” he muttered, “he does this on purpose.”

Hermione sighed. The kind of sigh reserved for unasked-for proposals and magical life-altering events. “Well,” she said dryly. “At least the honeymoon’s got dragons.”

“You love the dragons.”

“Forever,” she said, voice barely above a whisper.

She felt his breath hitch in his chest.

“I meant—”

“I know,” she murmured, fingers curling around his. “But it’s the same thing, isn’t it?”

He didn’t answer with words—just the kind of silence that holds steady, and stays.

And in that stillness, Hermione knew. The bond wasn’t just magic. It was them.

Chapter Text

Hermione woke first.

Not dramatically. No bolt upright or gasp for breath—just a soft blinking into the watery grey of her hospital room. The light filtering through the frosted open-windows was the colour of weak tea left too long, and although she missed the clear mornings of Romania, she didn’t mind it. In the distance, a crow cawed. She lay still for a long moment, the crisp morning air prickling her skin while the hum of the bond wrapped around her like a second blanket.

It had changed. No longer sharp or buzzing, no longer something she had to hold together with clenched teeth and sheer will. It was... soft now. A low, steady ember beneath her ribs. Warmth that didn’t burn, but glowed. Constant. Comforting.

Charlie’s arm lay heavy around her waist, anchoring her to the moment. She hadn’t meant to fall asleep curled into his chest—but now, warm and still, she couldn’t quite imagine being anywhere else.

Pepper snored lightly on a pile of spare pillows at her feet, curled up like a particularly smug cat. Salt was draped across Charlie’s legs like he’d claimed his spot and dared anyone to challenge it.

Hermione stretched gently, testing for pain. None. Fatigue, yes. But no pain.

Progress.

She padded to the sink barefoot, the cold tiles needling up her legs like an unpleasant reminder that she was, in fact, still in possession of a body. That was something. A win, even. She carefully touched her braid before untangling her hair, a smile playing on her lips. When she leaned over to brush her teeth and didn’t immediately faceplant into the basin, she considered throwing a small, tasteful parade in her own honour.

Behind her, Charlie stirred. She didn’t turn. Just watched his reflection in the mirror as he blinked groggily at the ceiling. He stretched one arm overhead and offered a grunt that translated roughly to, still alive?

She gave a thumbs up.

His answering smile was soft and stupidly fond. It caught her off guard and lodged itself somewhere between her ribs.

Gods, he was amazing.

They didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. Not with the magic curling gently between them like a second skin, not with Salt's tail twitching lazily across Charlie's feet and Pepper murmuring in her sleep like a dragonlet dreaming of fireflies. Hermione let the moment stretch—quiet, simple, whole.

She dried her hands on the edge of her borrowed shirt and padded softly back to the bed. She slid beneath the warm duvet with a grateful sigh.

Charlie, still half-draped in Salt’s considerable bulk, smiled at her. Then, without a word, reached across and brushed her fingers with his, eyes asking the question without saying a word.

She gave a little nod. Still tired, but steady. The fire in her bones no longer raged; it flickered, banked and alive.

And just like that, their bubble burst.

The door creaked open and Padma swept in like a cross between a gust of wind and a walking dissertation, clipboard in hand and that familiar no-nonsense glint in her eyes. “Morning, you two,” she said, not even pretending to be surprised they were already awake. Then, she brightly smiled at Hermione. “Your vitals are stable, the bond is holding, your cores have decided to stop throwing tantrums. Ms. Granger, you’re officially cleared for discharge. Light walking, minimal magic, and absolutely no heroics. That includes,” Padma checked her clipboard with a glint in her eye, “lecturing the Wizengamot, handling any kind of dragons that are not in any way, shape, or form bonded to you, or, based on your trackrecord and experiences, attempting to reform the healthcare system.”

Hermione, still adjusting to the duvet and the weight of the world being temporarily not her problem, opened her mouth to protest—on instinct more than anything—but Padma preemptively silenced her with a raised eyebrow. “Also, no Apparition. At least not solo. Side-along is fine as long as someone”—her gaze flicked to Charlie—“absorbs the magical strain. No flinging yourself through space while your soul’s still knitting, please and thank you.”

Hermione, caught between fond exasperation and genuine gratitude, nodded her assent.

Padma then turned to Charlie, arching an eyebrow with unexpected vigour. “Are we clear, Mr. Weasley?”

Charlie, predictably, raised his hand with the solemnity of a chastened schoolboy. “Understood,” he said. “No swooping. No flinging. No unnecessary dramatics.”

Then he looked over at her with that maddeningly lopsided grin, and Hermione rolled her eyes, lips twitching despite herself.

Padma gave them one last approving nod and swept out of the room with all the efficiency of a woman who had three more patients to monitor and riddles of magical malfunctions to solve.

Hermione let her head fall back against the pillow. She could still feel the pulse of Charlie’s magic twining with hers, quiet and steady.

Yes. It was going to be a very good day.

Hermione declared that their first act as free, soul-bonded individuals was to find real clothes that didn’t reek of antiseptic and magical trauma, and, most importantly, real coffee.

Preferably in that order.

So, only a handful of minutes after Padma left, Charlie exited the hospital loo in his usual uniform of battered jeans and a Reserve jumper so faded it might once have been blue, his dragon-hide jacket slung over one shoulder like a casual afterthought. Hermione pulled on a pair of borrowed leggings and one of his oversized flannel shirts, soft with too many washes. She rolled the sleeves—three neat turns—then paused before putting on her own coat.

The flannel smelled like leather. And cedar. And Charlie.

And it felt—absurdly, alarmingly—like home.

They took the visitor’s entrance, an old red telephone box that no Muggle in their right mind would ever try to use, and stepped out into a drizzly patch of the street where the cold slapped them straight in their faces.

Hermione breathed in. Deeply. London in January, a particular smell of rain, cars, and a hint of smoked almonds that just hit all the right notes.

Charlie was occupied by something entirely else; gawking at the passing double-deckers like they were sentient. “You’re telling me they let that much steel barrel around without enchantments?”

Hermione snorted. “They’re buses, Charlie. Not Bulgarian Brownheads.” She arched a brow. “Utterly mundane. Mostly safe.” A beat. Then, under her breath with a smile, “Unlike those dragons you wrangle at the reserve.”

“Safe? That one just honked like a territorial wyvern.”

“You sound like Arthur,” she said, smiling despite herself. “He once asked me if the Tube was actually a Muggle form of a Vanishing Cabinet.”

Charlie grinned. “That’s not entirely implausible.”

Hermione threaded her cold fingers through his, their shoulders touching. “As much as I love your dad, you're not allowed to adopt every bit of chaotic Muggle machinery as your next research obsession.”

He nudged her shoulder. “Too late. I’ve already mentally drafted a paper: ‘Unarmoured Wheeled Beasts: A Comparative Analysis Between London Buses and Hebridean Blacks.’”

“Catchy title. I'm sure Thomas will love it.”

She smiled brightly. Because she did. Love it, that is. Quietly. Unquestionably. Down to her bones.

They found a corner café with fogged-up windows and a chalkboard menu offering gingerbread men and questionable sausage rolls. Charlie cocked an eyebrow, but Hermione just smiled. It was perfect.

When she stepped inside, and they were blissfully greeted by actual heating, halfway decent lighting, and the unmistakable smell of real coffee that hadn’t been conjured by a hospital charm or filtered through a Healer’s idea of nutrition.

Yup. Perfect, indeed. Except for the fact that her curls were rebelling, her jacket was damp, and Charlie looked like a wet (but still incredibly handsome) dragon. But hey, who was counting?

Hermione surely wasn’t, because, frankly, she’d never felt closer to okay.

She ordered a latte with extra foam—because obviously—and Charlie spent a full minute squinting at the laminated menu like it was written in ancient runes instead of modern English. In the end, he ordered a plain black coffee and pointed solemnly at the sparkliest biscuit in the display case.

“This one’s definitely enchanted,” he declared as they took a seat. “Possibly cursed. There is no way they could’ve added this much sparkles without the use of magic.”

Hermione raised another skeptical eyebrow, but Charlie paid it no attention as he continued with a smile.

“If I vanish in a puff of cinnamon, avenge me.”

Hermione laughed, loud and unapologetic. Or it should’ve been. But something tugged low in her chest—not sharp, just the soft echo of strain. She stirred sugar into her drink with slow, careful turns, listening to Charlie narrate the biscuit’s suspicious glimmer and how Katya wouldn’t have trusted it for the life of her. They chatted about the reserve, about family—who was covering what shifts, how Pepper would definitely claim the good sun rock at Shell Cottage before Salt even had a chance to sniff it.

By the time she reached the halfway mark of her latte, Hermione’s fingers had gone slack around the cup. The warmth of the drink was suddenly too much, and even her well-practiced concentration began to fuzz at the edges. She passed it to Charlie with a sigh.

He took it with a grin and murmured, "Caretaker duty accepted," before stealing a sip and leaning in to press a kiss against her temple. Not teasing—just soft. Steady.

It was ridiculous, how safe that kiss felt. How much she wanted to stay in this moment; latte unfinished, magic quiet, Charlie close. She smiled into the remaining foam of her drink, her heart doing a slow, syrupy roll in her chest.

Ridiculous man. She was completely doomed.

They sat in the cafe for a while, watching the world pass by, until Hermione felt okay again.

Once she did, they walked slowly, hand-in-hand, through twisting side streets. Charlie, without Hermione’s knowledge nor permission, had led her to a narrow bookshop tucked between two estate agencies. The brass sign read Grimm’s Antiquities & Rare Pieces.

But it wasn’t like she minded.

Instead, Hermione inhaled sharply at the sight—low lighting, shelves that scraped the ceiling like they had ambitions, books stacked with the kind of casual chaos that spoke to centuries of magical curation. She smiled as Charlie pulled her closer. This was just her style. It was everything.

“Tonks used to bring me here,” Charlie said, as he moved to hold the door open and a Bell clunk overhead. “Before she got all cool and pink-haired. I was nine and obsessed with Cannons stats. She made me read dragon-care legislation instead.”

Hermione laughed. “That sounds about right.”

Inside, the air was thick with dust and lavender oil. A woman with spectacles the size of saucers looked up from her till and broke into a smile.

“Well, if it isn’t the red-haired hurricane and Dora’s book-thief shadow.”

“Guilty,” Charlie said, running a hand shyly through his wet hair.

She handed over a wrapped parcel. “Saved this for the right person.”

As Charlie carefully unwrapped it, Hermione nearly wept. A first-edition annotated proof of Fantastic Beasts: Legendary Fire Flyers and More, with margin notes from the dragon-healer in the Philippines. The ink shimmered faintly. The parchment smelled of old smoke and ink.

Merlin. She needed to read that. Now.

And by the way she felt Charlie’s skin softly buzz with magic, she gathered he felt the exact same way.

So, she sat. Or more accurately, Charlie guided her into a sagging armchair and knelt beside her as she opened the cover.

She made it to the end page seven. The end of the blasted foreword.

“Too much?” he asked gently.

She nodded, her eyelids already feeling heavier than they had all day.

“Right then,” he said, settling beside her and flipping to the next page of the book. “Chapter One: On the Ethics of Breeding Fire-Breathing Creatures in Enclosed Spaces.”

His voice rolled through the shop like honeyed fire. She leaned into him, her cheek against his shoulder, as he read aloud.

When she dozed off completely, he marked their place with a dragon-shaped bookmark the woman had given him too, and bought the both of them.

Outside, it had cooled down. Snow had begun to fall in earnest—lazy, swirling flakes that clung to Hermione’s lashes and melted against the collar of her jacket. The air bit at her cheeks, and sooner than she’d liked, her steps had gone from brisk to drifting. She didn’t say anything, but Charlie noticed anyway.

He slowed. Glanced sideways. “Your energy’s going down.”

She waved him off. “It’s not. I am super energetic, just conserving that energy… for… when I need it most.”

His lips twitched. Then, without another word, he reached for her hand and steered her gently off the main path, into a narrow brick alley half-shadowed by rusted fire escapes and powdered in soft snow.

“Charlie?” she asked, curious but not alarmed. “What are we doing?”

“Shortcut,” he said, quiet and sure. “Just trust me.”

That part, at least, was easy.

He kissed her lightly first, a soft question she answered without hesitation. The second kiss—deeper, steadier—was all heat and steadiness, the kind that didn't just fill her chest but settled there, grounding.

The bond sparked behind her eyes, golden and alive.

“Hold tight,” he whispered, one hand braced at her waist.

She leaned in without thinking, fingers curled at his collar.

The world folded in a rush of wind and darkness and Charlie.

Hermione landed on marble tile and behind an incredible tall and fancy fern, not with a stumble, but a soft huff of disbelief; because she knew exactly where she was.

The smell of pine. The large windows. The gleaming posh floor. They were at the Shard. He brought her back to the Shard

Of all the places in London.

The lobby still looked like it charged you just for breathing in it—glass gleaming, ceilings aggressively high, air conditioned to perfection and just faintly smug. But Hermione barely registered the sterile hush or the polished chrome.

She was too busy grinning.

“Again?” she asked, spinning half a step toward him.

Charlie leaned in. “I’ve never slept better than I did in that bed.”

Hermione’s stomach dipped. That look in his eyes—warm, a little dangerous, like he was already imagining her there—was completely unfair.

He didn’t stop. “Wouldn’t mind sharing it properly this time.”

Her cheeks flushed, and it had nothing to do with the lobby’s temperature.

The silence turned thick, charged, until the concierge, with truly catastrophic timing, reappeared at his desk.

“Mr and Mrs Weasley—back already?”

Hermione opened her mouth to correct the man that had checked them out last time. But, as the light caught on her hand, she stopped.

A ring—her ring—shimmered golden on her finger.

Oh.

Oh.

She turned to Charlie, who was beaming like a man who knew exactly what he had just pulled off.

“You’re the worst,” she said, voice catching on something too warm.

“You love me.”

“Regrettably.”

His arm slid around her waist, grounding and real. She didn’t shrug it off.

Charlie smiled brightly at the concierge, all cheek and charm. “We enjoyed it too much last time not to come back.”

Smooth. Infuriatingly smooth. And, damn it, she loved him for it.

The concierge smiled brightly. “Honeymoon suite again?”

“For a few days,” Charlie said, all innocent charm. Then, low, his lips tracing the shell of her ear: “For real this time.”

Hermione’s heart gave a little flutter, stupid and giddy. Maybe it was the look in his eyes, or maybe it was the way he said it—quiet and certain, like it was the simplest truth in the world.

The lift doors closed behind them with a hush. Hermione leaned into his side, his skin was warm, and her heart was still flaring with joy.

She hadn’t thought it possible. This. Warmth in her chest, pressure behind her ribs, this sense of being tethered and free all at once. After everything—the dragons, the magic, the war inside her bones—she had half expected the quiet to feel like limbo.

But Charlie’s shoulder was solid against hers. The lights of London spread out below them like a map of second chances.

Just before the lift chimed their arrival, Charlie reached into his coat pocket and tapped a small, rune-etched coin. The air gave a faint shimmer, and with a soft crack of displaced magic, two large, previously-disillusioned crates appeared in front of their suite door.

Pepper squawked immediately, scandalised to have been cloaked for so long. Salt snorted once, then resumed sulking.

“They’re going to destroy the place,” Hermione murmured.

Charlie shrugged. “Hotel insurance is a thing, right?”

Hermione chuckled. The suite opened up, and it was as if a memory revisited. Everything gleamed, but nothing felt untouchable.

It felt... theirs.

Hermione sighed and peeled off her boots, letting her spine loosen with the motion. Charlie stretched out beside her with a groan of satisfaction, tugging his coat off and ruffling his hair with both hands. He looked around the suite with a reverent sort of grin.

“Still feels like the most ridiculous dream,” he murmured.

Hermione hummed in agreement, already unfastening the buttons of her own coat and tossing the damp leather over the velvet chaise. Charlie followed suit, yanking off his jumper and toeing off his boots with considerably less grace. They moved in easy sync, as if shedding everything that didn’t matter.

She dropped her beaded bag on her nightstand. “Tomorrow,” she said, softly, “we’ll have to write the reserve. Draft the incident report.”

Charlie groaned. Because, of course, he did. The man hated paperwork with a passion.

“We don’t have to do anything,” he said. “Not tonight. Not this week. This is for us.”

She arched a brow.

He stood his ground, arms folded across his bare chest. “Just us. And those two." His head inclined to the dragons, who were now roaming free and inspecting the windows.

She gave him a look. “Dragons. In a hotel. That won’t make the Prophet. Or the Auror office.”

“I’ll bribe the staff.”

“They're Muggles.”

He smirked. “Watch me.”

She rolled her eyes. “You’re utterly mad.”

“And still, you chose me.”

Hermione’s lips twitched. “Momentary lapse in judgment.”

He stepped closer, hands under her flannel, warm at her waist. “You could ask for anything,” he said, low and sure. “And I’d find a way to give it to you.”

Her smile faded. Something twisted beneath her ribs, slow and familiar. She should’ve kissed him—said thank you, let it go—but the ache stayed, stubborn as ever.

“Alright,” she said quietly, her toes digging into the plush carpet. “How about an accepting mother-in-law?”

The air shifted.

Charlie went still.

Hermione didn’t flinch, but it sat heavy in her chest now—the thing she hadn’t wanted to say, hadn’t wanted to give voice to, because saying it made it real.

“She hates me,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “Not just disapproves, or judges, or doesn’t understand. She hates the idea she has of me. And she doesn't even know yet. Not about us. Not about the dragons. Not about the bond. Not that we’re practically bloody married.”

Her pulse kicked up as the words spilled out, too fast, too raw. Her stomach curled like it knew something she didn’t want to admit. She could still hear the echo of that Howler in the halls of St. Mungo’s. And that was before Molly Weasley even realised her precious son had soulbound himself to Hermione Granger. Lady of the night extraordinaire.

Charlie opened his mouth. She cut him off.

“And I know it’s not rational. I know it’s not about me, not really. But it’s there, and it hurts, and I—” She swallowed. “I didn’t survive everything I survived just to be sneered at by your mother over Sunday dinner.”

Charlie’s hands came to her face, cradling her jaw. He looked at her like he was memorising her.

“She sent a Howler,” he said. “I suppose it came through.”

“It did. Loud and clear.”

“She crossed a line.”

“She built a bloody wall and set it on fire,” Hermione said bitterly.

Charlie’s voice dropped, firmer now. “She doesn’t get to do that. Not to you. Not to us.”

His jaw tightened. “Hermione, this isn’t about choosing sides. There are no sides. There’s you and me. That’s it. That’s the whole thing.”

His thumb brushed her cheek, steady and grounding. “What she said, what she did—that was unacceptable. Full stop.”

Across the room, Salt lifted his head from the rug, a low, rumbling huff escaping his throat. Protective. Watchful.”

The corner of Charlie’s mouth tugged up as he continued. “She doesn’t get to tear into you, doesn’t get to judge what she’s never tried to understand.”

He took a step back, ran a hand through his hair, his jaw clenched tight. “You should’ve seen that room, Hermione. Me and Bill, drinking vodka like it was a bloody lifeline, and Mum yelling through that bloody Howler like she had every right to tear me down. Like I was twelve again. Like I owed her something for not being what she expected.”

Something cracked open in his expression—not anger, but conviction. A line drawn. A vow made.

“I spent half my life trying to love her the way she wanted. I thought if I stayed away, I’d keep the peace. But I’m not a bloody kid anymore, and she doesn’t get to decide what counts as family.”

Hermione blinked, throat tightening.

“I choose you,” Charlie said, simply. “Over everything. Over her. Over what she thinks is proper. Over whatever narrow idea she’s been clinging to about what my life is supposed to look like. You. Always.”

Her fingers curled into his sides, clutching hard.

“And if she never comes around?” she whispered.

“Then she misses out,” he said. “Because I’m not going anywhere.” He paused, then added, voice gentler now, but no less sure: “We can do Sunday dinners in Romania. Chosen family only. If that’s what you want—we’ll make it a thing. You could ask for the bloody world, Hermione. I meant that.”

Charlie pulled her close again, his cheek brushing hers. “We can deal with her, with all of this, tomorrow,” he said, soft but firm, like he was lifting the weight off her shoulders one syllable at a time.

Hermione nodded, slow and fierce. The knot in her chest loosened—not all the way, not yet—but enough to breathe. And this time, it didn’t feel like surrender. It felt like permission.

“Tomorrow,” she echoed.

They stood wrapped in each other while the dragons settled like overgrown heating pads, the city humming behind them. The bond pulsed soft under her ribs—not roaring, not burning. Just there. Steady.

She turned in his arms.

Hermione looked up into his eyes, and everything in her went still. There was nothing teasing or cocky in his expression now—just that impossible warmth. Steady. Fierce. Like she was something sacred. She felt it rise in her chest, that aching, terrifying joy that had no words. Love, she thought dimly. And trust. And a little bit of awe.

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to.

They kissed, slow and certain. The city burned gold behind them. Pepper flopped dramatically in front of the window. Salt snored like a boulder grinding down a mountain.

Hermione rested her forehead against his.

“I thought this bond would be different,” she whispered. “Like we’d be stuck in the quiet.”

Charlie’s hand slid down her back.

“Does it?”

She closed her eyes.

“No,” she said. “It feels like home.”

Chapter Text

Later, in the hush that came after laughter and before sleep, Hermione shifted against him, fingers tracing slow, thoughtful lines along his ribs. Her touch was featherlight but sure—Her curiosity taking over.

Charlie savoured every touch. Every second of it.

Then her fingers suddenly stopped, halting like they knew exactly where they needed to be.

They hovered over Pepper, inked on Charlie’s skin in soul-magic and silence, and she was curled along his side like she’d always been there.

One second. Two. And then she shifted on her side, her fingers still softly hovering over her patronus.

“What’s the story?” Hermione asked, like she’d waited until the safety of dusk to ask this particular question.

Charlie exhaled. Not the easy kind. No. This was a story he’d only ever told Bill. But Hermione deserved to hear it. And so he pulled the duvet over them and moved closer.

“World Cup,” he murmured. “Woke up one morning and there she was. Staring back at me from the mirror like she’d been waiting. No warning. No explanation. Just this little dragon coiled up on my ribs. Scared the shite out of me.”

Her hand stilled.

He caught it, held it firm, thumb brushing over her knuckles. Her touch was reverent—gentle in that way she got when curiosity turned tender—but he’d bet a week’s ration of firewhisky she was smirking.

“So naturally, your response was…?” she asked, voice moving up.

“I panicked,” he said flatly. “Obviously. Bill had gotten his the year before—some brooding little cat staked its claim by prowling from his ribs to his lower back, which turned out to be Fleur’s ocelot. He sat me down with a bottle of firewhisky and made me swear an oath of silence. Said if Mum ever found out, she’d go on a one-woman manhunt for the poor girl.”

Hermione snorted, lips brushing his chest. “Sounds accurate.”

A grin spread on Charlie’s lips. “So yeah, I freaked. Properly. And since I’ve got Reserve habits and a well-documented aversion to shirts, I started collecting tattoos. A lot of them. It’s easier to explain all the ink than admit I’d been soul-tagged by fate and a bloody dragon.”

Her fingers slid to another mark—a bold black Hippogriff stretching across his shoulder, wings poised like it might launch straight into the dark. She leaned in and kissed just beneath its beak.

“I like them all,” she murmured.

He felt that—low and quiet in his chest, where Pepper still curled.

“I liked earning them,” he said. “Every one of them meant something. An achievement. A symbol of success. Except for the one I got in Cairo after one too many beers with Bill, after he dragged me to a shop. Thought it was a dragon—turned out to be a smug-looking goose. Now it lurks next to the Horntail like it owns the place.”

Hermione laughed, low and warm.

Charlie shook his head. “Bill found it hilarious. Spent a full hour wheezing on the hotel floor, then marched me back to the same tattoo shop the next day and got a matching one. Said if I was going down, he was going with me.”

He paused, lips twitching. “He put his on his ankle though. Coward.”

Her head tilted against his chest. “You both have magical geese permanently inked on your bodies?”

“Yep,” he said. “Twin emblems of idiocy and sibling loyalty. And every time I see it, I remember exactly why I don’t let Bill pick the bar—or the tattoo artist.”

Her laughter echoed between them again, and this time, he kissed her nose for the sound of it.

“But Pepper,” he said, softer now, his thumb tracing the dip of her spine, “she just... appeared. No warning. No choice. And I didn’t want that. Not then. I wanted to choose my life. Choose who.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow at him. He pulled her closer, her hair falling across his shoulder. Still smelled like hotel shampoo—fruity, a bit too clean. He liked it anyway.

“So you just...ignored it?”

“Kind of? I didn’t want a soulmate,” he said honestly. “Didn’t want fate or prophecy or whatever ridiculous ancient magic was at play. I wanted freedom. My own path. I dated around—”

She scoffed.

“Alright, fine, I more than dated around. But nothing ever stuck. Never felt right. And then you came to the Reserve.”

He looked down at her—flushed cheeks, sharp eyes, entirely his—and smiled, slow and helpless. “Brilliant. Terrifying. Already spoken for—or so I thought—by a very dramatic and wildly inconvenient little brother.”

She rolled her eyes.

“I’d noticed you at the wedding,” he went on. “Quick glance. Hell of a dance. Thought that was it. Just a passing fancy. But then there you were. In my pens. On my turf. And you were—” He broke off, exhaled. “You were everything. And I was furious. Because I thought I knew your Patronus. Thought fate had a bloody sense of humour, because, well…”

Her fingers circled gently over Pepper’s spine.

“Fate does sound like it had some fun with all of this.”

Charlie dipped his head, brushed his nose along her temple, kissed the corner of her mouth.

“Fate’s a tosser,” he said, voice low. “Because I fell for this brilliant, terrifying witch who deserved the damn world and was—supposedly—spoken for. And I was meant for someone else. Some mythical perfect match I’d never even met. And still, I looked at you—and it was you. It was always you.”

He pulled her in tighter, needing the contact as if it were air. Her skin against his—real and steady.

“I fell in love with all the little things,” he murmured. “The way you mutter when you’re working through spells. The way you boss people around and somehow make them thank you for it. The way you care—so much it comes out like fury. I fell in love with you even when I thought it was impossible. Even when I was convinced it was wrong yet it felt so…”

His hand traced the curve of her back, slow and certain.

“I gravitated around you before I even knew why. Because it was right. Because I couldn’t not. Because I looked at you like that, and there wasn’t a single part of me that wanted to look away.”

He huffed a breath—half laugh, half admission.

“I told Bill—more than once—that if I ever met my soulmate, she could fuck right off. Because I already had you. And that?” He looked down at her, feeling the warmth spread from his core. “That was enough. More than.”

She shifted, breath catching. Her hand slid back over Pepper and stayed there, not just soft but deliberate—like a vow stitched into skin and silence.

He wrapped his arms around her then, fully, like it was instinct. She fit there like she always had—legs tangled with his, fingers still sketching lazy circles over his ribs. He kissed her—slow, unrushed, like time had finally stopped running.

She pulled back just far enough to meet his eyes. There was starlight in hers.

“You prat,” she whispered, smiling against his mouth.

He grinned into her, kissed her again. “Takes one to fall for one.”

She laughed—quiet and breathless—and tucked herself back beneath his chin like she’d been made to fit there.

Charlie let his eyes close, his hand spreading over her back, his heart steady with hers. And for the first time in longer than he could remember, the fire in his chest wasn’t restlessness, or grief, or rage.

It was just warmth. Just her.

Everything else could wait.

Tomorrow, they’d deal with the rest—the family, the paperwork, the ache left behind by everything they’d survived.

Tomorrow, they’d face it all.

But tonight?

Tonight was this. Quiet. Sacred.

Just him and her. And that was enough.

The thing about “tomorrow,” Charlie decided, was that it had a nasty habit of becoming “the day after.” And then that turned into “maybe next week” if he squinted hard enough and distracted Hermione with coffee, dragons, or, a personal favourite, some thoroughly convincing snogging and a well-timed shirt removal.

Yeah, he didn’t really mind. Did he?

He woke every morning tangled in curls, half-buried in duvets that smelled faintly of jasmine and arson, with a witch who made his heart ache and his lungs contract when they really shouldn’t. His hand always found her before his eyes did—draped across her waist, curled beneath her spine, fingertips brushing the bond's low hum like it was a secret only they knew.

It was domestic. Soft. And entirely too easy to get used to.

Unfortunately, he also woke up to two dragons using the honeymoon suite as a personal jungle gym. Pepper had claimed the chaise longue as her throne and was currently dismantling it with her teeth. Salt had taken to perching on the minibar like an emotionally constipated gargoyle, growling at bottled water.

By day four, it was clear the dragons were Done. Capital D, dramatic sigh, tail-flick kind of Done. They’d tolerated their parents’ little romantic detour with admirable patience, but now their wings itched and their claws needed something more interesting to shred than upholstery. They wanted sky. And, honestly, so did Charlie.

The Shard had been a sanctuary, sure. But Charlie was starting to feel the walls press in—too clean, too polished.

The honeymoon was over. And there were things to be done.

Thomas, bless him, had given Charlie carte blanche—”take as long as you need, mate, the place hasn’t exploded in at least a week”—which was either a genuine offer of flexibility or a subtle cry for help. Possibly both.

But free rein or not, Charlie had that old Reserve itch. The one that meant it was time to move. Time to do.

Hermione, thankfully, had stopped looking like she was about to collapse with every other blink. Her magic had steadied. Her spark was back. And the worst of her Molly-related emotional spiral had—at least temporarily—been buried beneath layers of sarcasm, structured defiance, and Fleur’s militant skincare regimen.

Still, Charlie could feel it—her fears, his own, prowling just under their skin. Quiet, patient, waiting.

He’d have given anything to just go back to Romania. All four of them. Live in his tent. Her tent. Any tent really. It didn’t matter, as long as they could work the Reserve. Stay far away from politics and tabloids and weaponised maternal disapproval.

But no. There were announcements to make. Rumours to stamp out. And a certain Matriarch of the Weasley variety who needed a hard reset.

Which meant—unfortunately—that for the foreseeable future, they were staying in England

Shell Cottage, specifically. Fleur had practically demanded it. Hermione had agreed, mostly because she said she needed “girl time” with someone who owned both healing crystals and combat boots, which ruled out Ginny until after Quidditch practice. Charlie suspected it was also an excuse to avoid the Burrow for as long as magically possible.

And him?

Well, he needed a bloody pep talk. Preferably from his best mate. One with an older brother’s sense of strategy and a well-stocked liquor cabinet.

Bill had better be ready.

The wind off the sea was sharp enough to cut bone, and the sand had developed a personal vendetta against Charlie’s ankles. But still—Shell Cottage was there, perched like a stubborn secret on the beach’s edge, and Hermione was tucked into his side, warm and solid and undeniably his. Salt and Pepper flew overhead inside the wards, shadows cutting through the overcast sky like they owned the place.

Which, knowing them, they probably thought they did.

A blur of tartan and curls barrelled out the front door.

“UNCLE CHARLIE! AUNTIE MINNY!”

Victoire sprinted down the sandy slope with toddler-level speed and the coordination of a blind baby dragon. Charlie instinctively braced for impact, but Hermione dropped to a crouch just in time and caught her like she’d done it a hundred times.

“Hey, you little whirlwind,” Hermione said, laughing, as she scooped Victoire up and booped her nose. The kid squealed like this was the best thing that had ever happened to her. It probably was.

Victoire giggled, “I missed you! You smell like fire again.”

Charlie grinned and ruffled her hair. “Cheers, Vic. That’s probably just dragon soot or Hermione’s shampoo. How about you. Still got all your limbs?”

Victoire twisted in Hermione’s arms to beam at him. “I saw a jellyfish yesterday and Papa said I wasn’t allowed to poke it.”

“Tragic,” Charlie said. “Absolute injustice. Shall we stage a protest?”

Hermione’s laugh softened into something quieter, eyes flicking toward the house. The door still stood open, the breeze tugging at its frame, and from this angle all they could see was the warm blur of the hallway beyond.

Victoire followed her gaze and said brightly, “Papa’s talking to Grandmama in the fireplace!”

Hermione stilled.

Just for a second. A pause, a breath, the faintest flicker of steel behind her smile.

“Oh?” she said, casual as paper.

“Yep! Mama said I could come say hi while she makes tea and talks about grown-up things with Papa.”

As if summoned by her name, Fleur stepped into view at the top of the rise, baby Dominique in her arms, all sleepy curls and stubborn pout.

“Victoire,” Fleur called, amused and imperious all at once. “You were supposed to wait.”

“She didn’t,” Charlie called back helpfully. “In case you missed that bit.”

Fleur rolled her eyes and descended, barefoot and elegant as always, even with a baby clinging to her chest and her hair windblown to hell.

“Bonsoir, Charlie. Hermione,” she said with a knowing little smile. “You look… sun-kissed. Or per’aps dragon-singed. ‘ard to tell with you two.”

“That’s one word for it,” Charlie muttered. Hermione elbowed him lightly.

Fleur bent to kiss both their cheeks, then added in a low voice, “Molly just floo-called. Don’t worry. Bill will ‘ang up soon.”

Charlie felt Hermione’s fingers curl against his side, the faintest tension returning. He pressed a kiss to her temple like punctuation.

“Hey Vic,” he said, loud and casual, turning toward the dunes. “Want to meet a dragon?”

Her gasp was dramatic enough to warrant applause. “A real one?!”

He turned slightly toward Fleur, cocked a brow. “Mind if we terrify the children?”

Fleur tilted her head, entirely unbothered. “Zhey saved my life,” she said simply, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Zhey are always welcome ‘ere.”

Charlie’s grin spread. “Right then. Dragon time.”

He whistled—sharp, two-fingered, Reserve-trained. Overhead, the sky rippled.

Salt and Pepper broke formation like twin stormclouds descending. They landed with two ground-shaking thuds, wings flaring dramatically before folding like sails in a squall. Both dragons stared down at Victoire like she might be a sentient marshmallow.

“They’re... big,” Victoire whispered, eyes wide.

“They’re softies,” Charlie laughed as he shot both dragons a look that told them to behave. “Just don’t poke them in the nostrils or show them weakness.”

Hermione guided Victoire’s hand gently beneath Pepper’s chin. The dragon gave one low chuff, then settled, allowing it. Salt pretended not to care that he wasn’t the one receiving attention, crossing his claws under his chin and laying down in the sand.

Charlie folded his arms, watching the scene—his girl, a tiny niece, two overgrown reptiles, and Fleur, with the baby in her arms, humming something French behind him.

Yeah, whatever it was, his Mum could bloody well sort it out with Bill.

The fire crackled like it was judging them. Honestly, it probably was. Everything in Shell Cottage had an opinion—especially the inhabitants. The wind howled outside like it wanted in on the discussion as well, but in here it was warm, layered in whiskey, toddler debris, and emotional fallout.

Hermione and Fleur had vanished hours ago for what Fleur dramatically called “a necessary cocktail exorcism.” Which meant, plenty of Gin, sarcasm, and some kind of hex-powered spa treatment in the renovated bathrooms of Grimauld place. Charlie figured it was a tactical retreat. One part bonding, two parts damage control. Especially after the week they’d had.

Victoire was finally down. Bill had read her The Friendly Wolf again, full performance mode. Charlie had stood in the landing listening, half-grinning. Of course Hermione had written a gentle, politically conscious werewolf-coming-out-tale for children. Of course Audrey had illustrated it like it belonged in a bloody museum. And of course Victoire knew it by heart.

Hermione belonged in that bedroom. In that landing. Hell, she belonged this weird, loud, loyal family. And knowing their Mum didn’t see it—refused to—made something cold twist low in Charlie’s ribs.

He was on his second whiskey when Bill wandered back down, looking like he’d wrestled a toddler and a conscience and only half-won.

“You two looked suspiciously well-adjusted,” Bill said, collapsing into an armchair.

“We were,” Charlie muttered, “until we heard about Mum’s Floo-call.”

Bill grimaced. “Yeah. That. Been a bit of a shitshow.”

Charlie snorted. “Bill, there were Howlers. Plural. I just started incinerating them after that first one—the dragons had a blast, but still.”

“Alright,” Bill said, raising his hands. “A proper wildfire. But we barely struck the match this time.”

Charlie raised a brow.

“Okay, okay—maybe Fleur mentioned Ron’s extracurriculars to the twins when they dropped by. On top of the entire Hermione-got-kidnapped-and-we-fought-poachers-and-a-Death-Eather-and-we-won.”

Charlie scoffed. “Barely.”

Bill smiled. “That’s not the point. Fred and George were thoroughly put out they weren't invited, by the way.”

Charlie leaned back, a grin forming on his lips. “Oh, okay. Do go on.”

Bill took a sip. “So, after that news was broken, they gave Ron and Lavender the full Weasley Twin Special. Magical acne. Glittery font. Spells ‘CHEATER’ across both their foreheads. Alternating colors. Apparently inspired by Hermione’s handwriting and some cursed contract she made.”

Charlie let out a low whistle. “Merlin, she’s terrifying.” Than softer, almost under his breath, “I love her.”

“She’s a bloody legend,” Bill agreed. “And, unsurprisingly, Mum’s livid. Ron and Lavender are barely speaking, the engagement's wobblier than a Niffler on ice, and somehow the twins are only getting half the blame.”

Charlie’s mouth flattened. “And the other half’s Hermione.”

Bill nodded grimly. “Not in so many words, but you know how she does it. Weaponised disappointment. 'William, I just don’t understand her anymore,' and 'Christmas was so uncalled for.' Like Hermione declared war by having a spine and following you out.”

Charlie’s jaw tensed. “She was ambushed. Humiliated. And still tried to keep the peace.”

“I told her,” Bill said flatly. “Told her the problem isn’t Hermione. It’s Lavender. Mum herself. And maybe Ron, too. Not that she took those accusations well. But it’s definitely not the witch who’s been holding it together with sarcasm and spells since she was eleven.”

Charlie exhaled, slow and sharp. “She’s lucky Fleur didn't get to her first.”

Bill’s grin twitched. “Oh, Fleur’s warming up. Already visited Lavender as well, although I dont’t suppose that was a particular productive visit. Says if Mum even tries to call Hermione something shady again, she’s going to enchant her skincare potions with something scary and French.”

Charlie huffed. “Remind me to buy her something expensive.”

Bill swirled his glass, face turning pensive. “Mum’s just afraid. She sees Ron’s soulmark like it’s this golden ticket, and now it’s unraveling. She’s panicking.”

“She thinks the mark means the match is perfect, that they are perfect” Charlie muttered. “But marks don’t fix people. They just point at them.”

“Exactly,” Bill said. “So I told her about Fleur.”

Charlie blinked. “You told her? Now?”

“She needed the perspective,” Bill said, knocking back his glass and refilling it with one clean motion. “She’s been treating Ron’s mark like gospel. So I told her—Fleur’s mine. Soulmark and all. And she didn’t even know.”

Charlie gave a low, impressed whistle.

“It showed up early,” Bill continued, like he needed to retell the story to Charlie, although he’s heard it all before. “Back when I was still based in Cairo. Thought it was a joke, at first. Stylised ocelot, flame patterns curling along its spine. Wasn’t one of the common ones, and I’d never even met anyone with a Patronus like that. Figured it was symbolic. Or a cosmic misprint.”

Charlie snorted. “Only you could get stuck with a cryptic magical tattoo and call it a misprint.”

Bill waved a hand. “Didn’t mean anything for years. Just a mark. Then I started doing Gringotts liaison work—lots of travel, lots of French cursebreakers—and she was there. Fleur. Just transferred to London and smarter than every goblin in the room, cheek like a whip, and this laugh like it had teeth.”

Charlie tilted his glass. “Dangerous combo.”

Bill smiled. “And then one day, mid-briefing, she casts her Patronus to shield a junior goblin from a curse recoil. And it’s this—brilliant silver ocelot. Same markings. Same flame tail. I stood there like a stunned flobberworm, just staring.”

Charlie blinked at that new piece of information. “You’re telling me you clocked your soulmate during a risk assessment?”

Bill shrugged. “Gringotts is nothing if not romantic.”

“And you panicked.”

“Mate, I nearly broke out in hives,” Bill said. “She was barely twenty. I was nearly twenty-six. The war was on the horizon. And she looked at me like I was a slightly charming curse matrix.”

Charlie grinned. “You mean she had standards.”

“Unreasonably high ones,” Bill said, fond now. “And I respected her enough not to dump a glowing prophecy in her lap. So I waited.”

He rubbed at his jaw. “Then came Greyback. The fallout. The scars. And she stayed. Even when I looked like I’d lost a bar fight with a werewolf and half my charm.”

Bill took a long sip of whisky. Charlie mirrored him.

“We fell together during the worst year of our lives. But we chose each other. Long before either of us said a word about the mark.”

Charlie’s smile faded into something softer. “And Mum never knew.”

“Still doesn’t. Not properly. We told her we were in love, not that I had a miniature magical jungle cat curled around my ribs since the first time I botched an ancient translation in ‘93.”

Charlie exhaled through his nose. “The mark didn’t make it easier.”

Bill nodded. “It made it heavier. Everyone assumes marks mean simple. They don’t. They mean serious. We waited. We got to know each other. Fought for it.”

Charlie nodded, slow and thoughtful. “And now she hexes people for you in four languages.”

“Exactly,” Bill said, tipping his glass. “But Mum didn’t see that story. Just the version without a soulmark. The version where she could still argue compatibility. Even though, in that version, Fleur kissed me and I’m pretty sure sparks flew out of my arse.”

Charlie raised his glass. “To emotionally messy, gloriously inconvenient love.”

Bill clinked it. “And to Hermione, who deserves better than a bloody fantasy.”

Charlie grinned. “She’s getting it. Even if I have to fight the whole family for it.”

The fire popped loudly, like it agreed.

The bottle was empty. The sea was loud. And Salt had rolled over for the third time, clearly offended that the sand wasn’t heated to his preferred specifications.

Charlie stretched his legs toward the dwindling fire, the whisky a slow ember in his chest. Bill sat beside him, legs drawn up, boots off and that tiny bloody goose on display, looking every bit the cursebreaker-turned-dad on leave. They’d talked about the Reserve. About the scar that still itched when Charlie turned his neck too quickly. About the full moons Bill no longer mentioned, and the ones he still did.

And somewhere in the middle of it, Salt had curled around them like a radiator with wings, and Pepper had headbutted a dune and declared it sufficient.

A good night, all things considered.

Only once did they have to go back—Victoire had woken up sobbing about “Grandmama turning red and shouting fire,” which was… fair, honestly.

He hovered in the doorway, arms crossed tight and breath too shallow. Bill knelt beside Victoire, murmuring something low and easy, like all the fire in her head could be soothed with nothing more than his voice and a warm hand on her back.

And maybe it could. Maybe that was the point.

Charlie watched the curve of Bill’s shoulders, the steadiness in him. The surety. The way Victoire tucked under his arm like that was where she’d always belonged.

Something in Charlie twisted.

Not anger. Not even jealousy, not really. Just a slow, quiet ache. A bone-deep awareness that Bill had built this—family, comfort, fluency—and Charlie was still catching up to the idea that he might want it. That he could.

With her.

The thought slipped through before he could brace for it. Hermione, her curls in his hands, her breath caught in his chest. A future he hadn’t dared name.

Too raw. Too big.

So he folded it away. Tucked it behind the soulmark under his ribs, and let it sit.

After that, they’d both padded barefoot back down to the beach, refilled their glasses with the last of the good stuff that Bill found somewhere at the top of a cupboard, and let the stars do the heavy lifting.

By the time they stumbled back in, dragons trailing like sleepy dogs, it was already well past reasonable hours. The sand clung to everything. Charlie could taste salt on the back of his tongue. Pepper made a nest in the spare duvet. Salt curled up by the window and immediately began snoring like tectonic plates grinding.

Charlie collapsed into bed, half on top of the duvet, still wearing his underwear and socks that smelled faintly of sea and still had sand on them. He didn’t care.

He was nearly asleep—dream-adjacent, really—when the door slammed open.

A tangle of curls, righteous indignation, and what looked like Charlie’s old Romanian jumper staggered into the room.

Hermione.

Fully drunk.

Absolutely, gloriously, hilariously drunk.

“Charlie,” she whispered loudly, like the concept of volume had personally offended her. “Charlie. You’re in my bed.”

He blinked awake, heart tripping, Pepper half-falling off the duvet in alarm.

“You’re in my jumper,” he said, voice hoarse with sleep.

“Because it smells like you,” she said, as if this were both explanation and legal precedent.

And then—without warning—she launched herself at him.

Charlie caught her instinctively, arms full of wild curls and warm limbs and what he was reasonably sure was a slight whiff of mead and peach schnapps.

“Hi,” she said, climbing him like a sentient staircase. “Missed you.”

“You saw me six hours ago.”

She kissed him. Or, at least, tried to. “Long hours.”

Charlie huffed out a laugh and tried—gently, carefully—not to let her accidentally smother them both as she stood on her tippy toes for better access to his lips.

It was sloppy. Warm. Messy in that way only someone you knew far too well could be.

And Merlin help him, he kissed her back.

She tasted like mead and apples and a bad decision made in high heels.

“Hermione,” he whispered, laughing as her fingers brushed his shoulders. “Did you sample every bottle in Grimauld place?”

“Maybe.”

He eased her off him with a gentleness that made her pout. “Alright. Let’s get some water in you. Possibly a potion. Before you decide it’s a good idea to seduce me half-conscious in front of two dragons.”

Salt snorted from the window like he was judging them all.

Hermione huffed. “Buzzkill.”

“You’re lucky I’m soft on you,” he said, handing her the Sober-Up from the bedside drawer.

She downed it without blinking.

And then blinked. Several times. Her eyes cleared. Her posture straightened. She stood up in a way that made the neckline of the jumper do scandalous things.

“Oh,” she said slowly. “That’s better. I feel... awake.”

“Terrifying.”

The bathroom was warm. Cozy. Charlie leaned over the sink to fill a glass, the tap sputtering as he held it under. Behind him, Hermione peeled off her jumper in that casual, utterly lethal way she had—curls catching, arms stretching, the soft fabric dragging up over skin and leaving chaos in its wake.

Charlie did not look. Not at first. He was many things—dragon-wrangler, curse-scarred idiot, man currently nursing an inconvenient tent in his boxers—but he still had some manners left.

“I’ll go,” he said, clearing his throat, already moving to the door.

“Don’t,” she murmured.

He turned. Slowly. Carefully. Like the air might crack open.

Hermione, gloriously undressed to just her knickers, reached for the tap. A wandless flick of her fingers and the shower hissed to life, steam billowing hotter, richer. The tiles glowed faintly gold from the force of it—raw, quiet magic made casual.

Charlie swallowed. Loudly. Because of course he did. Because apparently his body had the survival instincts of a suicidal puffskein.

She turned. Her curls were wild. Her knickers minimal. Her eyes—a storm in late July.

“Join me?”

He should’ve said no. Should’ve given her privacy. Should’ve remembered this was a very small bathroom in his brother’s cottage, with two dragons snoring a room away and a nosy niece prone to midnight wanderings.

Instead, he stepped forward.

And then she kissed him.

No warning. No buildup. Just her mouth on his like it belonged there. Like she did.

Charlie caught her with both hands, one at her waist, the other cupping the back of her head, fingers lost in damp curls and steam. He kissed her back, slow and deep. Like he’d forgotten how not to.

Her legs wrapped around his waist. She was warm everywhere. He stumbled them back into the tiled wall with a soft grunt, the cold a shock even through the heat. She laughed against his mouth, all teeth and trust.

Their bond flared—sharp for a moment, then settled. Not a burn. Not anymore.

Just presence. Pressure. A heartbeat tangled with his.

Her fingers brushed down his ribs, grazing the inked tail where Pepper curled in a permanent mark. “Forever?” she whispered.

Charlie pressed his forehead to hers, his hands tracing her shoulder. “For however long you’ll have me.”

She smiled against his jaw. A little wicked. A little wild. “That’s a really stupid thing to say, Weasley.”

He grinned. “Romantic, though.”

“Tragically.”

They kissed again, slower this time. Not because they had to—because they wanted to. Because the world outside didn’t matter. Not now.

No war. No hospital beeping. No headlines, no Howlers.

Just steam, tile, her breath on his throat. Just Charlie and Hermione.

Just them.

And that? That was enough.

Chapter Text

The walls of Shell Cottage were thin.

Not literally—Bill had warded the place to within an inch of its magical life, stacking wards upon wards that now probably rivaled those of Hogwarts—but emotionally. Everything still leaked through, especially when one knew where to listen.

Hermione lay in bed, very still, doing exactly that.

It was early. Barely seven. The sky outside—peeking through the slightly parted curtain—was the colour of ash, and the wind battered the side of the house with that particular violence of the North Sea in a foul mood; rattling something metal near the chimney. The cottage creaked in its joints. The world, she thought absently, was bracing for something.

And that something? It had already arrived.

Downstairs, there were voices. Multiple. Not loud yet. Not quite. But straining. The kind of sharp, thin-edged sounds that didn’t need to be shouted to hit like a slap. They filtered up through the floorboards as if the house itself had decided she ought to know.

Fleur’s voice came first. Measured. Precise. Dipped in ice.

"Zhis is my house, Molly."

Then Bill—low and steady, the way one might speak to a hippogriff that had wandered into the kitchen.

"Mum, please. You can’t come in like this—"

And then Molly, riding right over them. Thick with clipped judgment, her vowels tight and cold. The kind of tone that made people flinch before they understood why.

The names came soon after. Ron. Lavender. Something about family. Something about keeping appearances. Something about living a normal life, for once.

No mention of Hermione. Not yet.

But it was coming.

Beside her, Charlie was still asleep—bare-chested, sprawled across the mattress like a man who had stopped pretending not to need rest. His hand slung over her waist, holding her steady even while unconscious. Salt lay at his feet, limbs flung over Charlie’s ankles like a scaled toddler. Pepper was curled tight at Hermione’s back, her flank warm, her breathing slow but alert.

A low thud vibrated through the floorboards, accompanied by muffled words.

“…deserves better.”

Hermione stiffened.

A beat.

Pepper growled, low and rumbling.

Hermione pressed her palm to the dragon’s side. “Easy, love. Not yet.”

Because that voice—tight, acid-sweet, every vowel sharpened like it could cut right through you—wasn’t talking about Ron anymore.

Nope. She was talking about Charlie.

And they hadn't even broken the news yet. Delightful. Absolutely delightful.

Hermione was about to cover her head with her pillow and groan loudly. But then she heard it.

Footsteps. Not adult. Light. Fast. Too fast.

The door pushed itself open, the soft yellow light from the landing flowing in.

“Uncle Charlie?” Victoire’s voice was shaking.

That small soft voice was enough to jolt Charlie awake; he blinked fast. “Vic?”

The little girl stood in the doorway, pyjamas too long, unicorn dangling from one hand, tears streaking both cheeks in furious rivulets. Her lower lip was wobbling so hard it looked like it might fall off.

Hermione sat up quickly, hands outstretched. “Come here.”

Victoire bolted across the room and launched herself at her. Hermione sat back onto the bed with Victoire clinging to her like a lifeline, settling the trembling child in her lap. Tiny fingers fisted in Hermione’s t-shirt. Her breaths hitched in broken sobs, hot and hiccuping against Hermione’s neck.

Hermione wrapped both arms around her and pressed a kiss to her hair. “Shhh,” she whispered, rubbing slow circles across the girl’s back. “It’s all right. You’re safe now. We’ve got you.”

The sounds downstairs sharpened—Molly’s voice slicing through the house again, jagged and rising. Hermione tensed just slightly, and so did Victoire.

Wordless and wandless, Hermione cast a quick silencing spell around them. Just in time.

“Grandmama is yelling,” Victoire sobbed. “She’s yelling at Papa. And Mama. And—and she said very bad things. About you.”

Hermione’s arms tightened.

Charlie sat up in one sharp motion, sheets tangled around his hips, his entire body suddenly wide awake.

Hermione watched him freeze. Not the dramatic kind—just a subtle tightening, like someone had thrown some of the ice-cold sea water down his spine. His eyes were on Victoire, but Hermione saw his hands; open, then closing. Not anger, exactly. More like heartbreak with nowhere to go.

Victoire sniffled again, her voice small and trembling against Hermione’s neck.

“She said it’s your fault,” she mumbled. “That you made Uncle Ron leave. And... And that you’re... you're trying to steal uncle Charlie...”

Charlie’s hands curled into fists on the duvet.

“She said uncle Charlie needs to come around,” Victoire whispered, barely audible, “She said it like a bad thing. Like you’re bad.”

Hermione exhaled slowly through her nose as she held Victoire closer, hand never stopping its slow circles on the little girl’s back.

The little girl hiccupped, her cheeks turning redder with every half-taken breath. "But uncle Charlie is around... And he smiles, and he has dragons.... And you smile, and you play with me and uncle Charlie, and you are good..." she waved her unicorn next to her

“Grandmama is being bad,” Victoire added fiercely, her voice cracking again. “She’s being mean. And Papa told her to stop, and she wouldn’t. And then Mama said a word I’m not supposed to say, and the kettle exploded.”

Charlie groaned, hand rubbing down one side of his face. “Of course it did.”

Hermione brushed Victoire’s curls gently from her forehead. “You were very brave, coming up here.”

Victoire nodded, sniffling again, thumb in her mouth now.

Hermione met Charlie’s eyes over her head. The romance and laughter of the previous night felt lightyears away. As she switched to Romanian, her voice came out calm. Too calm. “She doesn’t even know yet.”

Charlie nodded grimly.

“She doesn’t know about us,” Hermione repeated. “About the bond. Or what happened at the Reserve. Or—any of it.”

Charlie answered in English; his hand moving up and raking through his hair. “She’s going to find out. Today, if I can help it.”

Hermione’s arms tightened around Victoire.

Downstairs, a cupboard slammed, loud enough to breach their bubble. A heavy footfall moving up the stairs.

Then, quietly.

“Tea?”

Bill.

He stood in the doorway, holding a tray like a man bracing for impact. Steam curled around his furrowed brow while the tray wobbled slightly in his hands—two mismatched mugs, a teapot that looked like it had narrowly survived an explosion (which, based on Victoire's latest intel, it had), and what might have been the last of the biscuits.

Hermione didn’t move, but the absurdity of it almost made her laugh. Tea. Because of course Bill would try to fix this with tea. As if a strong brew and a bit of sugar might somehow smooth the edges off the hurricane downstairs.

But even Bill’s tea couldn’t save his next sentence.

And judging by the look on his face, he knew it.

“Mum wants to talk.”

His voice was calm. Too calm. This wasn’t a suggestion—this was inevitability, softened by sympathy. A warning, yes, but one laced with apology. And coming from Bill—who rarely pushed unless he’d already thought through all the angles—it might as well have been a white flag. This was the best version of what came next.

No one else could have asked and made it sound this gentle.

Still, when Salt gave a sharp little yip from the end of the bed, Hermione didn’t flinch. Not outwardly, at least.

But behind her, Pepper’s tail lashed once—silent, sharp, and unmistakably pissed.

Charlie didn’t move either. Not at first. But his eyes flicked up, cold and clear. The shift in him was immediate. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just there, ready for battle.

Hermione met his eyes, just for a moment. She didn’t need to say it. He already knew.

His voice, when it came, was steady. Too steady.

“All right,” he said. “Let’s talk.”

They descended like a quiet march—if quiet marches included jeans, a cotton shirt, fluffy socks, and a lukewarm mug of tea Hermione had already forgotten to sip twice.

Charlie padded ahead of her, barefoot and braced, one hand still half-curled from the fury he hadn’t voiced upstairs. Every step he took down the stairs was deliberate, careful. Like the wood might splinter under him. Or, like, if he wasn’t careful, the air might.

In front of him, Bill had Victoire bundled into his chest, her unicorn dangling by its mane like a casualty of war. Her cheeks were blotched and puffy, breath hitching in that post-crying way small children had when the adrenaline wore off and sleep tried to win. She’d cried herself into silence. Which, frankly, Hermione understood.

They were a parade, all right. Not the triumphant sort. More of the kind with bagpipes and poor life choices.

And downstairs, the atmosphere in the kitchen was... not doing any better.

Low, urgent French filtered through the hallway—clipped and increasingly vicious. Fleur, by the sound of it, was currently delivering a diplomatic statement that might also double as a curse. Bill replied under his breath with something that sounded like a wince and a verbal shrug.

Molly was suspiciously quiet. Which... was worse.

A pause. Then, as if she had finally figured out that someone was actually missing, Molly asked, “Where did Bill run off to, dear?”

Hermione froze one step from the bottom, just out of view. She didn’t stop on purpose—it was more instinct. Like her body made the decision for her. She wasn’t hiding. She was... tactically observing.

Yeah. That sounded better.

Bill stepped into the kitchen with Victoire still tucked in his arms, and Molly’s voice immediately brightened.

“Ah, there he is! And my favourite grandchild!”

Molly beamed, but her expression faltered when she took in Victoire’s blotchy cheeks and trembling lip. For half a second, something like guilt flickered in her eyes—then vanished, replaced by a falsely cheerful smile.

Hermione closed her eyes briefly. Counted to three. Didn’t breathe on two.

From the next room came Fleur’s breath—a sharp, guttural inhale. Followed by an unmistakable flurry of French that even Hermione’s rusty comprehension recognized as inappropriate for Victoire’s ears. A beat later, she heard the soft shift as Victoire was passed into her mother’s arms.

Then—Charlie moved.

No warning. Just a silent recalibration of gravity as he gave Hermione's hand a small squeeze and stepped into the fray.

Hermione followed, but slower, staying back just a fraction, just long enough to see it all unfold, hidden from view. Charlie—solid, shirt rumpled, hair a mess, tea forgotten in his hand. Moving like someone walking toward a dragon he might choose to fight. Or might just let it roast him out of boredom.

And then—there she was.

Molly Weasley spun toward him with the force of a raging autumn storm, voice falsely bright. “Oh, Charlie, there you are! You haven’t answered a single one of my letters!”

Hermione felt the scoff before she heard it. Low, involuntary, and coming from such depth that it vibrated in her ribs.

Charlie didn’t even blink. “Those were Howlers, Mum.”

The silence that followed was sharp enough to slice bread. Or jugulars.

Molly, Hermione supposed, wasn't one to fuss over either.

Hermione flicked a warming charm over her own cup and tried, unsuccessfully, to become part of the wall. The limestone was cold against her spine, but at least it didn’t judge her. For now.

Just within view, Molly’s smile wobbled—just for a second—before it snapped back into place with the tenacity of someone who hadn’t been contradicted by a child since 1984.

“Well, I was worried,” she said, hands clasping like she’d personally invented maternal concern. “You disappear in the middle of Christmas Eve. Just gone. Disapparated! Away for a weeks, not responding to any of your father’s inquiries—”

“Dad didn't inquire,” Charlie said flatly. “And, frankly, the inquiries that I did receive weren't particularly wanted.”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” she snapped.

Hermione hadn’t planned to step in, yet. Had told herself it was better to let Charlie handle it, to let the family dynamics play out without her shadow complicating things further. Because that is what she did, didn't she? But that voice in her head—the one that had always been far too good at rationalizing staying quiet—had silenced itself this time.

Because it wasn’t just that Molly was wrong. It was that Charlie looked tired. Bone-deep tired. The kind that didn’t show in posture but in restraint. He was holding the line again, for everyone else.

And they had promised each other. No more lines alone.

So she moved.

Just one step. No grand entrance. No dramatic flounce. Just forward, enough to make it obvious she’d heard everything. Enough to make it clear she wasn’t going anywhere.

Molly didn’t look at her.

Not immediately.

She looked at Fleur first—who stood in the far corner, Victoire now slumped against her shoulder, eyes closed but hand still curled around the unicorn like it might need protecting from more adult nonsense. Around them shimmered a faint, barely visible silencing ward—subtle, old magic that flickered in and out of view at the edges. Hermione recognized it immediately. Fleur had cast it so Victoire wouldn’t hear any of this. Smart. And more merciful than anyone else in the room was being.

Fleur’s face was blank. Politely blank. The kind of blank that, in Hermione’s experience, usually meant someone had drafted murder in their head three separate ways and filed them all under “just in case.”

Bill was at the stove with the tray of tea, doing his best impression of someone who definitely wasn’t dying inside.

And then—Molly’s eyes found Hermione.

And that was that.

“Oh,” she said, like it was a weapon. It cut fast and deep. “You’re here, too.”

Hermione raised her eyebrow. “Astounding, isn’t it?”

Molly blinked.

Charlie, behind her now, let out a sound like a cough and a laugh had collided and died somewhere halfway his throat. His hand brushed hers—barely—but it was enough. Grounding.

Molly’s voice softened. Dangerously. “I just thought—with Ron back home, heartbroken, and poor Lavender barely speaking to anyone—you’d have the decency to stay away. Let things settle. Quietly.”

“Settle,” Hermione repeated, like she was resisting the urge to throw a silencing charm over herself—the same kind Fleur had used on Victoire—just so she wouldn’t have to hear this sanctimonious rubbish.

Molly smiled a little too wide. “I mean, you and Ron were never… meant to last. Not like Ron and Lavender. It was just wartime pressure, wasn’t it? Understandable confusion, although it took a bit long. But now, Ron’s had time. He sees clearly. And Lavender—dear girl—she still loves him...”

She paused, lips pursed just long enough to let the air stiffen around her.

“...But you will not let it go, will you? First parading those lovers and getting all the attention in the tabloids, and now you are here, of all places. In my eldest son’s house. Mingling.”

Hermione didn’t respond. Not verbally. She stepped closer to Charlie—just slightly, no more than a shift of weight—but it was enough. She felt the brush of his magic against hers, steady and warm, wrapping through her like a whispered reassurance. Molly didn’t notice a thing. Fortunately.

And then, Molly took the silence as encouragement.

“So you can imagine how hard this all is. For Ron. For Lavender. For everyone. Seeing you still… lingering. And of course, no one’s demanded an apology, but—”

“Wait,” Charlie said sharply. “An apology?”

Molly started slightly, caught. She hadn’t realized how close he still was.

“Well—not for everything,” she said quickly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear like that might distract from the words. “Just the… confusion. You know how Ron is. Sensitive. It would mean a lot to him. To the family. If Hermione could just acknowledge the harm she’s done. And then, perhaps, step back. Back to Romania, or preferably, the Indian reserve. Give everyone space to heal.”

Hermione opened her mouth.

Closed it again.

She took a sip of her tea. Scalded tongue. Worth it, though. Everything to get out of replying.

Charlie stepped in front of her now—subtle, deliberate, immovable.

“Let me get this straight,” he said. “You want her to apologize. For what, exactly?”

Molly’s smile thinned to something almost see-through. “For disrupting everything. For vanishing off to Romania and letting the papers paint their little stories, dragging Ron’s name through it by association.” She turned, now holding Hermione's gaze, “For leaving when he needed you, when he was trying to make sense of that soulmark business with Lavender while you’d already broken things off. As if that mess wasn’t heavy enough without you running away from the fallout. And then you have the gall to show up at Christmas, like you were ever part of this family in the first place.”

Hermione’s fingers tightened on the cup. Fleur muttered something vicious in French. Bill straightened from the stove, arms folded and eyes like thunder. Still, he remained quiet.

Molly’s voice sharpened. “Ron deserves peace. Lavender deserves closure. And frankly, Hermione, your presence—still hanging around like a bad habit—helps no one. Certainly not you.”

The room tilted. Just slightly. Enough to feel it in her gut.

Charlie didn’t move. But something shifted behind his eyes. Quietly. Completely.

“Say that again,” he said, voice low and precise.

Molly blinked, baffled. “Charlie, darling, this is between Hermione and Ron—”

“No. It’s not.”

The words dropped like a stone falling through black water.

Molly blinked again, and for the first time, she actually looked at him—barefoot, rumpled, too comfortable by half. Her eyes narrowed.

“Wait,” she said slowly. “What exactly are you trying to say?”

Charlie didn’t answer. Not directly. He turned his hand slightly, arm outstretched, so the back of his fingers brushed Hermione’s. Not accidental. Not deniable. Just enough.

Molly recoiled like she saw water burning right there and then, her voice resolute. “No. Absolutely not. Her? Charlie, she’s already torn this family apart. You can’t honestly be—”

She couldn’t finish it. Not with Fleur shifting like she was ready to duel and the thunderous sound of two dragons barreling down the stairs.

Charlie didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to.

“Do not talk about Hermione like that.”

Molly turned pale. But still clung to the wreckage of the argument.

“She’s ruined Ron. She’ll ruin you. She’s not maternal, she’s not loyal—she’s a visitor, Charlie. One that doesn't belong here. One you’ve mistaken for home.”

Hermione shut her eyes. Not because it hurt—it didn’t. Not anymore. It was a different kind of tired. The kind that settled in your bones when you'd been looked at too long and too closely, like something cracked in a museum display. Judged, misunderstood, dusted off for inspection. She was used to it—had learned, long ago, that the world would always have an opinion about her, whether she asked for it or not. But that it came from Molly—who’d once called her family, who’d once made her feel like she might belong—that was the part that scraped. Not because it shattered something. Just because it proved it had never been real. And honestly? That was the most exhausting part of all.

Salt took up the position at her heel, his breath curling hot around her calf. Meanwhile, Pepper flanked Charlie’s side with a snarl in her throat. Without hesitation, Salt bared his teeth at Molly.

And then, he laughed. It was low and dangerous and lethal—the kind of sound that made her heart trip over itself. Inappropriately, annoyingly attractive.

“Funny, Mum.” Charlie said. "She’s the one who saved me when I was bleeding out,” he took a deep breath, “I was knocking on death’s door, body splayed out on a bloody rune stone… I saw blood every—” He stopped himself, running a hand through his hair, “But sure—let’s talk about who belongs where.”

Silence cracked the room.

Charlie didn’t look away, fire burning in his eyes. His voice stayed calm. "In all honesty, Mum, she’s the only reason I came home at all.”

He continued holding his mother's gaze, unflinching. “I’m not Ron. I’m not confused. And I’m not going to pretend I’m ashamed of loving the best bloody thing that’s ever happened to me just because you can’t stomach the idea.”

Molly’s voice dropped to a whisper. “But… Ron…”

Charlie shook his head. “Ron and Lavender broke up. That was their choice. Not Hermione’s fault. Not anyone’s to fix. Let them grow. Let them figure it out. But don’t you dare use their pain as an excuse to punish her.”

Molly stared at him as if he’d grown scales during his time in Romania.

And then—she cracked.

“You can’t possibly think this is real,” she snapped. “She’ll leave, Charlie. Go after other men. She always leaves. Spoils herself. Sleeps around. She left Ron. She left the family. She ran off to that godforsaken dragon pit like it was something noble—but it was just running away, and we all know it. And now you think what—you’re the exception?”

“Running away?” Charlie said, voice rising. “You mean the dragon pit where I’ve spent the last fifteen years of my life? My home? That same dragon pit where we were nearly kill—where Hermione risked her life for mine? Where she bled beside me in the snow while a—"

He cut himself off. Too sharp, too late.

Hermione’s hand twitched against his wrist. Not a stop—just a reminder.

But Molly didn’t catch it. Of course, she didn’t.

“Where we both nearly died,” he said instead, voice flat now. “That’s what you call running?”

Molly averted her eyes. Hermione caught it, the slight glazing off them. And then, she spoke. Softer this time.

“You were supposed to come home,” she whispered, voice cracking. “You always said you’d come home eventually. Not with... this. Not with her.”

Molly's voice rose. Louder now, as if something had started to boil in her chest. She kept brushing one arm with the other—over and over, like she needed somewhere to put the heat.

“You’re pushing your mid-thirties and you’ve got nothing to your name but burn scars and beasts that’ll eat you the moment you slip. This—this is what you’ve made of your life? Chasing dragons and girls who never stay?”

The words were vicious and landed like a slap in the silence.

Hermione blinked once, sharp and slow, her hand still resting on Charlie’s arm.

Bill turned. No more tea-tray buffer. No more soft hands.

“Mum.”

The air shifted. Not magically. Just human. Just final.

“You don’t get to talk like that. Not here.”

His voice wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. It had weight, the kind that dropped whole conversations dead.

Fleur followed quickly, already moving towards the centre of the room, magic buzzing in the air around her like a warning. “Tu es une honte,” she hissed. “Tu ne vois rien. Rien du tout.”

Molly’s mouth opened again—then closed. The look on Charlie’s face shut her down before a single syllable escaped. Not rage. Not even disappointment. Just—end.

He didn’t yell. Didn’t flinch. Just stood there, impossibly still, jaw locked.

Hermione tightened her grip on his wrist.

Then, she felt it—the low thrum of magic building along her skin and dissipating into the air, curling from the soulmark on her shoulder like it knew its moment had come.

Charlie didn’t hesitate.

He lifted his shirt.

The soulmark glowed, stark and alive across his ribs—Pepper’s wings spread wide in obsidian light, flapping proudly against his skin.

Hermione met his gaze. And then, with the same deliberate stillness, she pulled the collar of her jumper down and bared her shoulder.

Salt gleamed there, etched like starlight into her skin.

No explanation. Just truth.

Then they moved.

Two wands raised.

Two dragons soared—silver and spectral and ancient. Salt and Pepper, reborn in translucent silver, burst forth in unison, circling the room with quiet fury. Once. Twice. Magic brushing the ceiling like thunder in reverse. Then gone.

Molly’s eyes widened. She swayed, the remaining color draining from her face. Her mouth opened. Closed again. She looked not angry anymore—but lost. Her gaze flicked, just once, to Victoire’s sleeping form—and dropped.

Silence reigned.

Charlie turned back to his mother, eyes steady. He didn’t speak. He simply squeezed Hermione’s hand and turned on his heel. Then he whistled. The real Salt and Pepper padded forward, silent spirit animals, slipping after him like shadows.

He walked out.

Hermione watched, heart steady, as they left Molly alone in the echo of her own words.

She met the woman’s gaze with terrifying calm. No rage. No heat. Just the weight of being done.

“You did this yourself,” she said. Not loud. Not cruel. Just true.

Hermione set her cup of tea on the table, waited a moment—quietly watching the end of a conversation she hadn’t actually started—before she turned and followed Charlie.

Across the room, Fleur shifted with a protective hiss of magic, Victoire curled against her chest, still fast asleep—head tucked beneath her mother’s chin, unicorn limp in her hand, mercifully spared from all of it.

Bill didn’t say a word. Just reached for the counter like it might hold him up. Maybe it did.

And Molly?

Molly stood in the ruins of her own silence. Not crying. Not screaming. Just—still. As if even she’d finally realised she’d burned down something she could never rebuild.

Good.

Because by the looks of it, she had.

Chapter Text

The door slammed shut behind him with a solid thunk, and Charlie didn’t move for a moment. Just stood there, breathing. In. Out. The air scratched a bit on the way down—too much salt, too much tension—but it did the job. His lungs worked. His legs held. No one was judging anymore.

And that? Well, that was a bloody good start.

The wind hit him full on as he stepped out onto the sand, sharp and cold and not remotely interested in his emotional state. Sand slapped his ankles. The sky looked ready to kick off. Black clouds piling over the sea, low and mean. He welcomed it. Storms made sense. Storms didn’t ask who you were choosing—your mother, or the woman who made your soul stop pacing.

Needless to say, his choice had been clear.

Salt and Pepper flanked him without comment. No chirping. No tail-wagging nonsense. Just silent columns of support. Solid. Pepper's shoulder brushed his thigh like she was checking he was still in one piece. Salt sneezed out a puff of smoke that caught the wind and vanished.

They’d felt it too. The weight of it. The break.

He’d told her. Told her everything, and exactly where he stood amidst it all. And now he was gone—and he wasn’t about to come back. Not until she remembered how to be the mum who used to push him towards the fire, not drag him back from it. The one who listened, even when she didn’t agree. Not the one who spat venom and baseless accusations at anyone she couldn’t control.

He hadn’t raised his voice. Not really. But his magic had flared like it wanted to; brushing against the walls, pushing and pulling in every direction as he tried to contain it.

Yeah.

He’d meant every word.

Now, halfway down the beach, his feet bare, his jumper conjured and flapping, he felt bits of tension starting to bleed off. A little. Enough to register the thrum of something else. Something familiar.

Magic. Close. Reaching out.

Salt felt it too; padding in a circle around his legs, scales rubbing against his jeans as his paws left prints in the sand. One excited yip and a flick of his tail. Then he retreated a step and sat, smug. Waiting.

Charlie’s shoulders dropped. Relaxed.

Hermione. Of course.

Gods, he’d half-thought she’d walk away. Not from him—never from him—but from the row. She’d earned that right ten times over. What his Mum had said… no, what she was, now—that was the problem. And they both knew it.

But still, it hadn’t been easy, even if he had prepared for it.

More than that, really.

Charlie had gone in ready to burn the place down. And, to a certain extent, he had.

And Hermione? She hadn’t flinched as she faced the eye of the hurricane. She’d walked in like bloody Morgana, cocked one elegant eyebrow, and reduced his Mum to a squawking mess of outdated opinions and wounded pride. And then when the fire had reached its peak and Charlie had left the embers to flame out, he’d barely cleared the hallway before he heard her scorch the earth; a single and final line as crisp as a curse, and somehow louder than anything that had been said before.

But now, here, Hermione was not war. She was warmth. Salt. Solid ground.

Her arms wrapped around him, tight and sure. Her curls—already half-wild from the wind—slapped him in the face like affectionate seaweed. And then her mouth was on his neck, determined and smug, like she’d earned him and meant to remind him of it.

“Oi!” he squawked, squirming as her lips found a spot that made the hair on his arms standup and his knees betray him.

“Ticklish, are we?” she said, her lips tracing the shell of his ear, before mercilessly digging her fingers into his sides.

He twisted, Hermione shrieked, and two seconds later they were both in the sand, they were laughing and rolling around like drunken otters. Salt chirped in what was probably dragon laughter. Pepper sniffed them both and looked unimpressed.

“I love you,” Hermione whispered against his cheek, half-breathless, half-smug.

Charlie lay back in the soft dunes, waves rolling in the distance wind in his teeth, woman in his arms, dragons flanking them like awkward scaly pillows—and grinned up at the storm.

Yeah.

He loved her too. So much it made everything else—his mum, the shouting, the broken bits—feel suddenly, blessedly, irrelevant.

The next few days blurred in that way things do when you’re exhausted, relieved, and mildly terrified someone might still knock on the door and start screaming again. But Molly hadn’t. Shell Cottage had remained blissfully Weasley-matron-free, thanks in no small part to Fleur—who’d very calmly reminded everyone why Gringotts hired her to break into cursed tombs and not host tea.

No alarms, no hexes, no French curses muttered under breath—just Fleur, waving her wand and tracing wards that could keep the Dark Lord himself from appearing at her home.

Yeah.

Apparently, those had done the trick.

Not that it mattered, much, in hindsight.

His Mum had left quickly and without another word. No dramatic speeches. No second act. Just vanished in a cloud of disapproval and Floo soot. Bill hadn’t elaborated on her exit, which was fine by Charlie—what more was there to say after your brother basically declared war by standing between your girlfriend and your mother in his own sodding kitchen? He’d done it. He’d picked a side. And, it had been Charlie’s.

That was enough. More than, really.

The rest of the family had found out not because of any carefully crafted statement or owl post, but because Victoire had ears the size of dinner plates, a tendency to apparently break through her Mum’s heavy-crafted silencing spells, and no concept of discretion. She’d solemnly recited every word she’d picked up to Percy the moment he popped by “for tea” that same evening.

And Percy? Well, true to form, he’d passed it on. Like the world’s most officious gossip owl. The twins had apparently been outraged—horrified, really—that Charlie hadn’t told them himself.

How dare he to keep juicy, family implosion content from them.

Charlie had shrugged at Fred’s face in the Floo. He—and Bill—had somewhat expected their Mum to do the sharing for them. But somehow, she hadn’t.

So tonight, they would.

Bill had invited everyone—well, everyone that mattered. Harry. All the brothers, although Ron had politely declined. And possibly a firewhisky bottle or three.

The girls had ‘voluntarily’ opted out; which was more code for Fleur shooing Hermione, Ginny, herself and the kids off to Grimmauld Place, citing “girl things” with an air of mystery Charlie didn’t trust. Ginny had smirked in that vaguely terrifying way of hers and said she had questions. Which sounded suspiciously like an interrogation disguised as a slumber party.

Charlie had winced on Hermione’s behalf—Merlin help her. Ginny with questions was only marginally less terrifying than the twins with a plan.

And judging by the look on Harry’s face when he’d heard—wide-eyed, hollow, like a man who’d seen war and somehow decided this was worse—her husband understood that comparison far too well.

In any case, tonight was theirs. No mothers. No press. No Howlers. Just siblings, awkward silences, and maybe, if he was lucky, a few laughs between the mess of it all.

And tomorrow?

Tomorrow, they’d go home.

Back to the reserve. Back to the dragon wrangling and the quiet breath of the mountains. Back to sunrise feeding schedules and Hermione muttering yesterday’s observations into her tea before breakfast. Back to a place where his soul didn’t itch like it wasn’t fully present.

And honestly? That was all he wanted.

No fanfare. No more shouting. Just home.

With her.

And maybe—just maybe—that would be what Hermione wanted to. He planned to ask her, at least, if his brother’s didn’t hex him to Timbuktu and back first.

The fire cracked in front of them, casting lazy gold across the floor. Fred had repoured himself another generous splash of Firewhisky, which either meant he was processing or preparing to start trouble.

Probably both.

The moon outside was nearly full, glinting through the frosted windowpanes as the North Eea gale blew clouds in and out of its reach. It made the insides of Shell Cottage feel warmer, whereas it made Bill look... different. Broader. Like the kind of man who knew things Charlie didn’t. It suited him.

Fred, on the other hand, looked appalled.

“So,” he said, jabbing his glass in Charlie’s direction, “you’re telling me—you’ve got a bleeding soulmark?”

Charlie didn’t bother answering right away. Just sipped his drink, slow and deliberate. “That is what I just said, yes.”

George leaned in, eyes wide. “No, but not just a soulmark. A proper ancient soulbond. With Hermione-freaking-Granger.”

“Our Hermione?” Fred asked, eyes practically crossing.

“Do we know another Hermione?” Charlie returned, deadpan.

Percy, ever literal, nodded. “Of course it’s our Hermione. Who else would it be?”

Harry, who’d had more whisky than he probably should’ve, pointed vaguely in their direction. “Oi—no our. She’s her own person.”

Bill snorted. “Right you are, Harry.”

But Fred was off. He’d jumped on the topic like a kneazle on a mouse, and there was no letting go. “You’re bonded to Hermione,” he pointed at Charlie. “And you,” swinging to Bill, “are Fleur’s soulmate? Since when?!”

Bill raised an eyebrow, unbothered. “Didn’t seem necessary.”

Charlie scoffed at Bill’s wonderful way with words.

George gaped. “Didn’t seem necessary?! Do you know how long we had to listen to Ron and Lavender go on about theirs?”

“Every bloody meal,” Fred muttered. “Every Tuesday, Thursday, and even Sunday! They wouldn’t shut up. Made me want to curse my own ears off.”

“We even came up with a scale,” George added. “One to Ten on how close they were to snogging in front of Mum.”

“One time Ron said ‘bonded’ twenty-three times in five minutes,” Fred said. “Nearly drowned in my soup.”

Charlie chuckled, lifting his glass. “Good to know I didn’t miss much.”

Percy gave a curt chuckle, as he said under his breath. “Apparently we did.”

And that? Well, that was enough for the twins to turn their attention back to Charlie.

“But you,” George said, pointing again. “When did you get it?”

Charlie shrugged. “Quidditch World Cup in Ireland. Just woke up one morning with a tattoo. Thought it was imagining things for the first few days. Didn’t know it was Hermione until… the start of this year.”

Bill whistled, clearly enjoying the firewhisky a bit too much. “Luckily, just imagine what would’ve happened if you’d find out earlier.”

George almost choked on his drink, while Charlie tried to drown himself in his. Fred, however, groaned like that was a personal offense. “And you didn’t tell us?”

“I had to be sure.”

Percy, bless him, tried to smooth it over. “It makes sense. Soulmarks are complicated—”

“Oh shut up, Perce,” Fred said cheerfully. “We’re not upset. Just wounded.”

“Deeply,” George added. “Betrayed.”

“Emotionally scarred.”

Percy sighed but smiled anyway. Then, a little quieter. “Still. I’m glad it’s her. She’s... good for you, Charlie. And I know how hard it can be, feeling like she’s never quite enough—for some people.”

Charlie blinked, surprised. Percy never said things like that. But maybe they were all a little braver tonight.

There was a beat of quiet agreement—soft, strange, and, for once, not needing to be filled. Then Harry cleared his throat and muttered, “She really is. Good for you, I mean. And you, for her.”

He pulled out his wand and gave it a vague wave, clearly aiming for a refill all round. Unfortunately, like most things Harry did when both emotions and plenty of alcohol were involved, it came out a bit sideways—half the whisky landed in Charlie’s glass, the other half on his fingers and the table.

Bill laughed instead of grumbled, which meant he was well on his way to pissed. For as far as he could be, with that upped metabolism of his.

Harry didn’t look up. Just kept talking, a bit quieter this time.

“She is happier now, Charlie. The happiest I’ve ever seen her. Even with all the mess you guys went through. It’s amazing. And… it’s all I’ve ever wished for her, really.

Charlie smiled softly, but didn’t say anything. Just let it settle. Warm and true.

Then Fred leaned back, stretching his legs toward the fire. “So. Mum.”

A collective groan vibrated around the room.

“Brilliant, Freddie,” George said, “Way to ruin the mood.”

Charlie wiped his hands on his jeans and took a sip of his drink, as if that could prepare him for all this.

George waved a hand, sighing. “Look, the freeze-out’s fair. She’ll come around. Probably.”

“She usually does,” Bill said, a little more gently. “Eventually.”

“And if she doesn’t?” Fred shrugged. “We’re not going anywhere.”

Percy and George talked over each other with more encouragement.

Charlie blinked, throat tighter than expected.

It was stupid, maybe, how much it mattered. That they’d picked him—no questions, no hesitation—without needing to be asked.

“Thanks.”

“’Course,” Fred said, tipping his glass.

“Now,” George said, turning the conversation with the grace of a kneazle on caffeine, “can we talk about Ron and Lavender?”

Fred perked up instantly. “Oh! You mean our brilliant head-cursing?”

Bill rubbed his temples. “I still had hope it was all—”

“Hope is for idiots who are too afraid to follow their dreams,” Fred said, delighted. “And we followed ours—in the form of spelling cheater across both their foreheads. As they deserved.”

“It fades if they admit it,” George added. “They haven’t.”

Percy looked horrified. “You can’t—”

“Oh, we can,” Fred said.

Percy opened his mouth to object. Properly something very much Percival and very not likely to resonate with the mischief makers on the other side of the table. So, Charlie beat him to it.

“They’ve broken up anyway, at least according to Mum,” he said, hand touching the scar at the back of his neck. Ron had told him as much, during their brief call. “Quietly. No dramatics. Just… done.”

Harry nodded, fiddling with the rim of his glass. “It’s probably for the best. Still. Bit of a shame.”

Bill’s voice was quieter than usual. “They did fit. Sometimes. When they weren’t shouting.”

Charlie exhaled slowly. He remembered a moment—just one—where Ron had looked at Lavender like the rest of the world had shut up for five seconds. It hadn’t lasted, obviously. But it had been real. “Yeah,” he said. “There was something there. Messy, but something.”

Percy adjusted his glasses, doing that slightly-too-serious voice he slipped into when he was thinking out loud. “If they grow up a bit... could still work. Eventually.”

Charlie shrugged. “Ron just needs time. Space to figure out who he is without everyone telling him.”

“To become the person we all believe he can be,” Percy added, sounding almost solemn.

Fred rolled his eyes. “Oh Merlin, we’re getting sentimental.”

George sniffed dramatically. “God, I hate it when alcohol gets us there.”

Charlie just laughed, sinking deeper into the cushions. The fire popped again. Pepper gave a sleepy chirp from the rug, her tail flicking once.

“So,” Percy asked, “what now, Charlie?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re bonded. To Hermione. What happens next?”

Fred leaned forward, hands folding under his chin and his interest definitely piqued. “Are you going to settle down, brother dearest?”

George cocked his head, somehow feeling the need to summarize what Charlie assumed to be the collective sentiment of his brothers. “Charles Septimus Weasley, tied down by one woman and not a dragon?”

Charlie raised an eyebrow, challenging. “Two dragons, actually.”

Then, he smiled into his drink. His voice softer. More gentle.

“Yeah. For now. In Romania.”

Silence. Like that wasn’t the answer they had been expecting.

Then Fred narrowed his eyes. “What if Hermione doesn’t like dragons?”

Pepper chirped—loud, offended. Her tail slapped the floor.

Charlie grinned. “She probably won’t. But if she does? We find somewhere else. I love dragons. I do. But I can be flexible too.”

George whooped. “We heard all about your flexibility—”

Charlie raised an eyebrow, which prompted Fred to shamelessly elaborate. Honestly, Charlie should’ve known better.

“Tonks, obviously,” Fred smirked, waggling his eyebrows. “After a few drinks, Anton’s been singing like a canary—though not nearly as loudly as that bloke from the Ukrainian ridgeback team, from what we heard…”

“Shut up,” Charlie laughed, quickly conjuring a pillow and slapping it at his little brother.

They howled. The whisky flowed. Salt snored from under the coffee table. The fire burned down low, and the conversation dissolved into stories and insults and too many drinks.

And now, together with his brothers and his soulmark personified, everything felt almost exactly as it was supposed to be.

Yeah.

He glanced at Salt.

It was almost perfect.

Just missing the woman who made the dragons behave and his soul stop pacing.

Tomorrow, they'd go back. To the mountains. To their tent. To a life loud with wind and fire and her voice in his ear, bossing the world into something better.

But tonight?

Tonight, he sat in a room full of family, sand in his socks, a dragon snoring at his feet, and a mark on his ribs that reminded him—always—that she was real.

And coming home.

Chapter Text

Fleur flicked her wand and conjured a hand-woven Moses basket in mid air—no smoke, no sparks, just that effortless voilà that didn’t even impress Hermione as much as it would probably have impressed McGonagall. She set it on the polished dining table with a decisive thud. As she transferred Dominique from her shoulder to the basket, the baby slipped into a sleep so deep Hermione could have sworn those tiny snores carried a faint French accent.

Victoire had already claimed the rug, legs pretzel folded, eyes glued to the telly. Postman Pat moved across the screen, now functioning as both toddler tranquilliser and unofficial Weasley-Delacour babysitter. Hermione smiled at the sight, and she wasn't the only one.

“I told you,” Ginny said, smug as anything, as she collapsed into the wingback chair with a triumphant huff. “She loves it. Just like Harry. He sits there for hours. Has opinions about something called The IT Crowd now. It’s horrifying.”

Hermione nodded vaguely, mind wondering once more, as she lay curled up on the couch like a dragon that had hoarded all the available blankets, her hands wrapped around a half-drunk mug of tea. The kind that had long since gone lukewarm and slightly tragic. She was trying—really trying—to stay in the moment, to be present. But the warped echoes of Molly’s voice were still rattling around in her head like a cursed radio programme.

You don’t belong here. You’ll ruin him, too. You’re not maternal, you’re not loyal—

Fleur, of course, far too proper to even acknowledge that a telly of all things could take care of her children, ignored all of this and summoned a bottle of wine from the cellar with an absent flick of her wrist.

It flew past a cracked portrait and thumped lightly into her hand. She examined the label, sniffed the cork with great suspicion, and muttered something under her breath that sounded distinctly like “about bloody time.”

“Is that a nice one?” Hermione asked, only half-aware.

Fleur gave her a look that somehow managed to combine fondness, judgement, and just a dash of French superiority. “Sirius Black did not drink ‘bad’ wine, ma chérie. ’E was reckless, emotionally volatile, fond of dramatic exits—but ’is palate? Impeccable.”

Ginny leaned forward, legs tucked beneath her like she was preparing for battle. And just like that, the atmosphere in the room shifted.

“Right. This is it. Fleur, pour it.” Then she turned sharply to Hermione, all sharp-eyed and bossy. “And you—yes, you—are talking. No arguments. Full emotional autopsy, starting now.”

Hermione blinked. “Talking?”

“Talking,” Ginny said again, but this time with that look—the one that meant resistance was futile and probably punishable by bat-bogey hex. “You’ve just survived physical trauma, a Howler, a full-on showdown with my sainted mother, a literal soulbonding, and—somehow—magical adoption by two dragons I still don’t fully understand.” She gave a humourless laugh. “I don’t care. You're going to talk. You're going to process. You are not allowed to go full Hermione Granger and bottle this until it bursts out during some legislative hearing or worse, a dinner party.”

Hermione took a breath. Hadn’t she already processed most of it? She thought so. Or at least, she’d given it a good go. The almost-dying bit was… well, that was going to take a while. Understandably. She still jolted awake some nights, heart racing, skin clammy, convinced she was back in that hut. Tied up. Powerless. Dying by inches.

But then there was Charlie—solid, warm, annoyingly patient. His hands at her hips, his breath at her neck, like a living reminder that she was still here. Salt and Pepper, too—usually tangled in the sheets, snoring like possessed kettles or kicking her in their sleep. They made the bed overcrowded and deeply undignified, but gods, they helped. They anchored her. Pulled her back when her mind started spinning those dark little stories again. Reminded her she wasn’t alone. Not anymore.

No, the part she hadn’t quite filed away yet was quieter. Meaner. It sounded like Molly Weasley and came wrapped in that awful, velvet tone of disappointment.

She looked up, blinked once, and offered flatly, “It was just your mum. Like Christmas. Only with less witnesses.”

Fleur made a noise that somehow conveyed judgement in two languages.

Ginny’s eyebrow arched with professional youngest-sister precision. “Really? just my Mum?”

Hermione shook her head, but it was muscle memory, not conviction.

That was Fleur’s cue to pour the wine—three generous glasses, no pretence—and she handed them out like a she knew exactly what she was doing.

Judging by her calm composure and that wicked gleam in her eye, Hermione mused that she probably did.

Fleur took a long sip, sighed, and said, “Non, ma chérie. Zis was not Christmas. Charlie did not tolerate ’er. ’E did not deflect. ’E stood in front of ’er and said—pardon—allez vous faire foutre. With remarkable clarity.”

Hermione huffed a laugh into her wine.

Fleur pressed on, her voice smooth but edged. “’E broke ze narrative, oui? No more ‘sweet, quiet dragon son who runs instead of fighting back.’ ’E picked you, Hermione. Took a stand. And ’e meant it.”

Ginny let out a delighted little squeal and kicked her legs like she was twelve again. “He did, didn’t he? Oh, I bloody knew he had it in him. Took him years, but he finally snapped. I mean, he’s been eating snide digs about his lifestyle since he was eighteen and still managed to show up every Christmas looking vaguely cheerful and only mildly feral.”

Fleur topped off her own glass. “But now?” she said smoothly. “Now 'e has something worth defending.”

Hermione exhaled slowly, letting the heat of the wine seep into her fingers, her chest, her ribs. “I suppose that’s true.”

Fleur raised her glass. “To a dragon love story.”

Glasses clinked. Hermione drank. And for a moment, just a moment, it felt simple. Felt easy.

Until it didn’t.

“I just—” She hesitated, her words catching in her throat. “I’m glad he did it. I am. I’m so proud of him. But I keep thinking… what if he regrets it? Not now. But someday. When it’s quieter. When it hurts more.”

Ginny didn’t laugh. Didn’t brush it off. She just looked at her, steady and calm and so very, very Weasley.

“He won’t,” she said. “And even if he did—which he won’t—he’s a grown man, Hermione. He knew what it cost. And he still chose you. That wasn’t confusion. That was clarity.”

Hermione looked down at her glass. The wine was ruby-dark and just a little bitter.

Fitting.

“I’ve spent my whole life apologising,” she said, voice lower now. “For being too loud. Too smart. Too much. I’m tired.”

Ginny leaned in, her hand warm on Hermione’s knee.

“Then don’t apologise anymore,” she said. “Just drink the wine. Keep the man. And maybe hex the next person who calls you too much.”

Fleur clinked her glass lightly against Hermione’s and smiled. “Zey will not say it twice,” she said, with a wicked little grin.

Hermione smiled. Not the small, strained kind. A real one.

“Done,” she said.

And for once, she meant it.

They drank the night away—three women, one television, two children, and absolutely no regrets.

The Portkey spat them out in a familiar blast of nausea and overachieving wind. Hermione barely registered the landing before Charlie’s arms wrapped around her—steady, solid, smugly competent—as if he’d expected her to wobble.

Rude.

Also… accurate.

She leaned into his touch as she observed her surroundings.

The air was different here. Wilder. The kind that cleared your lungs and flushed your cheeks, like it didn’t care what you’d been through—it just demanded that you breathe again. Pine needles, snow, dragon musk, and smoke. Her nose twitched. Home.

Salt and Pepper squealed the moment their claws hit the ground, flapping in chaotic, delighted loops. Hermione didn’t need Legilimency to read their mood. WE’RE HOME WE’RE HOME WE’RE HOME practically echoed through the flap of their wings.

They passed through the Reserve’s layered wards, and magic shimmered across her skin like a memory. Fleur’s was elegant, glittering and smug. Bill’s was all steady weight and quiet strength. Hers—a flash of something stubborn, clever, and faintly overcaffeinated—brushed her collarbones like it was pleased she’d finally come back.

Snow crunched beneath her boots, and on impulse, she took off between the trees—three quick steps forward, laughing, lungs full of cold. She spun to face him.

And promptly forgot how to breathe.

Charlie hadn’t moved. He just stood there, watching her with that look—like she was the only thing worth seeing. The midday sun hit his hair, turning it the colour of firelit whiskey. His jacket creaked as he shifted, dragonhide stretching over broad shoulders and flannel. His beard was trimmed to just the right length—dangerously scruffy—and his smirk? Well. Hermione took a breath. That could only be described as pure sin.

He moved in one fluid stride—fast, confident, hungry—and before she could blink, she was off the ground, cradled in his arms, her breath caught somewhere between her ribs and rational thought.

But before Hermione could really process any of it, Charlie had leaned in, lips brushing the corner of her mouth, voice low and rough.

“Welcome back, love.”

Her heart somersaulted.

“Show-off,” she muttered, grinning like a fool.

He just smiled wider.

And if he was holding her a little tighter and took a little longer to put her back on her feet than necessary? She wasn’t about to complain.

They heard the party before they saw it. Or more specifically, they heard Salt shrieking with glee and Pepper crash-landing into what sounded suspiciously like someone’s laundry line.

“Oh gods,” Hermione muttered, brushing windblown hair from her face as they stepped past the final ward. “They’ve gone full feral.”

Charlie grinned beside her. “They’re home.”

The centre of the Reserve had changed. Again. But this time, it was for the better.

The massive crater from the skirmish had disappeared; it was now neatly filled in and even sported baby magical shrubs, a freshly-laid path that was either enchanted gravel or extremely committed gnomes, and a modest army of canvas tents dotted between the trees like colourful mushrooms.

It was oddly peaceful. In the way only a place that had recently exploded could be.

Hermione’s boots crunched on the newly packed path as she squinted at the figures waiting near the central fire pit.

Anton was already running.

She didn’t have time to prepare. One minute she was adjusting her satchel, the next she was airborne—swept up in a whirlwind of flannel, cologne, and muffled babbling that might’ve been “I missed you” or possibly “your dragon bit my boot again.”

“Anton—legs—are a thing—” she wheezed.

He didn’t listen.

“So glad you are back,” Anton murmured instead, his accent thick and his joy so genuine it nearly knocked the sarcasm right out of her.

Nearly.

“You’re going soft,” she said into his shoulder, but didn’t pull away.

Anton just grinned, set her down, and moved to Charlie—who braced for impact like someone preparing for a Quaffle to the gut.

They hugged. And not the awkward, man-pat-on-the-back kind, either. This was full-contact, rib-cracking, you’re-still-alive-you-idiot sort of hugging. Anton said something low and fast in German, and Hermione watched Charlie’s jaw twitch. His hands tightened, then relaxed. And—yes, there it was—just a hint of something suspiciously wet at the corners of his eyes.

She looked away politely, because she was decent like that. Mostly.

But she’d seen it now—that look. The one that said you’re one of mine, carved into the muscle memory of Charlie’s spine, so reflexive he probably didn’t know he was doing it. And Anton? Anton was his person. Not in the way Bill was—Bill was blood and battles and enough shared trauma to justify a family Pensieve—but Anton was the one who’d stayed when the world didn’t. The one who’d given Charlie his first taste of a family that wasn’t made up of red hair and Weasley blood. The one who’d hauled Charlie out of the snow, probably half-burned or half-drunk, or a proper combination or both, and handed him a dragon and a beer in the same breath.

No wonder the hug was trying to break bones. It was doing the work of more than a decade’s worth of words they’d never say out loud.

Katya, naturally, had waited until all the flailing was done. She strode toward them like the bloody tsarina of dragon handlers, chin up, coat immaculate, Salt and Pepper weaving around her boots like they belonged there.

Hermione didn’t even get a word in.

“Glad you home, friend,” Katya said softly.

Hermione blinked, surprised by the warmth in it. The sincerity. Like the word friend not only meant something, but it meant everything—not a pleasantry, but a promise.

And frankly, for Hermione, that was worth more than a thousand hugs.

Hermione tilted her head, a smile tugging at her lips. “Did you rehearse that?”

“Yes,” Katya replied, perfectly deadpan. “Was worried I cry. Look stupid.”

Hermione laughed, but it came out softer than she meant to. “And tarnish your ice-queen image? The horror.”

Katya’s smirk was small but real. “You joke, but is serious problem. Already dragons think I soft.”

“Only because you are,” Hermione said, nudging her shoulder. “Under the terrifying murder stare.”

Katya rolled her eyes. “Your dragons cried when see my boots.”

In the background, Salt let out an indignant yip. Pepper responded by immediately attempting to gnaw on Katya’s boots, tail swishing like a toddler mid-tantrum.

Hermione watched them with a kind of helpless affection. “They seem to disagree.”

Katya didn’t answer right away. Just looked at her for a long moment—really looked—and said, quieter this time, “Is good. You back.”

And that was it. No fuss, no dramatics. But Hermione felt the words settle like a second layer around her skin. Not heavy. Just warm.

She smiled, and this time it reached her eyes. “Yeah,” she said. “It really is.”

Behind her, Anton clapped Charlie on the back, then looked around at the slowly gathering crowd of handlers—some new, some familiar, all grinning like they'd witnessed something mildly sacred.

“Well,” he announced. “You are both on rota tomorrow. Feeding and grooming, as well as pen overhaul. Remember, you break it, you fix it.”

Charlie groaned. “We just got back.”

“Exactly,” Katya said. “Perfect time. You miss many disasters. One horntail escape. Ernie lose boot. He did cry like baby.”

“Again?” Hermione said.

“He’d just replaced last pair,” Katya confirmed with a shrug. “Honestly, it's just his feet at this point.”

Anton grinned. “And them tomorrow, someone needs to do the hatchling assessments. Thomas thought you would like to do that. Since you’re the ‘hatching-turned-soul-bonded experts’ now.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t realise we’d made that our official title.”

“We had badges printed,” Katya said, not blinking.

Hermione blinked for her. “Of course you did.”

She looked over at Charlie, who was watching her with that quiet, crooked smile he reserved for moments like this—moments when the world made sense again. When their lives clicked back into place like puzzle pieces, slightly charred around the edges but whole.

“Well,” she said, exhaling. “Might as start to get our gear in that case.”

Charlie slipped his hand into hers.

“Might as well stay,” he murmured.

And she didn’t say it out loud, but she thought it, deep and certain.

Already have.

The hands around her throat were cold this time.

So very cold.

The air around her wasn’t any better. It wasn’t fiery or fumbling—just deliberate.

A shiver ran down Hermione’s spine, as Rookwood’s face swam into view, calm as a statue. “Let’s see how loud you can scream with no voice and no magic, little hellcat.“

Hermione thrashed. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t—

She jolted awake with a gasp that scraped her throat raw.

Darkness. The ceiling. Her chest heaving.

A weight pinned her legs—warm, scaly, familiar.

Salt. Dream-snoring.

And above her, blue eyes wide with worry. Charlie, knees at her hips, palms hovering near her shoulders like he didn’t want to trap her. His voice was low, steady.

“You’re here. Just a dream. You’re safe.”

She dragged in a breath. Then another. Felt the press of Salt’s tail, the heat of Charlie’s hand as it finally rested over hers, grounding her.

She wasn’t in that hut. Not anymore.

“Sorry,” she croaked.

Charlie shook his head, brows furrowing. “Don’t be.”

He lay down beside her, pulling her close. No questions. Just warmth. Quiet.

As she tucked her head under his chin, listening to his steady heartbeat, her pulse slowed, inch by inch.

Charlie’s hands raked through her hair. Soothing. Kind.

It still happened, almost every night. Sometimes it was Charlie, but most of the time it was Hermione who faced the fears of her past. Either Bellatrix or Rookwood, it didn’t matter. They were there.

But now, being held like this, Hermione knew one thing for certain. It didn’t undo her. Not anymore.

Every time, she found her way back faster.

A smile graced her lips. With them, she always would.

Slowly but surely, they’d slipped back into routine so smoothly it was almost suspicious. Like the chaos had been a fever dream and someone had quietly reset the clock while no one was looking.

Hermione took mornings on the rotation—feeding schedules, wing checks, minor burns (the dragons, not her; mostly). Afternoons were for trials and field notes and politely terrorizing anyone who hadn’t read her policy proposals properly.

As the snow started to melt and the first spring flowers started to bloom she caught two junior handlers loitering by the observation pen. They were clearly stalling, one of them snacking on something small while the other held a clipboard and staring at it like it was either cursed or written in ancient runes.

“Something wrong?” Hermione asked, sweetly. The way one might address a child—or in this case, new and obtuse handlers that still thought they knew better than the woman in front of them.

“Er, we weren’t sure if we were supposed to start the enrichment rotation. The policy said ‘mid-cycle interval B’ and but that sounded wrong if not impossible—”

Hermione plucked the clipboard from his hands.

“Mid-cycle interval B,” she read aloud, “is defined in paragraph seven, sub-section three, of the draft implementation notes, which—if you had even glanced at the schedule—would tell you it means after the second feeding but before the pre-dusk aggression spike. Unless you’d prefer to be inside the pen during the pre-dusk aggression spike, in which case, by all means, stall longer.”

They blanched. One dropped his biscuit.

Wrong answer.

Twenty minutes later, both of them were hauling boulders into the observational maze under the watchful eye of Salt, who had decided that the boulder-placing game was a personal gift from the gods.

Hermione made a note to update the enrichment log and maybe rewrite section three in smaller words. Possibly with diagrams.

Charlie, meanwhile, had taken up his own routines; falling into the role of Thomas’s right-hand man with his usual infuriating competence. He spent his days wrangling handlers, inspecting defensive charms, and muttering darkly about “contingency protocols” like they were sexy. Hermione was genuinely worried he was enjoying the logistics.

Their boss though, had his own agenda.

Thomas—who Hermione was now certain believed subtlety was for cowards—had set up their tents side by side. “To foster their special connection, but so they still had their own space and could move at their own pace”, he had said as some red started to creep up his cheeks.

Charlie’s laugh had rumbled through the desk as he thanked his old friend. Hermione had just beamed brightly.

Two places had sound practical.

However, it hadn’t mattered. Hermione had started sleeping permanently in Charlie’s tent since the third night. It was warmer. Cozier. And, frankly, she’d already claimed the left pillow and the good blanket.

And every Friday afternoon they spend the same way. Their weekly check-ins with Dennis, who was now the Reserve’s Healer, unofficial therapist, wellness consultant, and Emotional Support Hufflepuff.

“Just in case,” he’d said brightly as he locked in their appointments until the end of the year, clipboard tightly in hand. “Trauma can be sneaky. So we need to keep paying attention.”

Hermione had nodded, then immediately changed the subject. Charlie had offered Dennis a biscuit and accidentally trauma-dumped for forty minutes. Yeah. It had been a fun afternoon.

Evenings were communal. Now the snow was slowly melting, they’d eat by the firepit with Anton, Katya, and whichever baby dragon decided to crash dinner. Salt had taken to stealing sausages. Pepper preferred people’s shoes.

Anton and Katya had clearly gotten... closer. Closer in the way that no one really had seen coming, but also wasn’t unexpected after years of unsubtle flirting and then facing an ancient being together. Still no declarations were made, no drama was seen, just quiet conversations and the occasional vanishing act after dessert.

Katya refused to comment. Anton blushed every time someone so much as said the word tent.

Dennis, however, had no such shame. One night he’d casually dropped—over stew—that he was in “frequent owl correspondence” with Padma Patil.

The table had gone silent.

Then Anton had dropped his fork, Katya had snorted beer out her nose, and Charlie had clapped Dennis on the back so hard he nearly lost a lung.

Hermione, to her credit, merely raised a brow and sipped her tea. “Define ‘frequent’.”

Dennis had turned the colour of his beets.

Everything, in short, was back to normal. Well. Their version of it.

Dragons. Research. Gossip. Moderate emotional repression.

All the essentials, really.

Salt growled.

Not the “I’m mildly offended you didn’t share your toast” growl, or even the “someone’s had the audacity to breathe near my sunspot” growl.

No—this was the serious one. Low. Subterranean. It made the quill in Hermione’s hand stop mid-word. Made her magic hum at the base of her spine like it was checking the exits.

Behind her desk, Salt shifted his weight. Scales scraped fabric. One frill twitched ominously.

Hermione didn’t bother asking what was wrong.

Because then came the shouting.

It started faint—distant and echoing—but grew quickly. Sharp voices. Scrambling footsteps. A few colourful swear words in at least three languages.

By the time she made it outside, joggers flapping and wand already in hand, the chaos had fully bloomed.

A crowd had formed by Pen Six, gathered just far enough back to avoid becoming toast. Inside, one of the Ironbellies—an enormous female named Varsha—was going full inferno. Smoke poured from her nostrils in fits and starts, her injured wing dragging like a battle flag. Every few seconds she let out a roar that rattled Hermione’s ribs.

Lovely.

Salt took off, getting away from it all, circling high in the air.

Anton stood nearest to the barrier, scowling like the fire personally offended him.

“She’s trying to bust out,” he muttered, squinting at the dragon, as his wand moved in the air. “Going to tear her wing to ribbons. Idiot girl.”

Hermione looked at him, chest still heaving slightly from her sprint. “So, who is helping?”

Anton turned, quickly shooting her a death stare while pursing his lips. “Honestly, Hermione. What do you think I am doing?”

“Not enough.”

Anton scoffed. “Yeah. Thanks for that. Feel free to help immobilize her. She is strong as hell, and evidently, my efforts aren’t cutting it.”

She pulled her wand out, starting the casting and ready to snap back. But, before Hermione could reply—probably with something scathing and multi-syllabic—Charlie stepped forward.

No announcement. No flair. No wand-drawn heroics.

Just him. Stepping into the sodding pen.

And gods help her, it was unfair how hot that was.

Hermione’s mouth went dry. Possibly permanently.

Anton coughed. “Help, Hermione.”

Hermione nodded, her wrist catching the movements once more.

In front of them, Charlie walked into the pen like he’d done it a thousand times—because he had—and every step was a masterclass in unbothered competence. No fear. No drama. Just steady boots, calm breath, and the bone-deep knowledge of someone who knew exactly what he was doing.

Hermione wanted to marry him on the spot. Possibly twice.

Varsha reared up as he approached, flames building in her throat.

Charlie didn’t flinch.

“Hey, girl,” he said, voice low, steady, intimate. “Easy now. You’re alright. We’ve got you.”

The dragon stilled. Just slightly.

“I know,” he murmured, edging closer. “I know it hurts. You’ve been out too long, yeah? Too much noise. Too many new smells. But you’re safe now.”

Varsha gave a slow blink. Then let out a breath of heat and ash that ruffled Charlie’s curls.

He just smiled at her.

Yeah. Smiled.

“Of course she’s listening,” Hermione muttered, half to herself. “I’d hand him my pension and all my darkest secrets if he looked at me like that.”

Anton gave her a sidelong glance. “You’ve already done both.”

“Shut up,” she said, not even bothering to blush at the truth of that statement. “I’m having a moment.”

And she was. Because it wasn’t just that he was good. He was brilliant. He wasn’t taming the dragon—he was meeting her in the fire and asking her to breathe with him.

He crouched, examined her wing without pressure or panic, muttered soft promises about healing balm and fresh meat. His hand moved gently across a cracked scale, and the Ironbelly rumbled, low and pleased.

Hermione could’ve sobbed.

Or kissed him.

Or written a thousand-page thesis on how unfair it was that he looked like that and was emotionally fluent with apex predators.

Anton crossed his arms, ending the enchantments. “Told you,” he said casually.

Katya, who’d shown up in the meantime and stood beside them, nodded. “Da. He is hot. Could be you, Tonya. If you would do your job.”

Hermione smiled, although she didn’t answer. Mostly because her brain had short-circuited and was now looping.

I want to climb him like a ladder.

I want to rewrite the Reserve bylaws to include kissing him in public.

But most of all, one thought reigned.

I want to stay.

Because that was it, wasn’t it?

She’d come back thinking she might still be a little broken. A little out of place. A little too much, even now, every now and then she felt like that.

But then there was this man—barely singed, flannel-clad, dragon-whispering demigod—reminding her that belonging wasn’t a place.

It was a person.

He turned then, catching her eyes through the smoke and ash and half the ruined fence.

He smiled.

And Hermione’s heart did something wildly inconvenient, like write his name across her insides in cursive.

She exhaled, hand still curled around her wand, chest still tight with the weight of whatever this was.

Anton grunted beside her. “Well, he’s fixed it.”

“Of course he has.” Hermione replied.

Katya scoffed, while she moved to fetch the balm and calling over the two junior handlers who looked like they’d just witnessed a religious miracle.

Hermione was pretty sure they just had. Charlie was a deity she would worship with pleasure.

Charlie met her halfway, hands soot-smudged, shirt scorched at one shoulder, eyes lit with adrenaline and a kind of ridiculous affection.

“Hey,” he said, like it wasn’t obvious he’d just seduced a dragon and her in the same breath.

“You’re a menace,” she informed him.

“Accurate,” he agreed.

And when he leaned in to kiss her temple, warm and quick and hers, Hermione thought:

This. Forever.

Not just the dragons.

Not just the work.

Him. This life. This madness. This tent with Salt and Pepper in the living room and a clipboard war in the kitchen.

She wasn’t staying for the Reserve. Not really.

She loved it, yes.

She loved her dragons, too.

And most of all, she loved Charlie.

But that wasn’t it, not all.

She was staying because she couldn’t imagine a single version of her life that didn’t include Charlie Weasley in his element; dragon handler, smirking bastard, and the absolute love of her life.

She smiled up at him, wide and a little wicked. “Don’t get cocky.”

He smirked back. “You love it when I do.”

And, unfortunately, he was right.

The food smelled incredible. Which, all things considered, felt about right for a warm summer Sunday at the Reserve, where everyone had arrived by Portkey thanks to Gringotts’ and Fahrrod’s everlasting good will when it came to sharing his fancy hippogriff feather.

Hermione had helped. Mostly by chopping things. And stirring things. And not burning things, which she considered a personal victory. Charlie, of course, had cooked like it was a professional challenge—sleeves rolled, hair tied up, wand tucked behind his ear like some rustic Romanian kitchen god.

There were roasted vegetables perfectly blistered, garlic bread so good it probably counted as a spiritual awakening, and at least three local Romanian stews—each better than the last. The paprika one had a smoky kick. The herb one tasted like a meadow in spring. The third may have once been classified as a Class C magical creature, but nobody was asking.

At least, kind of.

“Is this the one with the paprika or the one that tried to bite you?” George asked, peering into a pot with theatrical caution.

“Both,” Charlie said cheerfully, handing him a bowl as an inked horntail curled around his forearm. “Eat it before it eats you.”

Salt and Pepper, blissfully in charge of the fire pit, were having the time of their lives. Pepper periodically singed the kindling out of what Hermione was convinced was pure joy, while Salt used his claws to nudge the logs into perfect alignment, like a fire-obsessed forest spirit with control issues.

Sometimes, Hermione wondered if—now that Salt was inked on her shoulder—he’d started picking up more of her habits than Charlie’s. At the moment, that theory felt suspiciously accurate.

She quickly got pulled from her thought, however. Because, all around her the laughter and chatting of their friends roared and set their tiny part of reserve alive.

Everyone had turned up—except Angelina and Katie, who had sent their regrets via one aggressively glittery gift basket and a note that had taken over the topic of conversation for the next ten minutes.

We're sorry, darlings—we'd come, but there's a very sexy potion convention we can't miss. Enjoy the sausages.

Needless to say, the twins delivered it like proud couriers and refused to elaborate any further.

It had been hilarious.

Ron had also declined. Apparently, he’d started—very slowly—dating Lavender again. He and Hermione had exchanged letters, and he’d even apologised for the whole Christmas debacle, but they’d both agreed it was probably better to keep their distance. Somehow, Molly still managed to count that as a win.

But it didn’t matter. Because everyone that mattered was here.

The camp was full of voices, boots, and clinking bottles. Thomas had hung a string of fairy lights, insisting they were for “atmosphere” and to “bring some bloody joy back,” which everyone knew was code for “let’s all please get over the minor trauma of last year.” Whereas Katya had spelled them for defence purposes, now they blinked when someone swore.

Fred had knocked out six. George was catching up fast.

Audrey and Percy were huddled near the table with Bill and Fleur, quietly plotting world domination or possibly just Ministry reform—same difference, really. Fleur looked utterly elegant, even perched on a tree stump. Audrey had brought beautifully self-illustrated diagrams as she waved her arms around to illustrate her point. Percy was stress-sipping wine and muttering about deadlines. Bill looked mildly terrified at all the bureaucracy and more than a little in love with his wife.

Padma and Dennis were curled up by the fire, limbs tangled, whispering in that new-couple way that made it simultaneously adorable and unbearable. Hermione watched them with fond judgment. Mostly fond.

Charlie dropped down beside her on the log, wiping his hands on a tea towel and stealing the glass of sparkling wine she’d just poured.

“Oi,” she said, elbowing him lightly. “I slaved over that cork.”

“You mean you stared at it until Fleur took pity on you.”

“I was thinking about opening it. That counts.”

“Does not,” said Katya, who’d appeared with three more glasses and zero sympathy.

“You looked like you were trying to Legilimens it open.”

Ginny, who had found a kindred spirit in the blond dragon handler, picked a glass out of her hand and raised it as she muttered a quiet “Alcoho Exitus,” and took a sip of what was now very clearly just sparkling water. Yet Hermione didn’t clock the spell—too distracted by the toast.

“To Hermione. May she never attempt to cook or uncork unsupervised.”

“To Hermione,” Katya echoed.

Hermione sniffed. “Rude. I chopped things.”

“Yes,” said Charlie fondly, “and only some of them were fingers.”

Hermione rolled her eyes but leaned into his side anyway, warm and slightly wine-soft. The night hummed with the kind of noise that made her chest ache in the best way—laughter, dragon huffs, the low thud of a broom hitting the ground.

Fred and George had coaxed Harry and Anton into a casual post-dinner Quidditch match. It had quickly devolved into what could only be described as a semi-regulated broom brawl. Charlie had joined in with the kind of aggressive glee that meant at least one person was definitely going to sprain something.

“Are they... keeping score?” Hermione asked, watching Anton twist midair with frankly illegal grace.

“No,” said Katya, sipping something clear and probably dangerous. “But Anton is definitely counting fouls. He’ll make detailed overview later.”

Hermione snorted. That sounded exactly like Anton.

They watched the men for a while, as they sipped their drinks.

Then, out of nowhere, Ginny stood up.

No warning. No preamble. Just calmly set down her glass, made her way to a tree stump, cleared her throat, put her wand on her neck and in her best impression of McGonagall announcing a surprise exam, declared, “Right. I’m pregnant.”

Silence.

Complete silence for the next millisecond.

Then, from the air. Crash.

Fred let out a high-pitched shriek. George yelled “WHAT—I MEAN, CONGRATULATIONS!” so loudly a fairy light exploded. Percy made a choking noise into his wine. Audrey gasped and immediately smiled brightly at Percy, as if it had given her ideas.

Harry—who had, evidently, been excluded from this very critical piece of information—dropped five feet off his broom and landed in a heap of limbs and disbelief.

“You’re—you’re serious?” he croaked, blinking mud from his lashes.

Ginny beamed at him. “Very.”

And that was it. The axis of the evening shifted, tilted, then resettled.

Bill stood and hugged Ginny like she was made of glass and fire. Charlie was next, enveloping both Harry and Ginny in a bear hug that could rival Hagrid’s. Percy secretly tried to cry into his wine. Audrey smiled so widely her face might have cracked. Padma gasped and immediately dragged Dennis into a whispered conversation about baby name charts. Katya toasted the sky.

Hermione just stared, chest warm, heart full.

Because, of course it was Ginny. Of course it was them.

The family—this beautiful, chaotic, stitched-together mess of love and dragons and second chances—was growing.

Charlie reappeared at her side, muddy and glowing. He pulled her in with one arm, still smelling like smoke and garlic and home.

“You alright?” he asked softly.

She nodded. “Yeah. Just—thinking.”

“Dangerous. Don’t hurt yourself.”

She elbowed him with a smile. “I love you, too, you know.”

He grinned. “I know.”

She rolled her eyes. “You are the worst.”

He kissed her temple. Softly. Perfectly. “And yet.”

And yet.

The fire crackled. The stars blinked overhead. Dragons flapped their wings. The world, for once, felt still.

And as Fred began loudly proposing baby names (“Dobby!” “Trevor!” “Frederika Georgina!”), Hermione closed her eyes and let it settle.

Everything was ridiculous. Loud. A little burnt.

But gods, it was good.

And it was hers.

The wind had died down to a whisper, curling against the canvas like a sleepy thing. Inside the tent, it was warm—patchwork warm. A little too much heat near the hearth charm, a draft near the zipper, and everywhere the smell of pine, parchment, and the faintest scent of singed socks.

Salt was sprawled across the rug like a heat source with delusions of grandeur. Pepper had claimed the laundry basket and was currently snoring into one of Charlie’s shirts with theatrical flair. Their tails twitched occasionally in tandem.

Hermione sat cross-legged on the bed, brushing a tangle out of her hair with one hand and marking up rota notes with the other. She’d tried doing them the Wizarding way—quill and parchment—but had ended up stabbing herself twice. Now it was a fountain pen and a half-chewed clipboard and the kind of handwriting that suggested the dragons might be helping.

Charlie padded in from the wash basin, damp curls curling at his temples, barefoot and half-buttoned.

“Should’ve warned you,” he said, towelling off his face. “There is a cell coming from the north. The water basin might be freezing tonight, although that should only happen in a month or so.”

Hermione didn’t look up. “I figured that out when I tried to take a shower and ended up in Siberia.”

He chuckled, tossed the towel into the corner with the sort of aim that suggested he’d meant to miss, and flopped down beside her with a groan that came from somewhere below the spine.

She passed him the clipboard without looking.

“I fixed the rota. Again. Thomas forgot that Tuesday exists.”

Charlie took it, squinting at her notes. “Why does Tuesday have a question mark?”

“Because if he forgets it one more time, I’m hexing it out of the calendar.”

“Fair.”

They sat like that for a while—companionable silence, interrupted only by Salt’s sleep-snorting and the occasional creak of canvas. Charlie leaned back on his elbows, watching her in that annoyingly quiet way he had. Like she was a secret he already knew the answer to, but liked reading over again anyway.

“You’re staring,” she said without looking up.

He hummed.

Hermione smiled.

“Sometimes.” He scratched at his jaw, voice lower now. “You looked happy today.”

Hermione blinked. “I was.”

“Not Ministry-happy. Not ‘I solved the little-green-horn-migration’ happy. Just…you. Here. With us.”

She turned to look at him. “I was,” she said again, softer this time. “It’s strange.”

“What is?”

“That it doesn’t feel like settling.”

Charlie reached out, brushed his fingers lightly over her knee. “Because it isn’t.”

Hermione leaned into him then, slowly, carefully, like letting her weight tip forward meant something. And it did. She folded into his side, head against his shoulder, the air between them filled with nothing but breath and warmth and the low hum of dragons dreaming.

Charlie spoke first.

“I love you.”

Hermione exhaled against his collarbone.

“I love you too,” she murmured.

She felt his arms tighten around her, one hand pressing gently to the small of her back like he was afraid she might vanish.

“Good,” he whispered. “Just stay.”

“Always,” she said. And meant it.

Outside, the wind shifted. Salt snored louder. Pepper rolled over and fell out of the laundry basket with a thud and a startled squeak.

Hermione didn’t laugh. Not out loud.

But she smiled.

And stayed.

The Minister’s office smelled like old wood polish, overworked parchment, and the lingering ghost of something floral—probably a charm gone rogue from the Department of Magical Maintenance. Hermione sat stiff-backed in one of the two chairs across from the oversized desk. Her notes were stacked precisely. Her hair was charmed mostly into place. Her blouse had buttons, and the only piece of dragon leather she was wearing were her shoes. She was, for all intents and purposes, the picture of a professional witch.

And she couldn’t wait to get the hell out.

Kingsley Shacklebolt was flipping through her final field report with the air of a man who’d skimmed twelve others before breakfast. His eyebrows ticked upward at paragraph five—probably the bit where she’d included a cross-breeding map of Ukrainian Ironbellies and the long-forgotten Balaur subspecies, complete with colour-coded aggression levels.

“You’ve been busy,” he said mildly.

“Well,” Hermione said, folding her hands primly, “I lost some time in the middle being nearly assassinated. I figured I might as well make the rest of it productive.”

Kingsley gave a faint smile. It was the bureaucratic version of a belly laugh.

“We’ve had word from the Romanian Minister. They’re very pleased with your work. Even mentioned setting up joint magical creature initiatives.” He glanced up. “Assuming you're staying involved?”

She didn’t blink. “I'm not.”