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Chapter Text

The door slammed so hard the frames rattled. It was a wonder the glass did not shatter. The frame, though, seemed used to this kind of abuse, and it stayed still, unwilling to anger him further.

She did not flinch. She was in the kitchen, arranging potion vials with the same careful attention she had once reserved for friendships. The snap of stoppers, the shimmer of preserved lavender root—these were her constants now. She knew Ron hated them. Hated that they gave her silence, focus, escape.

“All your bloody potions. Think you are smarter than the rest of us?”

She did not answer.

“You act like some clever little queen,” he said, stepping into the light. “All high and mighty. Bet you think you are untouchable, do not you?”

She looked at him, not with defiance, just quiet exhaustion.

“I just want some peace, Ron.”

That was the wrong sentence.

He moved faster than she had ever seen him move drunk. A flash of arm, a sound like skin on bone.

Pain exploded across her cheek. Her head snapped sideways, her wand clattered to the floor. The counter caught her hip as she stumbled, vials rattling violently and rolling onto the tiles.

Her ears rang. Her breath froze. The kitchen light flickered once, magically triggered by the shock in the air, then held.

He stood over her, blinking, preparing for another strike.

Instead, he grinned. Then he stamped his foot hard into her stomach. “You are not worth my energy tonight. Your lesson will wait until tomorrow.”

And then he turned. Muttered something half-formed and staggered to the sofa. Dropped like a broken puppet. His bottle tipped but did not spill.

Hermione stayed on the floor.

Her fingers pressed against the burn blossoming on her cheek. There would be swelling. Maybe bruising by morning. Her ribs ached.

But the wounds were not just physical.

Over the years she had endured his words, his manipulations, his violence. The war had taught her how to be loyal, how to give people room to heal, how to fight for what mattered.

She no longer let herself cry over him. She would not give him that power.

As she lay there in pain, a seeming constant state for her, something snapped.

A decision formed in her mind. Slowly, grimacing, she stood.

Her hand found the wand on the floor. She did not cast anything. She did not clean the mess. Instead, she walked to the bedroom with a terrifying calm.

She packed like someone disappearing. Not fleeing in panic, but leaving with intent.

The beaded bag opened at her touch. Inside, she placed three potion journals, two healing tinctures, her old Muggle photo album, Luna’s shawl, a bag of runes she had started carving during long nights alone, her wand, and her courage.

No clothes.

No jewelry.

No trace of shared memory.

She stepped back into the living room one last time. Ron had not moved. His mouth hung open, a half-snore choking his breath.

She looked around. The walls, the bookshelf with half-destroyed bindings, the chair where she had read every paper during the last year waiting for quiet that never came. The traces of the life she had tried to live.

Then she left. Disapparating into the night with nothing but magic and resolve stitched into her bones.

She landed in front of a familiar building.

Luna’s cottage stood quiet under the moonlight, ivy curling across the front. Her cloak was soaked and heavy with the stench of rain. The glamour on her face shimmered faintly, but even she knew it was cracking at the edges. Her grip on her wand was steady, not defensive, not poised for casting. Just clenched, like muscle memory from too many nights bracing for impact.

She did not have to knock.

Luna stood silhouetted in the soft golden glow of her hallway, a shawl with tangled embroidery wrapped loosely around her shoulders. Her gaze was gentle, but today it held weight. Not accusation. Not fear. Just truth.

“You are late,” Luna said simply. “But not too late.”

Hermione blinked. Her throat tried to form a word but failed. She stepped inside, and the door closed with a muted click behind her. The warmth was immediate. The fire was lit and the kettle whistled faintly in the distance.

She hovered near the worn rug, unable to put down her bag. Luna did not try to take it. She walked past with the serene drift of someone moving through memory, not rooms.

“You left,” Luna said.

Hermione flinched. She had not expected it spoken aloud.

“I did not mean to,” she whispered.

“Of course you did. Just not until now.”

Luna’s voice was not dreamy tonight. There was still that soft melody in it, but beneath it lingered something firmer. Hermione realized it was not just kindness. It was resolve.

The glamour shimmered again, a pulse of magical strain behind her ear. She winced.

“I tried to keep it hidden,” Hermione said, voice catching. “The bruises, the silence. I did not want anyone to know.”

Luna poured tea into mismatched ceramic cups and placed one on the coffee table without ceremony. Then she turned, met Hermione’s eyes, and said calmly, “I knew.”

Hermione swallowed hard. Her hand trembled around the strap of her bag.

“I suspected,” Luna continued. “Not right away. But you stopped wearing short sleeves. You stopped laughing unless it was rehearsed. You pulled away. You disappeared.”

“I did not want pity,” Hermione said.

“You did not need pity,” Luna replied. “You needed space to remember who you were when no one touched your arm without asking first. You would not have listened if I asked you. You could not afford to push everyone away.”

Hermione’s breath broke then. Not into sobs. Just something raw and real, a sound like rain against glass.

“I kept it hidden for so long,” she said. “Even from myself.”

Luna stepped forward and touched her hand. The gesture was gentle, not tentative.

“You do not have to explain. You are here now.”

Hermione set her bag down, finally settling further into her seat. The tea went cold on the table.

She did not speak. She just stared at the flames dancing in the grate.

Luna wrapped a second shawl around her shoulders. It was thicker, lined with protective stitching in runes Hermione recognized from ancient Druidic texts. The kind that guarded dreams.

Hermione sat curled on the edge of the sofa, wrapped tightly in the shawl, knees drawn up as if she could fold herself away. Her face was half-hidden in the patterned wool, but the glamour she had clung to since leaving the flat continued to fray. Beneath it, swelling had turned the line of her jaw uneven, and the bloom of bruises beneath her temple painted a truth she had not wanted anyone to see.

Luna did not comment. She did not glance too long or reach for her wand. She stayed nearby, quietly winding silvery thread around her fingers in slow loops, her posture open but grounded. The crackle of fire was the only companion to their silence. The hearth glowed steadily, casting warm light against the walls, while protective enchantments shimmered faintly across the windowpanes.

“I did not want anyone else,” Hermione said eventually. Her voice was raw, more breath than sound. “They would ask. Try to solve it. Ginny would tell me it is not that bad. Harry would look disappointed or confused or like I had broken something important.”

Luna nodded gently, unoffended by the names not mentioned. “And I would listen.”

Hermione swallowed hard. Her gaze flicked to the worn threads in the cushion beneath her fingertips. “You always listened. Even when I said nothing.”

“I have made a study of silence,” Luna said softly. “It tells you things when no one else does.”

Hermione’s throat tightened. She closed her eyes for a moment and let her head rest against the back of the sofa. “I glamoured everything. Every bruise, every cracked rib. I said I was working. Researching. I stopped going to dinners, missed birthdays. I told myself surviving was enough.”

Luna’s hands stilled. “It was enough. It still is. You do not owe recovery to anyone’s timeline but your own.”

Hermione did not reply, but something in her shoulders loosened. A fraction.

Luna stood, her movements graceful and purposeful. “Tonight is for tea, silence, and sleep. Nothing more.”

Hermione watched her walk down the hallway and hesitated before rising. Her bag felt heavier than it had before, filled not just with books and potion vials, but fragments of trust and memory she had never had time to sort through. She followed Luna slowly.

The guest room was soft with low candlelight and smelled faintly of crushed lavender. A simple quilt lay folded at the end of the bed, hand-stitched with constellations that shimmered faintly under magical thread. A small table held a corked vial of dreamless sleep beside a single cracked teacup that looked like it had not been used in years.

Hermione stepped inside, the door creaking gently behind her.

“There is a lock on the door,” Luna said from the threshold. “It is not magical. Just brass. But it holds. And no one enters unless you open it.”

Hermione stared at the polished doorknob, then turned slowly. “You prepared this.”

“I did,” Luna said. Her eyes were clear, pale blue with the weight of unspoken knowing. “It felt like someone might need it tonight.”

Hermione wanted to argue, to deflect, to pretend it was coincidence. But the exhaustion had stripped away her reflexes. She could only nod.

“I do not know what to do now,” she admitted.

“You sleep,” Luna said. “And tomorrow you decide. There is no map. Just breath and space. You have both now.”

Hermione touched the lock lightly, then stepped into the room and closed the door behind her. The soft click of metal echoed through the hallway, and outside, Luna lingered for a moment with her palm against the wood.

She did not cast charms or whisper incantations. Her magic had already done enough.

Inside, Hermione stood motionless in the stillness. Her breathing was uneven. Her ribs hurt with each inhale.

The morning crept in slowly, slipping pale light between the curtains and casting drowsy patterns on the rug. Hermione had not slept, not really. The bed had been soft, the lock had clicked quietly behind her, the quilt stitched with constellations had offered warmth, but her mind refused to rest. Thoughts collided behind her eyes, sharp and frantic, carving anxious paths through every possibility, every threat, every memory.

She sat curled in the armchair near the window, Luna’s shawl still wrapped around her shoulders like armor made of dreams. The fire whispered beside her, its glow steady but muted. Her tea had gone cold hours ago, untouched in the chipped cup Luna had placed gently beside her.

“What if he finds me?” Hermione murmured, barely louder than the hum of the flames. “He is good at tracking spells. Knows all the loopholes. He will look. He always finds a way.”

Luna looked up from the delicate stitches she was threading into a small, sky-colored cloth. Her posture was calm, almost airy, but her voice held a quiet certainty.

“Then you will go somewhere he cannot follow.”

Hermione blinked, her fingers tightening on the edge of the shawl. “Where would that be?”

“My father had cabins,” Luna said, lifting the cloth and inspecting a constellation she had embroidered in silver. “Scattered across the world. He used them when researching cryptid migrations or studying magical weather. There is one in Ireland, tucked between two mossy hills where time barely moves. One near the mountains in Romania, not far from where dragons circle. One in Peru, just below the cloud forest. And one in Washington State. It rests beneath a veil of fog and fern.”

Hermione sat up, alert. “America.”

Luna nodded. “It is quiet. Remote. The cabin has natural warding from ley lines that intersect near the coast. Magic moves differently there. It hums instead of crackles. It will not scream your name like Britain does.”

“Ireland is too close,” Hermione said, thinking aloud. Her voice sharpened with focus. “Too easy to reach. Ron could ask around. Romania is out of the question. Peru, I do not speak Spanish. I would feel lost.”

“Language matters when you are trying to rebuild,” Luna agreed.

“America makes sense,” Hermione said slowly. “It is far enough. English speaking. Isolated.”

Luna smiled then, serene and strange, the way only she could. “That cabin is not large, but it is strong. My father called it the Hemlock Sanctuary. There is a glasshouse for herbs, a quiet stream that winds through the woods, and the trees are tall enough to let you forget what chased you.”

Hermione’s eyes flicked toward the hearth. Her lips parted, but no words came. The weight on her chest, tight and relentless since yesterday, seemed to ease slightly.

“I think I could be someone else there,” she whispered. “Someone not waiting for footsteps behind her.”

“You will not be someone else,” Luna said softly, reaching for a small velvet pouch resting on the windowsill. “You will be the part of yourself you never had space to become here. You have never had a chance to find yourself. Constantly looking after Harry or Ron.”

She placed the pouch in Hermione’s hands. It was heavy with the scent of cedar, stitched with protective runes along the seams, and inside lay the keys to the sanctuary and the wards.

Hermione’s fingers closed around it. Her shoulders curled forward like a leaf in rain, and she let herself breathe.

“Are you sure?” she asked.

“I saw it last night,” Luna said with a gentle tilt of the head. “In the stars. They were shifting. I think they were making room for you.”

Hermione did not reply. Not yet.

But when she finally looked up, her eyes glimmered with something almost new.

Maybe America will not solve it all. Maybe healing will be slow, imperfect, jagged.

Chapter Text

The morning mist clung to the trees like memory, thick with damp silence and the scent of pine and moss. The forest had its own rhythm here, steady and old, one that the wolves had learned to live in even when the world had tried to burn that rhythm to the ground.

Seth Clearwater leaned against the porch railing of the pack cabin, a mug warm in his hand though he barely tasted it. His bare feet touched the wood as if listening through it. Somewhere deep in the forest, a branch snapped, sharp against the quiet, and two birds startled upward into flight. He did not flinch. Sound belonged here.

Inside, Leah moved through the kitchen with an ease that had not come naturally, even after all these years. She moved with precision, her boots soft against the worn floorboards. She muttered something about Quil using her towel again and cracked an egg into the pan, letting it sizzle without comment.

Jacob had gone early, his scent fading into the deeper woods. He preferred the southern ridge in the mornings, where he said the air felt like clarity. No one questioned him. That solitude was understood, especially with Bella spending so much time around the Cullens.

There was peace in the pack at the moment. Not silence, there was never true silence with wolves, but peace. The cabin had grown, walls lined with maps, charms from local elders, hunting schedules written neatly in rows. No one feared anymore. They watched, they listened, but they no longer braced.

Patrols were routine. The air near La Push carried old magic, wild and ancient, tangled with Quileute blood, but it had learned to coexist with the wolves. Now the forest lived around them, not against them.

Seth finished his tea and set the mug down gently.

That is when he felt it.

A shift. Subtle. Like the weight of the air had tilted. It was not threatening exactly, but it did not belong.

Leah’s eyes flicked toward him. She had not heard anything, but something made her stop moving. She looked out the window, gaze narrowing.

“Feel that?” Seth asked.

Leah said nothing for a moment. Then, quietly, “Something stirred.”

The fog began to lift, thinning into pale ribbons between the tree trunks as Seth headed toward the truck parked at the edge of the clearing. The sky overhead was a dull slate, typical of the post-rain quiet Forks wore like a second skin. He liked mornings like this. Quiet enough to think, heavy enough to feel like something could happen.

Embry was already in the driver’s seat, window rolled halfway down, elbow resting casually as if he had been waiting since sunrise. He probably had. Embry had no concept of time when it came to work, coffee, or wolves. Seth climbed in without a word and gave a nod that Embry returned with half a grin.

“They are dropping the new kestrel in today,” Embry said, starting the engine. “Broken wing. Someone found it curled behind the market with a carton lid over its head.”

Seth raised his brows. “That is new.”

“Charlie said it might have been a kid trying to help. Left a note too. ‘Sorry I scared you, little guy.’” He snorted. “Guess Forks still has its golden hearts.”

The wildlife reserve was not large, but it was stitched into the land like it belonged there, fences discreet, enclosures built from reclaimed wood and quietly warded with runes from tribal elders.

They passed the split road near the gas station, where once Embry had caught a raccoon riding shotgun in someone’s pickup. He had talked about it for weeks. Today, the streets were empty. The pack’s patrols were already done. The forest was sleeping again.

Seth rubbed the heel of his hand against the back of his neck, eyes flicking toward the cloud-faded hills.

Things had settled lately. He and Leah still lived in the same house they had grown up in, creaky floorboards and all. Leah cooked late at night. Seth repaired old pack gear in the shed. Sometimes they did not talk for hours, and sometimes they laughed so hard the neighbors called to check on them.

He did not mind. Did not mind this drive, this rhythm, this work that required hands and heart but not blood.

Still, something felt unsettled in his chest today. A hum beneath the calm. Like the forest knew more than it was saying.

He let it sit there, quiet and unspoken.

By the time they pulled into the reserve’s back lot, the sun had crept just high enough to catch the roof in soft gold. Embry hopped out first, already calling greetings to the staff unloading supplies. Seth followed, rolling his shoulders once and breathing in the scent of cedar and wet stone.

Seth swung the truck door closed and walked toward the rehab center, boots leaving faint prints in the gravel. It was not a big facility, just three enclosures out back, two indoor rooms for wounded birds and foxes, and a shed cluttered with supplies and half-repaired fencing, but it had heart. He liked that about it. The building did not pretend to be more than it was. Neither did the animals.

Embry was already inside, kneeling beside a badger with a stitched flank, murmuring soft encouragements while adjusting the bandage. Seth grinned and grabbed a bowl of feed from the counter, setting it down with practiced ease.

Some days were harder. Animals did not always make it. But most mornings, like this one, were quiet, clean. A sick squirrel, an owl with a clipped wing. The kind of work that did not make headlines but settled something deep in his bones. He knew he was helping even if it was not loud.

They spent the first hour checking the new arrivals, a raccoon with a limp, a pair of orphaned possums curled together like bundled socks, and the kestrel Embry had mentioned earlier. Seth took time with that one. The bird hissed when he reached for it, but he did not flinch. He just waited, let it watch him, and moved slowly.

“You are good at that,” Embry said from across the room.

Seth shrugged. “They do not need force. Just space.”

It was the same thing he had always believed about people, though fewer gave him credit for it. He was still the youngest wolf, the nice guy, the one who laughed first and barked last. But here, no one asked him to be fierce. He just showed up every day and made things a little better.

After lunch, he walked the perimeter to check the outer fencing. The wire was holding, but a few charms tied in twine had unraveled, blessings from the tribal elders meant to keep the land balanced. Seth re-fastened them out of habit, though he did not know the meanings. He just liked the way they felt, rooted and patient.

Chapter Text

The letter was short. Hermione did not have the strength left for ceremony.

She sat at Luna’s narrow writing desk, tucked beside a crooked window etched with softly glowing warding charms, and breathed in the scent of ink and wildflowers. Wand-light hovered above the parchment like a lullaby, casting soft gold across her shaking hands.

Her handwriting, usually precise and elegant, trembled with restraint. The words themselves were few.

To: Head of Magical Research Division

Subject: Immediate Resignation

I am formally resigning from my position, effective immediately.
This decision has not been made lightly, but it is necessary.
Please consider this my final correspondence.

—Hermione Jean Granger

She stared at the closing line longer than necessary. The name she had signed on countless academic papers, Ministry reports, project grants, felt distant now. Not false, but worn. Like a version of herself that had stopped growing.

She folded the parchment with care, sealed it with wax, and pressed her personal rune into the surface, a spiral within a sunburst, a symbol of clarity and regeneration. It had not left her drawer in three years.

Luna did not ask what the letter said. She simply reached over with a small treat shaped like a lavender petal and offered it to the sleepy owl dozing on the sill. It blinked once at Hermione, accepted the message, and disappeared into the foggy dusk beyond the trees.

Hermione did not move. Not until Luna did.

“Are you ready?” Luna asked, quiet as rainfall.

Hermione nodded, though her chest felt taut and wire-like. She followed Luna to the hearth where green flames flickered softly, threads of protective enchantment shimmering through the light. Luna traced the outline of the bricks with her wand, sealing each corner with a whispered charm older than Hermione could name.

“No one knows about this place,” Luna said, handing her a pouch of Floo powder. “Not the Ministry. Not Ginny. Not Harry. My father kept it mostly for solitude. He passed last year. Quietly.”

Hermione tightened her grip on the pouch, throat tight. “He was kind,” she murmured.

Luna’s eyes softened. “He would be glad you are going. The cabin does not expect anything from you.”

Hermione stepped forward. The green flame swirled like ocean foam. Her voice cracked as she spoke the incantation.

“Hemlock Sanctuary.”

The cabin welcomed her like a memory she had not yet made.

The room was dim but warm, built of reclaimed cedar with spells woven into the beams. Dried herbs dangled from the rafters, mugwort, valerian, mountain sage. A large window stretched across the far wall, revealing a murmuring stream and a stand of trees that glowed faintly under protective magic. The air smelled of moss and crushed pine. There were no echoes of shouting. No slammed doors. No broken glass.

Luna stepped through a moment later, flicking ash from her hem with an absent smile. “It is lightly warded inside and out. Quiet magic, not sharp.”

Hermione stood in the centre of the room, her bag still slung over her shoulder, and felt everything in her begin to shake.

It started behind her ribs, a tremble, small and quiet. Then it unfurled. Knees buckling, breath catching, she sank to the floor before she could stop herself. The bag dropped with a soft thud. Her body followed, curling inward as if she could shield her own heart. Not from Luna, but from memory.

The sobs were silent at first. A release, not a collapse. Months of glamoured bruises. Years of doubting her instinct. A lifetime of proving her worth only to have it twisted.

She sobbed until her throat ached and her hands went numb.

Luna said nothing. She knelt beside her, draping the shawl with embroidered runes over her shoulders, and rested a hand gently at the base of Hermione’s neck. The pressure was steady, grounding. Present. Safe.

Hermione’s breathing slowed.

Outside, the stream gurgled like a lullaby.

Eventually, Luna stood and began to unpack.

Books first. Thick leather-bound potion journals, carefully placed in rows beside the window where sunlight would reach them. A small bundle of photographs tucked into a hollow drawer in the writing desk. Healing tinctures arranged in ceramic bowls. Two pairs of boots, one sturdy, one scuffed. Luna hung a small tapestry embroidered with stars above the fireplace.

She moved like someone who had done this before, not just with guests, but with grief. Hermione watched her through blurred vision, unable to speak but unwilling to look away.

This was hers now.

Not the cabin, though it was quiet and kind, but the stillness. The space. The knowledge that Ron did not know where she was. That no one could send a tracking charm. That no name, no scar, no spell could force her back.

For the first time in too long, Hermione Jean Granger was safe.
And she was allowed to cry.

Luna brushed dust off the windowsill with the side of her sleeve, gaze drifting toward the hearth and its low-burning fire. For a moment, she looked younger. Or perhaps older. The line between grief and wisdom was not always easy to find.

“I think I will stay a few days,” she said, voice calm but threaded with quiet honesty. “It has been a while since I came back here. Not since Father passed.”

Hermione lifted her eyes, surprised. “You do not have to.”

“I know,” Luna turned, offering a small smile. “But I would like to. Besides, someone needs to make sure you are not living entirely on tea and adrenaline.”

Hermione nearly laughed, a hoarse delicate thing, but there was no denial in her heart. She suspected Luna was not just revisiting the cabin for her father’s memory. This was about Hermione too. Luna had always known how to make care look like coincidence.

She nodded. “I would like that. Thank you.”

Luna gave a soft pat to her shoulder and gestured to the main room. “Look around. He left it untouched for the last few years. It remembers you, even if you have never seen it before.”

Hermione rose slowly, feeling her muscles protest from the curled stillness of emotion. She padded across the wooden floorboards, each creak familiar even in its newness. The cabin was quiet but rich. Not empty. It held a kind of soft magic that did not press, only offered.

A wide central room unfurled from the fireplace outward, its hearth built of riverstone and carved with sigils so worn they looked like natural cracks. Above it, Luna had hung a tapestry that shimmered with embroidered constellations shifting subtly as one moved around the room, remnants of her father’s work in magical astronomy.

To the left sat a small writing desk under a sun-streaked window, stacked with blank parchment, dried ink pots, and a glass orb half-filled with floating stars. Nearby was a bookshelf built straight into the wall, the wood stained dark and gleaming, laden with potion journals, theory texts, and well-loved herbology guides, some scribbled through with the eccentric marginalia only Luna or her father could decipher.

Beyond the hearth, an open arch led to the kitchen, compact and cozy, with copper pans dangling above a tiled countertop etched with protective runes. A rack of glass jars stretched across the shelf, filled with crushed lavender, marshmallow root, powdered beetle shells, and other rare ingredients. The cabinet doors were hand-painted with runes for preservation and warmth.

Through another doorway, a snug bedroom with pale sage walls, a bed tucked under a ceiling beam strung with moons carved from driftwood. The quilt was patchwork, stitched with fragments of fabric that seemed to hum faintly when touched. Next to the bed stood a small table with an ever-burning lamp and a charm for dreamless sleep nestled beside it.

Near the back of the cabin, a greenhouse. The doors were thick and old, but the glass shimmered clean and clear. Inside lay rows of soil-filled troughs, some already sprouting herbs from old seed charms. The greenhouse opened into a small clearing beyond, where a stream passed quietly through ancient stone.

Hermione stood in the center of it all, the scent of crushed mint and cedar filling her lungs.

This place did not just shelter. It healed.

She turned slowly toward Luna, who had begun placing a bundle of cloaks and blankets into the cedar chest near the wall.

“It is beautiful,” Hermione said. Her voice was quiet, but the words clung to the air with conviction.

Luna smiled without looking up. “It always was. It just needed someone to remember.”

It took time. Not because the cabin resisted her, but because Hermione’s nerves still responded to danger even when none was present. It was like trying to breathe without bracing first. She flinched when floorboards creaked under her own feet, paused before opening cupboards, stepped lightly past windows even though no eyes watched. The instinct was not gone; it just had nowhere to aim.

Her first full day in the Hemlock Sanctuary passed quietly, each moment stitched with small rituals that did not feel like recovery yet, but maybe rehearsal for peace. She unpacked slowly, not with efficiency but with reverence. Her potion journals went to the desk near the window, where Luna had left a scarf embroidered with star maps. Hermione touched it carefully, not wanting to disturb the pattern, and arranged her books around it as if giving thanks to constellations she did not yet know. Her wand she laid on a tray of hewn stone carved with protective runes. It hummed softly under her fingertips, the kind of magic that did not press or shield. It simply waited.

Her clothes remained mostly folded in the travel bag, untouched. Instead, she wore comfort: Luna’s soft cardigans and thick socks stitched with smiling moons. Her hair was unbound, her boots retired to the corner, and though the glamour still flickered occasionally, her bruises had already begun to fade.

She moved barefoot through the cabin, brushing fingertips across etched door frames and carved beams. The spells woven into the cedar shimmered softly. Some she recognized, warding, anchoring, but others spoke in older tongues. Magic left by Luna’s father, gentle and listening.

In the mornings, she read by the wide window that overlooked the stream, knees tucked under herself as mist gathered against the glass. She chose quiet texts: essays on restorative magic, herbalist notes left half-finished, potion theory layered with footnotes from wandering minds. It was not research. It was remembering.

Each night, Luna lit candles infused with sleepwort and balm and brewed tea that calmed Hermione’s restless heart. They did not always talk. They did not need to. Luna swept through the glasshouse gathering herbs, adjusted spell jars along the outer fences, and once placed a jar beside Hermione’s bed, filled with dried starlily and whisper vine.

“For nightmares,” she said simply, eyes steady, and walked away. Hermione did not ask where Luna had learned to be so gentle. She only accepted it.

She did not check the windows anymore. Did not clutch her wand in sleep. Her hands no longer hovered over old injuries, physical or otherwise. Her silence was not tight with fear. It had begun to soften.

One morning, she wandered to the porch alone. Her steps were firm now, grounded. She wore linen and the scent of wild mint. A book lay unread beside her, its page marked with a fern stem. Her wand rested at her side. It did not need to guard her.

Mist hung in the trees. The cabin creaked in rhythm. The stream sang low under mossy banks. Luna appeared with two clay cups of chilled dewberry tea and handed Hermione one without words. She sat beside her, humming something half-familiar, a lullaby perhaps, or a memory repurposed.

“You are settling in,” Luna said at last.

Hermione nodded. “I did not think I could.”

“You did not think you were allowed,” Luna replied gently. “But you are. You always were.”

Hermione did not answer. Instead, she stepped forward, out into the unknown.

The morning air was damp and cool, laced with pine and the soft hush of early rain. Hermione stood at the edge of the clearing where the Hemlock Sanctuary disappeared into forest, her satchel slung across her shoulder, wand hidden discreetly inside. The fabric of her jumper clung faintly to her arms, heavy with dew, and the lace of mist tangled low between trunks made the trail feel half-alive, half-forgotten. She had not walked this far since arriving, not beyond the moss-ringed garden, not past the sleepy shimmer of the glasshouse. But today she needed supplies. And more than that, she needed motion. Not to run from something. To walk toward something. To reclaim ordinary.

Forks lay roughly a thirty-minute walk southeast, stitched into a patchwork of muddy roads and sleepy rooftops. Luna had drawn her a map in soft, slanted handwriting, the edges enchanted to glow faintly in moonlight and curl whenever rain touched them. Hermione kept it tucked beneath a layer of cotton in her satchel, but she barely needed it. The forest path, wild and tangled, opened for her like it recognized the softness in her step.

She crossed two narrow bridges, their planks soft with age and overgrown with lichen. A small creek murmured beneath one; the other sang beneath the weight of cedar boughs. Her boots moved quietly, soles catching forest loam and the occasional cluster of wild violets. Magic hung faint here, not structured but ambient, more a feeling than a presence.

At the forest’s edge, the change came like a breath held and then released. Forks was nestled low against misty hills, its streets slick with drizzle, windows glowing behind curtains stitched with the dull hush of normal life. The buildings bore weathering without apology. Shops leaned slightly westward, siding faded into hues of washed blue and storm grey. A diner stood with its neon sign half-lit, buzzing faintly against the windowpane: OPEN, its welcome both modest and bold. Hermione passed it with a subtle glance, catching the soft clink of plates and an old song leaking from the radio.

She passed the high school next, brick uneven and flecked with moss. A small cluster of teens stood under the awning, flicking bits of gum and muttering about someone’s truck. Their voices were casual, eyes unburdened by magic or history. None of them looked at her. Forks was indifferent. Forks was safe.

At the grocer, she moved slowly. Her fingers brushed fresh root ginger, bottles of clover honey laced with wild pollen, bundles of thyme and sage wrapped in twine. She chose carrots, dark berries, and a bag of rice whose label had been written in curling, deliberate penmanship. Everything here felt like it had come from someone’s backyard rather than some distant supply chain. Even the woman behind the counter, a round-cheeked person with soft eyes, offered a polite nod and a quiet, “Welcome in,” before ringing up her basket. No questions. Just kindness.

The apothecary was next. She had not expected one in a place like Forks, especially nestled between a bait shop and a faded print store whose display featured brochures on “Forks Historic Bridges” and “Rainshadow Mushrooms: The Quiet Fungi.” But the apothecary had fogged windows and ivy growing up the side, a quiet invitation to anyone who needed healing and did not want to ask for it.

Inside, it smelled of eucalyptus and dark soil. The shelves were crammed with tinctures, dried bundles, jars of powdered root, old mortar bowls flecked with chamomile dust. It was Muggle, yes, but it spoke the same language as magic, if only in whispers. Hermione ran her fingers across the shelf—yarrow, feverfew, arnica. Her heart twitched once at the sight of calendula and goldenrod. She plucked a jar of lemon balm and two packets of wildcrafted echinacea.

The shopkeeper emerged from a curtain at the back. He was old, skin like leather worn smooth, eyes sharp despite their softness. He smiled once and tilted his head.

“First time in?”

“Yes,” she said, voice even. “I just moved nearby.”

He did not pry. “If you are after calming teas or forest medicine, try the shelf near the counter. Had a good harvest before the frost.”

She nodded and browsed.

Walking back through town, she lingered. The mural along the side of the community centre caught her breath. A field of wolves ran beneath painted constellations. A river split the background, its bend painted in silver thread. Someone had carved initials into the lower right corner. Not vandalism. Just memory left in stone.

Forks, she realized, did not perform healing. It offered space for it.

She crossed back into the forest path with her satchel now heavier, filled with jars and roots and hope disguised as ingredients.

The Hemlock Sanctuary greeted her without noise, its porch warm with golden light, the fire inside flickering softly as if marking her return. The door creaked once. Not in warning. In welcome.

The light inside the cabin had shifted by the time Hermione stepped through the door, arms aching just slightly from the weight of her satchel. The forest had held her gently all morning, and Forks had not asked anything of her, not her story, not her defences.

Now she was back, and her hands itched with the need to do something that mattered.

She placed the ingredients carefully onto the kitchen counter. Dried lemon balm. Crushed willow bark. Three locally harvested mushrooms she suspected might contain trace amounts of immune-binding agents. The apothecary’s labels were sweet but unassuming, written in loopy cursive and decorated with moons and trees.

She did not linger over tea this time. Instead, she rolled up her sleeves, tied her hair out of her face, and fetched the core texts from her satchel, the journals she had annotated since her apprenticeship, the ones full of trial notes and modified theorems. Their pages still held the scent of her old flat. She pushed past the memories. This was new. She was chasing a cure.

Dragonpox. The magical malady had taken far too many in recent years, especially those whose immune systems were weakened after long exposure to curses, dark magic, or high-risk spellcasting. Its symptoms mimicked flu at first, but progressed violently: blistering, hallucinations, deep fevers, even necrotic magic in rare cases. St. Mungo’s had containment protocols, but no definitive cure.

Hermione believed the answer lay in an intersection of old magics and botanical alchemy. Luna had once spoken about a moss that only grew near ley lines where the veil was thin. Perhaps Forks, nestled in magical quiet, held its own version.

For now, she was working with what she had: immune tonics, cellular re-binders, and blood-strengthening formulas designed to halt magical degeneration.

In the glasshouse, she set up a small workstation. The old workbench creaked familiarly, worn smooth by Luna’s father but still sturdy. Hermione unpacked her vials, her pestle and mortar, and began to grind the dried calendula petals into a fine paste. She added eucalyptus extract drop by drop, watching for colour change. A faint green shimmer told her the bonding agent was holding.

It was not glamorous. It was not dramatic. But it was hers.

The potion mixture began to thicken. She scribbled notes, updated ratios, viscosity shifts, magical resistance factors. A folded corner of her parchment held a question: Could local ley energy slow cellular disintegration? She would test it eventually, maybe with enchanted moss samples if she could find some.

By sunset, her hands were stained with herb oil and her cheeks flushed with concentration. Her glamour flickered briefly, then faded altogether. She had not noticed.

The vial pulsed softly in its rack. Not a cure. Not yet.

Chapter Text

The cabin felt different with Hermione in it.

Not louder. Not more full. But shifted, as if someone had nudged the rhythm of the space just enough to make it feel awake.

Luna sat in the glasshouse that afternoon, cross-legged on the bench beside the troughs of sprouting valerian and whisper vine. The mist outside was slow and deliberate, folding against the glass as though it were trying to listen. Inside, Hermione worked quietly. Luna could hear her through the walls: parchment rustling, the faint clink of a vial, the occasional scrape of mortar against stone. Steady. Purposeful.

Luna let her fingers trail through the soil, feeling its temperature, its mood. Magic was not something she controlled; it was a language she listened to. The cabin pulsed softly beneath her feet. It approved. It recognized something in Hermione that it had not seen in years.

She had not told Hermione the full truth, not yet. About the tug she had felt in her chest the night Ron hit her, the dream of firewood splitting without sound, waking with a knowing. About her father’s journals flickering on the shelf that evening, pages curling with energy.

Hermione thought Luna had stayed simply to keep her company. That she had not returned to the Hemlock Sanctuary since her father’s passing because of grief. That was partially true.

But Luna was here for more than mourning. She was here to witness something sacred. Something unfolding.

Through the glass, she watched Hermione scribble furiously onto a thick scroll, brows furrowed, lips pursed in concentration. Her glamour had finally faded. She had not reapplied it. Luna did not mention it.

She stood slowly, brushing soil from her skirts, and walked toward the cabin’s back door. Her steps were soft, almost spell-weighted. She opened the door and leaned against the frame for a moment, watching Hermione pour a golden tonic into a vial.

“It’s humming,” Luna said.

Hermione glanced over, startled. “What?”

“The potion,” Luna replied, tilting her head. “It’s humming. That usually means it’s listening.”

Hermione blinked, staring at the vial.

“You can hear that?”

Luna smiled. “Of course. Everything sings when it wants to be part of something true.”

Hermione did not speak. Her fingers loosened around the vial.

Luna walked inside, the cabin easing around her like a cloak. She placed a new blanket onto the sofa and refilled the tea jar by the hearth. Then she turned toward Hermione and lowered her voice.

“I’m going to stay until the stream changes direction,” she said.

Hermione looked up. “Luna—”

“Don’t worry,” Luna continued. “It’s not dramatic. It shifts a few days after the next full moon. Plenty of time.”

Hermione’s mouth twitched. “I think you just don’t want me burning the cabin down.”

“Well,” Luna said, her smile pulling wider, “that is part of it.”

They shared a silence that did not hurt.

Then Luna placed two bundles of dried wood beside the fireplace, each carved with preservation runes. Her father’s markings.

He had not prepared them for her.

She realized, for the first time, that he had prepared them for Hermione.

The world had been waiting for her longer than she had known.

Chapter Text

The stream behind the reserve murmured low as clouds rolled in, heavy with the promise of afternoon rain. Seth Clearwater ducked into the main enclosure just as Embry yanked the outer door closed, a streak of mud across his jaw from a stubborn fox that clearly did not consider being rescued a priority.

Seth laughed and grabbed a rag from the hook, tossing it to him. “You look like you lost a bet with nature.”

Embry snorted, wiping his face. “Nature cheats. It knows when I am sleep-deprived.”

“Or maybe you are just losing your edge.”

“You say that like you ever had one.”

It was easy, this back and forth. Familiar. The kind of rhythm that made days feel like they belonged to something larger than the past.

Seth liked the reserve. The quiet hum of injured animals finding their way back to themselves felt grounding in a way pack life never quite offered. Out here, his responsibilities were not about fighting or protecting. They were about gentleness. About small repairs. About paying attention.

After clean-up, Embry took a call out back, and Seth walked the perimeter again, double-checking the nesting boxes. He crouched near the kestrel’s enclosure, adjusting the fresh moss lining. The bird blinked at him with an annoyed sort of dignity.

“You will be flying again soon,” he said quietly, placing a drop of herbal tonic onto its feed. “Just give yourself time.”

The words were not really for the bird.

Wind stirred the trees beyond the fence. He straightened, squinting toward the forest’s edge. Something had been nagging at him lately. Barely a whisper. More feeling than fact. A shift in the air, the weight of the ground beneath his feet, a low hum of awareness he could not yet name.

Leah had felt it too. She had not said anything directly, but he noticed the way she lingered near windows, fingers twitching as though searching for a rhythm she could not name.

They had not had a flare-up in months. No territorial disturbances. Just quiet. But not the kind of quiet that was finished. The kind that preceded change.

As he headed back to the cabin, the wind cut through the trees again, sharper this time. Seth paused, one hand braced on the doorframe.

He did not know what was coming. But the forest did. And soon, so would he.

That evening, the diner held its breath like it always did after dark, wrapped in the hush that settled over Forks once rain and routine had tucked most people into their homes. The lamplight over the corner booth flickered gently, casting a warm glow over chipped plates and the steam rising from mashed potatoes, roast chicken, and buttery rolls in cracked baskets lined with paper yellowed by time.

Seth sat loosely against the vinyl seat, long legs stretched, idly stirring his drink even though the ice had mostly melted. Sue sat opposite, laughter warm and low in her throat, while Charlie muttered something about paperwork backlog and the stubborn resistance trout seemed to have against his fishing line. Leah occupied the space beside Seth like she always did, composed but watchful, eyes tracing the rhythm of the diner’s flow. The regulars hunched over pie, the waitress refilled a mug, and the hum of familiarity wrapped around the place like worn flannel.

It was ordinary. Peaceful.

Until Charlie paused mid-sentence, gaze drawn to the fogged window beside their booth. His brows furrowed slightly, then lifted.

“I drove past the old cabin up north today,” he said, casual but thoughtful. “Hemlock Sanctuary, I think they called it. Just past the second split by Old Ridge.”

Sue glanced up, half-interested. “The one with the leaning chimney? I thought that place was abandoned.”

Leah straightened, curiosity flickering. “Wasn’t that where the storms always tore through the roof?”

Charlie nodded slowly, gesturing with his fork. “That’s the one. Usually looks like the woods are trying to reclaim it. Always figured it had a weird sort of pressure on the air. You know that feeling when you drive past someplace and swear you are being watched, even though it is empty.”

The booth fell quieter, the clink of silverware softer.

Charlie continued, eyes thoughtful. “Thing is, it did not look empty today. I saw someone leaving it. Young woman. Long coat. Backpack. She was walking, not from any trail I recognized, straight down the roadside like she belonged there.”

Leah’s eyes narrowed. Sue’s expression became cautious, like a thread had just been tugged without warning.

“Did you recognize her?” Sue asked.

“No,” Charlie replied. “Didn’t see her face clearly. But she moved like she had history with the place. Not the kind of visitor who pokes around abandoned properties. More like she knew what not to step on.”

Seth had not said a word yet. But something shifted in him. His hand slowed against the rim of his glass, pulse ticking quietly at the base of his throat. He had felt something three days ago, an unfamiliar thread moving through the forest, subtle but persistent. Not threatening. Just present.

Charlie folded his napkin absently, then set it beside his empty plate. “Lights were on, too. Warm ones. And something—tea, I think—drifting from the chimney. Smelled like lemon verbena. The kind of scent that does not come from tourists.”

Leah’s gaze slid sideways toward Seth, measuring. “You’ve been picking up shifts along the northern ridges lately, right?”

Seth nodded once, slowly.

“You smell anything unusual?”

He hesitated. “Not unusual. Just quiet. And the wind felt thinner. Like something breathed back.”

Charlie did not seem concerned. He leaned into the seat like a man who had finished his meal and his moment of mystery. “Probably nothing. Still, it is kind of nice knowing someone is finally living there. Maybe it will not feel so haunted anymore.”

But Leah did not dismiss it. And neither did Seth.

Charlie leaned back, brows furrowed. “You know, it is not just that cabin. Bella… she keeps slipping away. Ever since the Cullens came back, that is where she goes. She barely even talks to Jacob anymore.”

Sue’s spoon paused mid-air. “Slipping away? You mean sneaking off?”

Charlie nodded slowly, a shadow in his eyes. “Exactly. And it is not like she is walking there on her own. Edward picks her up, drives her out, then drops her back without anyone noticing. She does not explain. She does not tell anyone. It is like she has forgotten all the damage they did before.”

Leah’s brow furrowed. “And this has been happening more often?”

Charlie’s jaw tightened. “More than I can count. She disappears for hours, and when she comes back, she acts like it never happened. Like she is tethered to them again, even after everything they put her through before.”

Seth’s hand curled around his glass, thumb brushing the condensation. He had not spoken yet, but his gut tightened. Bella retreating to the Cullens, avoiding Jacob, letting them have that hold again—it did not feel right. It was not choice. It was control.

Sue frowned, leaning closer. “And nobody is trying to stop her?”

Charlie shook his head. “She will not let them. Even if she wanted to, she moves carefully, keeps it quiet. She is hiding, but not really from anyone. She is hiding from the past, from the consequences of what the Cullens did.”

Leah’s gaze slid to Seth. “You have noticed a change in her lately?”

Seth nodded slowly. “She is distant. Not just physically, but in how she moves through everything. She is letting the Cullens back in, and she is forgetting what they left behind. It worries me.”

Charlie’s shoulders sagged. “I just… I worry. Forks is quiet most of the time, but she is being drawn back to the people who hurt her. And she does not even seem to see it.”

Seth’s jaw tightened further. “Then we stay aware. Not to confront them, not to force her—but to know when she needs someone. When she cannot handle it alone.”

Leah nodded. “Exactly. She is trying to heal in her own way, but if something goes wrong, someone has to be ready.”

The three of them sat in silence for a moment, the hum of the diner filling the space between words. Outside, the rain tapped steadily against the windows. Bella was being ferried back into danger by the very people who had broken her before, and whether she realized it or not, someone had to watch.

Charlie broke the quiet last. “I just… hope she knows someone is watching out for her. Even if she cannot see it.”

Seth’s fingers brushed the rim of his glass. “She will. She always has.”

The conversation lingered, warm but uneasy, the rain outside a soft reminder of the tension threading through the quiet town.

Chapter Text

A week later, sunlight filtered through the glasshouse in quiet golden ribbons, catching on flecks of potion residue and dust that drifted lazily in the warm air. Hermione adjusted the placement of her new calendula tinctures, fingers moving with careful ritual, when Luna appeared in the doorway. Her boots were damp from the morning dew, and her cardigan, embroidered with tiny hand-stitched runes, shimmered faintly as if it were breathing. That serene smile wrapped across her cheeks in that familiar effortless way, as if she had just whispered to the wind and it had whispered back.

“I think I will be heading out today,” Luna said, her voice soft, carried with the weightless ease of a breeze. “The stream murmured that it is ready to change course.”

Hermione looked up from her vials, blinking slowly. Her hand stilled mid-motion, resting against a glass rim. “Already?”

Luna stepped inside, moving like she belonged in the quiet light, and set a neatly bundled satchel by the door. It had been charmed for weightlessness and bore a patch of a thestral mid-flight. “It is the full moon, and the tide has been answering oddly. I believe it is time.” She tilted her head gently. “But before I go, I thought we could take one last trip together.”

Hermione straightened, pulse stirring slightly. “Where?”

“La Push Beach,” Luna said, her tone blooming with warmth, subtle and calm. “My father and I used to spend rainy afternoons there hunting for signs of Mistmeres. Magical sea-beasts that no one believes in except the ocean itself.”

Hermione frowned thoughtfully. “Mistmeres?”

Luna’s eyes glimmered as if remembering something sacred. “Slender, slippery creatures. Feathered along the spine, visible only if startled by seafoam mixed with lavender oil. They live between tides, appearing in liminal moments, at twilight or just before fog settles. My father believed they fed on emotional residue.”

Hermione tilted her head. “From people?”

“Mostly from heartbreak,” Luna said gently. “But sometimes from curiosity. He swore he once saw one drifting upside down, levitating a crab.” She paused, solemn. “The crab did not approve.”

Hermione let out a small breath of laughter, soft and unplanned. Her shoulders crept upward again, tension coiling tight. Her gaze flicked to the sleeve of her jumper, already pushed to her wrist, knuckles pale against the fabric.

Luna did not look directly at her. Her voice softened further.

“We could walk the shoreline. Wade in a little. Let the salt wash away what clings too tightly.”

Hermione hesitated. The knot in her stomach pressed hard. “I will go. But not to swim.”

Luna nodded simply. “Of course. The ocean accepts guests on their own terms.”

Hermione reached for her coat, choosing the thick grey one, high-collared, soft against her bruised memories. “I will wear long sleeves.”

“I thought you might,” Luna said, judgment absent. “The Mistmeres will not mind.”

She did not ask why Hermione never revealed her arms. Did not ask about the twisted scar running from wrist to elbow, etched there with hate and malice once upon a time. She simply offered her own arm, bare and freckled, kissed by sunlight.

“The beach awaits,” Luna said, voice like a moving lullaby. “Mistmeres prefer wanderers.”

Hermione stepped forward, fingers brushing Luna’s wrist. She gripped tightly, pressing her lips together, resolute.

A shift in the wind curled around them, magic folding in subtle arcs, and Hemlock Sanctuary blurred behind them.

They landed on sand, cool and damp, glinting with crushed shells. The sea stretched wide, its voice steady. Driftwood lay scattered like ancient guardians. Gulls cried softly overhead into the pale blue.

Hermione blinked against the wind and let her coat settle heavier on her shoulders.

Luna adjusted her scarf and pointed to the froth where wave met sand.

“Let us see if they remember us.”

They stepped forward, one carrying sorrow in silence, the other carrying wonder with grace. Two women walking along the edge of the world as the ocean exhaled in greeting.

The tide reached low that afternoon, revealing dark stones slick with seawater and kelp curling like ancient parchment. The wind tugged gently at Hermione’s sleeves, and the hem of her coat brushed the surf as she stepped forward, boots sinking slightly into the wet sand.

Luna walked beside her barefoot, waves lapping playfully at her ankles, sunlight catching her smile. Her hair was tied into a loose braid threaded with sea lavender, bobbing as she moved, carefree despite the chill.

Hermione lingered at the tide line, letting the water reach just past her boots. She felt too warm in her coat, but did not remove it. Her sleeves were still pulled down, fingers knotted inside the cuffs.

“You know,” Luna said, crouching near a tidal pool, “La Push is one of the few places that grows silverfern naturally. It blooms under salt-heavy air, only along shorelines where water meets ley energy.” She pointed toward a patch of mossy stone. “That one there, curling by the barnacle, that is it.”

Hermione knelt beside her cautiously, leaning over the rock. It shimmered faintly, silvery with soft iridescence, like moonlight caught on moss.

“In England, I spent three weeks trying to replicate its structure synthetically,” Hermione murmured. “Failed every time.”

Luna poked it gently with her wand. “This one likes to be found, not forced.”

They moved from pool to pool. Luna gathered samples with quiet reverence while Hermione scribbled notes in her charm-sealed journal. Occasionally, Luna pointed out a strand of driftshade twisted under kelp, used in balms for magical fatigue, or clusters of wavepetal prized for neutralizing poison in water-based potions.

Hermione’s shoulders loosened. Her eyes brightened.

The tide crept higher, lapping around her boots. Luna was already ankle-deep, humming softly, twirling to catch a floating frond.

“You should paddle,” Luna said with a splash.

Hermione hesitated. Then stepped forward.

Her boots filled quickly with saltwater, soaking through her socks. She winced, then laughed, surprised by the sound. Luna laughed too, delighted.

A wave splashed higher than expected, catching Hermione’s thigh. She jumped back, shocked, then turned to glare playfully.

“Oh no,” Luna said solemnly, “the ocean has chosen you. You must dance now.”

Hermione rolled her eyes but stepped forward again. And again.

Soon they were weaving between the waves. Luna twirling freely, Hermione following more cautiously, but smiling. Laughing. Kicking at foam. The scent of salt, lavender, and joy mingled in the air.

She did not think about scars.
She did not think about Ron.

Her sleeves remained tight, but her heart was free.

The waves quieted into a hush. The sun slipped behind the tree-lined bluffs where forest met shore. Luna’s shawl fluttered faintly. Hermione stood ankle-deep, eyes focused on a piece of sea glass glinting like an unfinished thought.

Then a voice, smoke-wrapped and roughened by age, broke the quiet.

“You came,” it said, observation more than greeting.

Hermione turned sharply, instinct bracing her. Luna only tilted her head and smiled.

The man approaching was tall, time having curved him, skin leathered by wind and sun, lines etched by years of knowing. His braid, thick and grey, was bound with a strip of cloth marked with strange symbols. He wore no shoes but moved across sand like he belonged there.

Hermione did not speak.

He studied them with a patience that did not demand answers.

“The fires wrote of change,” he murmured. “Not names or paths, only silhouettes shaped like storms, walking toward the sacred line.”

Hermione glanced at Luna. She seemed calm, stepping closer to the man, hands folded softly as though greeting an old friend.

“The silhouettes are not ready,” Luna said. “One still aches where no song has reached.”

Old Quil bowed slightly, eyes flickering toward Hermione without expectation. “That is as it must be,” he said. “Healing carves deeper roots than knowing. The land is patient.”

Hermione’s throat felt tight. “I am… not sure what this is,” she admitted, uncertain whether to apologize or retreat.

“Neither are the trees,” Quil replied, smiling with teeth like driftwood. “But they grow all the same.”

Luna brushed her hand briefly against Hermione’s, a reminder rather than a hold. “We are walking the shoreline,” she said. “For sea-beasts and salt-words.”

“They watch,” he said simply.

He knelt, palm pressed to the wet sand, listening. “The stream near the cabin changed direction this morning,” he said. “It always does before remembering begins.”

Hermione swallowed. The mention of the cabin sent a ripple through her ribs.

Old Quil rose, joints creaking, and looked toward the treeline where forest blurred into fog.

“I will leave you to the water,” he said, voice fading into the hush. “When the third fire burns, the tribe will be ready.”

He turned, footsteps disappearing into damp sand as if they had never been.

Hermione stared after him.

Luna remained quiet, watching the waves.

Neither spoke for a long time.

Then Luna said softly, “He always speaks like that. Change comes without sharp edges.”

Hermione nodded slowly. Her heart still held questions, but they felt like doors instead of weights.

The walk back through the forest was quieter than the morning. The trees held mist as if savouring it. Even Luna moved more slowly, her steps sinking gently into the underbrush. The encounter had shifted something subtle in the rhythm of things.

Hermione kept pace, cloak pulled close despite warm air, mind circling Old Quil’s words.

“Do you know him?” she asked at last. “Or the tribe he spoke of?”

Luna did not answer immediately, tracing the bark of a fallen birch.

“I have heard stories,” she said. “Of fire-seers and forest listeners. Of Quileute magic carried rather than cast. But I have never met Old Quil before today.”

Hermione frowned. “Then how did you know what to say?”

Luna smiled gently. “He was speaking to arrival, not identity.”

“That does not make it less unsettling,” Hermione murmured. “The cabin was meant to be hidden. Yours. Mine. Safe.”

Luna nodded. “It is safe. But safety does not always mean solitude. The wards know who should see and who should remain oblivious.”

They reached the clearing just as the sun slipped behind the tallest trees, casting long shadows across the porch and staining the cabin windows gold. Hemlock Sanctuary seemed to breathe them back in.

Inside, Luna began gathering her satchel and folding her shawl. Hermione watched quietly, the swell of gratitude and discomfort rising in her chest.

“Are you sure you need to go?” she whispered.

“I do,” Luna said, glancing around as if imprinting the room’s memory. “But I trust you will be protected. The fires said change is coming, and the tribe listens. That is more than most.”

Edges of panic pressed against Hermione’s ribs again. Change. Tribe. Visibility.

She had come to escape notice, not ignite prophecy.

Luna brushed a damp lock of hair from her cheek, delicate and grounding.

“You are not lost,” she said. “You have just stepped into a story that finally noticed you were ready.”

Hermione’s throat tightened. “I did not want to be noticed.”

“And you were not,” Luna said. “Until you were meant to be.”

They embraced, quiet and deep. Luna whispered a string of words Hermione did not understand, but felt.

Then she stepped back, wand in hand, eyes bright with something far older than farewell.

“When you need me,” Luna said, “the moon knows where to find me.”

She vanished with a breath of light and the scent of lavender.

Hermione stood alone on the porch.

The cabin creaked in welcome.

That night, her dreams came in fragments.

Flickers of fire danced along the forest line, rising from carved stone basins. The flames pulsed rhythmically, shadowed figures surrounding them, some familiar, others cloaked in silence. Their faces never turned.

Mist overhead twisted into unreadable symbols. The trees leaned toward her, bark etched with runes that shimmered, offering no answers.

Then the silence broke.

Something unseen rippled through the flames, distorting their glow. Figures stepped back. One basin shattered. Embers scattered into the sand.

From the dark, something moved. No voice, no face. The forest recoiled. Hermione reached for her wand but it was gone.

A sharp cracked voice spoke from within the smoke.
“She watches, but does not yet see.”

Hermione woke, breath tangled. Her shawl was damp beneath her palms. Coals smouldered in the hearth. The wind pressed against the windows, wanting to enter.

She sat up slowly, pressing fingers to her temple. No tears this time. No panic.

Just resolve.

Something was shifting, and she needed to understand it.

In the kitchen, the hush of the glasshouse seeped through the walls. She ached, but her steps were certain. She summoned a small bowl and kneaded flour, water, and yeast without thinking. Baking ordered her thoughts.

While the dough rose under a tea towel stitched with dragonflies, she gathered her satchel, adding her journal, wand, Luna’s sea-scented scarf, and a charm to keep groceries cool. She would need to stop in town. The root vegetables were nearly gone. She was out of rice.

In the bathroom, she reapplied her glamour. More effort than usual. The bruises had not faded, the scar along her ribcage still pulsed with each movement. She layered the illusion carefully: unmarked skin, calm eyes, posture untouched. But beneath, she flinched reaching for her coat.

She paused, then wrapped Luna’s scarf twice around her neck, fastening her cloak high at the collar.

The fires had spoken in riddles. Watchers. Cracks in the silence. And she was too far from knowing.

She stepped onto the porch, gathered the wind in her chest, and with a quiet breath, disapparated.

Chapter Text

The bell above the door gave a tired chime as Hermione stepped into the dusty little shop nestled between a closed pottery studio and a bait store that smelled faintly of brine. The bookstore carried the familiar scent of aged paper and a touch of fireplace soot. Comforting, but not familiar. Shelves leaned inward as if they had grown weary over the years, and a tabby cat slumbered atop a stack of newspapers that looked at least three months old.

She moved quietly through the aisles, fingers brushing over cracked spines and faded titles. The sign outside had promised history and folklore, but the section was sparse. A handful of out-of-print coastal ghost stories, a thin volume on the lunar tide’s moral influence, and a book claiming to list every haunted diner on the western seaboard.

Nothing on the tribe. Nothing on Old Quil. Nothing that smelled of fire prophecy or shadowed silhouettes near cracked stone basins.

Hermione pressed her lips together and ducked into the corner near domestic magic and herbal lore. No answers, but distraction. She pulled down a well-loved cookbook, pages worn and annotated with handwritten amendments. Most involved substitutions for dairy-free pudding and enhancements for berry tarts with a touch of wishful thinking. She smiled faintly and added it to her basket.

Another caught her eye. Mending What Grows: Natural Healing for Root Systems and Nerves. Written for gardeners, but the tone was intuitive. Someone who believed in plant emotion as much as soil composition. Something in that felt right.

She bought both books and a pocket guide to native herbs of the Pacific Northwest, paid the half-asleep shopkeeper with exact change, and stepped back outside into the early afternoon light.

Across the road, tucked beside a row of mailboxes and an art studio cluttered with driftwood sculptures, was a small shop she had not noticed earlier. No sign. Just an open door and wind chimes singing in overlapping tones that made her skin prickle. Not unpleasantly, but as if they were tuned to something older than convenience.

The windows were fogged, and something—instinct, curiosity, the lingering hush of her dream—tugged at her.

She stepped off the curb. Determination and curiosity overwhelmed any sense of nervousness.

The door creaked open without ceremony, and the chimes above rang in a slow, uneven rhythm, more clatter than melody. It was only a grocery shop.

Hermione paused at the threshold, half expecting the rich scent of incense, old charms tucked onto shelves, a tapestry or bead curtain whispering hidden truths. But there was only the smell of citrus cleaner and onions. A freezer hummed near the back. Baskets of produce sagged under the weight of native squash and tired plums.

She stepped in, disappointment settling in her chest. The dream had whispered of watchers and cracked basins, but this place held potatoes and dented cans of soup.

Still, she moved through the aisles, collecting what she needed with quiet precision. Lentils, wild rice, oats, sea salt, a bundle of fresh dill tied with twine. She tucked a small wheel of soft cheese into her satchel alongside the book she had bought earlier. The quiet of the store helped. Grounded her. Reminded her that even prophecy needed groceries.

As she approached the counter, a soft clang echoed from the back, followed by quick footsteps. A man, maybe twenty-four or twenty-five, stepped through the doorway. Flour clung to his hands. He pushed up the sleeves of his worn hoodie. His jaw was sharp, eyes wide-set and warm. Hair pulled into a loose tie at the nape of his neck. He smiled instantly, the kind of smile that made room.

“Hey,” he said, reaching for her basket. “Did not hear the door. Hope you found everything okay.”

Hermione nodded, placing her items on the counter. “Yes. Thank you.”

He began scanning, tapping at an old register with a rhythm that suggested familiarity rather than irritation. “Do not think I have seen you before,” he added casually, glancing up. “Visiting, or staying?”

Hermione hesitated. “Nearby. Just outside town.”

He blinked. “The cabin?”

She inclined her head, cautious.

He grinned. “That place has been empty forever. People say it is haunted, mostly because no one has ever stayed long enough to prove otherwise. You are the first.”

Hermione offered the faintest smile, unsure how much to give. “It is quiet.”

“That it is.” He paused. “I am Quil, by the way.”

Her breath caught for a moment. Finally.

“Your father—does he run this shop?”

Quil tilted his head. “Not my father. My grandfather. He is out back chopping root vegetables for tomorrow’s delivery.”

Hermione looked toward the curtain-covered doorway. “May I speak with him?”

Quil studied her with polite curiosity. Not invasive, not probing. Just the kind of interest born from a life where stories meant something.

“We do not get many visitors from England,” he said gently, as if offering her a reason. “Especially ones who walk through the forest instead of taking the road.”

Hermione did not respond.

She felt it again. A faint pulse. Not magical. Not Muggle either. Something that lived beneath the skin.

Quil stepped back. “I will get him.”

She paid quietly, fingers cool against the notes as she placed them on the counter.

Quil vanished behind the curtain with a call of “Grandpa?” trailing behind him.

The curtain parted as Old Quil stepped into the shop. His presence settled the air immediately, like gravity or truth. Hermione stiffened. Not in fear, but in preparation.

He wore a thick sweater and well-worn boots, sleeves pushed to the elbow, forearms lined with sinew and years. His eyes met hers. Steady. Curious. Knowing.

“I thought you would seek me out,” he said, voice even, carved by ritual.

Hermione’s mouth went dry. “I was not sure until today.”

The younger Quil peeked from the far end of the counter, but his grandfather gave him a quiet look. Not harsh. Just final.

“Back in ten,” Old Quil said.

With a grin and a shrug, Quil returned to his register, letting the curtain swing closed behind them.

Hermione followed the elder through a narrow hallway into a small room cluttered with paper bundles, dried herbs hanging from strings, a kettle steaming on a cast-iron stove. The walls were lined with faded photos, tribal carvings, and maps smudged with charcoal.

Quil gestured to a chair with a blanket draped across the back. “Sit. The tea is good for weariness.”

She did. Her legs thanked her. The chair creaked gently beneath her weight.

He poured a steaming cup from the kettle into a clay mug painted with crescent moons and thistle leaves and handed it to her with deliberate care.

Hermione held it in both hands. “Thank you.”

Steam curled into her nose. Mint, sage, something floral she could not name. It calmed her.

“I came to ask,” she said eventually, when the silence stretched long enough to stir.

“About the fire,” Quil said. “And what it showed.”

“Yes.”

He nodded. The lines at the corners of his eyes deepened.

“I know what you are asking. But it is not only what you want to know that matters.” He tilted his head. “What you bring shifts the story too.”

Hermione’s fingers tightened around the mug.

“I am not good at giving answers.”

“To get them,” he said, “you will have to.”

She stared into the tea, watching ripples settle.

“I left England because I needed to,” she said finally. “Personal things. Too many. My friend arranged the cabin. She said the forest would listen.”

Quil smiled faintly. “She has insight most do not have. She is a good friend.”

Hermione looked up cautiously. “You know Luna?”

“I do not know her mind. But I have felt her passing here before. Like a tide that forgets to retreat.” He leaned forward slightly. “She will find her place soon as well.”

Hermione did not know how to respond. Her thumb traced the rim of her cup.

“You said the fire spoke of me.”

Quil opened an old notebook, revealing a page filled with symbols drawn in ash.

“Not by name,” he said. “It spoke of arrival, of the beginning of mending, and a crack in silence that will not be sealed again.”

Hermione swallowed, throat tight.

“I did not mean to be seen.”

“That is how most things begin.”

He closed the book with quiet finality.

“You are welcome here,” he said. “But be honest, with the land, with yourself.”

She nodded. The tea was lukewarm, but she drank the rest slowly.

When she returned to the cabin, three parchment slips awaited on her desk, screaming caution and warning. The first bore Harry’s handwriting, blunt, slanted as if rushed.

She didn't sit. She opened it where she stood.

Ron told me about the argument.
You shouldn't have run away.
What you did was awful and not the Hermione I knew.
I hope you come home soon and set things right.
Ron is distraught with worry.
—Harry

No greeting. No warmth. Just the echo of what the world expected of her.

She closed her eyes. Her fingers folded the note aside without ceremony.

The fire popped softly, marking the silence.

She did not pick up Ron’s note next. She walked to the window. Mist curled through the trees, slow and deliberate, as if it knew secrets she had not yet earned.

Harry’s words still rang. Not the Hermione I know.

Maybe that was the point.

The Hermione he knew had always fixed things, buried pain, carried others.

The Hermione standing here had stopped doing that.

The next parchment felt heavier than the last.

She opened it slowly.

Hermione,
You can't just disappear.
You need to come home and talk to me.
You dont get to run away from us, from this.
I do not care what you think you are doing, whatever spell Luna put in your head or wherever she has hidden you.
We are meant to be together.
Come home.
I will find you if you do not.

She read it twice. The words felt like cords, fraying and binding all at once. No apology. No space for fear. Just demand cloaked as desperation. Ron’s voice echoed through every line. She could feel the pressure in it, coiling, unrelenting.

Her hand trembled.

The glamour over her skin buzzed softly, protesting. Bruises had not faded. Her heart had only just begun to learn quiet. And now this.

She laid the note down beside Harry’s.

They sat together on the desk like expectations, like noise, like chains disguised as concern.

She did not cry. But her body curled inward, pulse thudding in her ears.

The last note waited, folded in pale blue paper, pressed with a sprig of sea lavender.

Luna.

She would read it next. But she gave herself a moment first.

To breathe.

To feel.

To remember why she had left.

And why, no matter what the others said, she would not go back.

The parchment was soft in her hands, folded with care, tied with a fraying strand of sea lavender. The handwriting was unmistakable, looping and airy.

She opened it slowly.

Ron suspects I have something to do with you.
I gave him the Looney persona he so strongly believes lies with me.
It makes things simpler, does it not? Let them think I am adrift. Let them not look too closely.
You are safe.
You are hidden from Wican.
I will come if you ever need me.
I love you, Hermione.
I am on your side. Always.

On another note, Neville and I separated.
Peacefully, kindly.
We are still friends, but our lives are meant for different paths.
You will understand soon.
As you know, the stream shifts when it is ready.
—Luna

Hermione let the parchment fall onto her lap. Her fingers curled around the edge, holding quiet.

Luna’s words did not press. They soothed. The weight Ron conjured with threats and Harry tethered with disappointment loosened. Luna did not ask her to justify. Did not ask her to fix. Just to rest. Just to be.

The fire crackled beside her. She exhaled.

Outside, the forest leaned closer.

Hermione stood at her desk, the three letters unmoved—two sharp, one tender. She let them be.

She pressed her palms to the smooth wood. Then, slowly, deliberately, she whispered the counterspell and let the glamour fall.

It prickled as it lifted. An itch along her collarbones, the pulse of magic protesting as it unwove. When it vanished, her skin felt startlingly bare, air against bruises blooming beneath her shirt. Some were old and yellowing, others new and aching. Here, they were allowed.

She took a quiet breath, feeling every inch of herself settle.

Then she turned toward the kitchen.

Her hands moved almost automatically, pulling down bowls, weighing flour on the little brass scale Luna had left behind. She set out blueberries, the wild kind she had gathered two mornings ago along the north trail, and folded them gently into the mixture.

The scent of cinnamon and vanilla began to curl through the cabin. Warmth crept into her muscles like balm.

There was no expectation. No perfection. No need to create an elixir or prove a theorem. Just a bowl. Just a spoon. Just the soft thud of a wooden spatula against thick batter.

She lined the tin with parchment, poured in the mix, and whispered a small preservation charm over the tray. Not necessary, but gentle.

As the muffins baked, she stood in her socks near the fire, eyes closed, breathing in the scent. Bruises ached less in the heat. Chest did not feel tight.

The cabin held her without question.

When the timer chimed, she lifted the tray, steam rising like morning fog. Tops were golden, cracked just enough to give character. She let them cool, then placed one on a plate, sliced it in half, watching the blueberries bleed their color into the soft bread.

She did not cry. She did not think.

She simply sat at the window, muffin in hand, watching the trees bend in the breeze.

Night came gently, but sleep did not.

Hermione curled beneath the quilt stitched with moons and pine trees, fire whispering low beside her, scent of cooled muffins clinging. Bruises throbbed softly beneath her shirt, glamour gone, and she was safe. She believed it. For a little while.

Then the silence thickened. Breath slowed. Her mind slipped past the veil.

She stood in a hallway she did not recognize. Long, narrow, trembling with torchlight. Stone stretched in both directions. Wet. Cold. She tried to move, shoes gone, floor biting into her heels.

Her wand was not in her hand.

Her voice would not rise.

Footsteps echoed. Sharp. Deliberate. Then laughter, stretched into a grin carrying knives.

Bellatrix.

The walls pulsed with her arrival, warping as if they knew pain was coming.

“Well, look at you,” Bellatrix hissed, stepping from shadow. Hair a wild halo, eyes dancing. “The Mudblood who will not stay down.”

Hermione backed away, spine catching the wall. It moved with her, alive, breathing as Bellatrix closed in.

“There is nowhere to run,” the witch whispered.

A flash of green.

Chains coiled from the ceiling, hissing like snakes, wrapping tight around her wrists.

She screamed. Smoke came out instead of sound.

Bellatrix pressed a wand to her throat. “Say the word. Any word. Let us see what cracks first, your voice or your pride.”

The hallway split.

Suddenly she was in the flat. Her old London flat. Bookshelves, kettle on, scent of tea gone bitter.

Ron stood in the doorway. But his smile was wrong.

He walked toward her slowly. Red hair shadowed with sweat. “You think you can just leave?”

She stepped back. Walls closed in.

“You ran,” he spat. “You did not even try.”

“I tried,” she whispered, but the air swallowed it.

Ron grabbed her arm, hard, squeezing bruises. Legs gave out. He did not let go.

“You are mine, Hermione. Say it.”

“I am not,” she gasped.

“That is not what you used to say,” he laughed.

The room fractured.

Suddenly she was strapped to a chair. Bellatrix circling again. Ron standing behind her. Both laughing. Whispering. Wands raised.

“You are alone now,” Bellatrix cooed. “Not clever. Not wanted. Just broken bits and bleeding spells.”

“You should be grateful,” Ron said coldly. “I loved you. I fought for you.”

A curse hit her chest. Another struck her hand. Chains cracked tighter. Skin split in places she could not name.

She sobbed, voice strangled.

“No one is coming,” Bellatrix sang.

“I will find you,” Ron echoed.

The ceiling dissolved into black mist. Fire basins appeared again. Cold. Unlit.

Chained between them.

Alone.

Screaming.

Hermione jerked awake, mouth open in a silent cry.

The cabin creaked. Fire burned low.

Skin soaked with sweat. Bruises flaring beneath her shirt.

She clutched the quilt, panting. Fingers shaking. Throat aching.

Chapter Text

The forest was heavy with cloud cover, the moon little more than a blur behind mist that shifted in slow, ghostly currents. Quil’s paws sank into the damp mulch and moss as he moved through the trees, Sam running the western flank in silence. The air was restless, the wind stirring softly through the canopy and carrying the usual night sounds—an owl’s call, the distant rush of the stream. Then, threaded beneath it, something sharper.

A scream.

It cut through the night like glass shattering.

Quil stopped where he stood.

“You heard that?” His thought snapped across the pack link, urgent.

“South ridge. By the old cabin,” Sam’s voice answered, steady but edged with tension. “Shift back. Go check. You know that ground. I’ll cover the other side.”

Quil didn’t hesitate. He turned and sprinted through the undergrowth, claws digging into the earth. The scream came again, ragged and torn, but this time it carried words.

“No!”

“Help!”

“Stop!”

His chest tightened. Mid-stride, the change ripped through him, fur receding, bones shifting with the burn of transformation until he was running barefoot through wet grass, lungs heaving. The night air bit at his skin, but he hardly felt it. The cabin came into view, lights flickering in the windows. The trees seemed to lean too close, pressing in around it.

He reached the porch and froze.

He knew that voice. Fragile, trembling, threaded with something cracked and breaking.

The girl from the shop.

Hermione.

The one who had spoken so softly with his grandfather, carrying an air of bruised gentleness beneath the lavender and oats she smelled of.

Quil hesitated, the hair on the back of his neck rising. The forest pressed against him with a strange weight—not warning him off, but reminding him that this place was not his. A hum in the soil. A pulse in the roots. Not hostile, but claiming. Still, it was not enough to turn him away.

He knocked, hard against the door.

The screaming stopped.

The silence that followed was so absolute that even the stream nearby seemed to hold its breath.

He knocked again, louder this time. “Hello?”

No reply.

Quil stepped closer, voice low. “It’s Quil. From the shop. You came by earlier. I just…”

A shuffle inside.

A creak of wood.

The door opened a sliver.

She stood there, framed in a narrow band of light. Wide-eyed, her face streaked with tears, skin flushed and damp, a blanket clutched tightly around her shoulders. Her hair clung to her forehead, wild and plastered with sweat. She looked smaller than he remembered. Not in height or size, but in presence—like something in her had been hollowed out and sealed.

Their eyes met.

And she opened the door wider.

Quil did not move.

Hermione said nothing.

Mist curled at his boots while the cabin light fell across her like a soft halo, though there was nothing angelic about her state. The steady, precise young woman he had seen earlier was gone. Now she stood in thin pajamas too fragile for the mountain cold, wrapped only in that fraying blanket, skin glistening as if fevered.

It was not the sweat that stopped him.

It was the bruises.

They painted her body in layers. Dark and sharp across her forearms, yellowing at her shins, climbing her collarbone where the loose fabric slipped. Bruises upon bruises, old ones fading beneath newer marks. It was a map of pain written in shadows.

Quil’s heart lurched. These were not fresh. They had been there for days, maybe weeks. He remembered the neat coat she had worn into the shop, scarf wound high around her throat. Reserved. Watchful. Covered. Always covered.

Hiding.

Her gaze flicked to his, quick and raw, before she pulled the blanket tighter. In the motion her sleeve slid back for just a second. Enough to reveal a mark that was not bruise but scar.

Dark. Raised. Jagged.

A single word carved into her flesh.

Mudblood.

The sight of it stole his breath. The word meant nothing to him in language, but it meant everything in weight. It dripped with hatred. It was not a scar born of accident. It was punishment.

Hermione straightened, her voice sharp and trained. “I had a nightmare. That’s all.”

Quil forced his own voice steady. “Are you alone?”

“I’m perfectly safe,” she said quickly. Too quickly. “But thank you. I would like to get back to sleep now.”

She would not meet his eyes.

He wanted to push, to say he had seen bruises like that before in places where no one deserved to be. But her posture had shifted, closing in on itself, guarding the last piece of control she had. It wasn’t dismissal out of cruelty. It was protection.

So he only nodded. “Alright. If you need anything…”

But she was already closing the door.

It shut softly, not slammed. Quiet, but absolute.

Quil stood on the porch, the mist breathing at his ankles, the night pressing tight. Inside, Hermione’s heart beat hard against the blanket she clutched to her chest. No one was supposed to see. Now someone had.

Quil stayed frozen in the chill, her image burned into him. The smallness. The bruises. The scar. The way she wrapped herself up in silence. He turned finally, stepping back into the darkness, carrying the weight of that word carved into her skin.

The ridge was still, blanketed in a hush that felt like the world itself holding its breath.

By the time Quil reached it, his hoodie clung to him with sweat and mist. Sam was already there, leaning against the thick trunk of a cedar, half-shifted, his eyes glinting wolf-sharp. He hadn’t fully returned to human—still hovered between instinct and flesh.

Quil said nothing at first.

Sam waited, steady, patient in a way that pressed.

“You saw her?” he asked finally, low.

Quil nodded, jaw locked. “She opened the door.”

“And?”

“She’s hurt. Not just shaken—hurt. Bruises everywhere. Arms. Legs. Collarbone. Deep ones, layered. And there’s a scar…” Quil dragged a hand through his hair, the image seared too clear. “It said something. Mudblood. It was carved into her skin, Sam. Not written. Not decorative. Someone did it to her. Someone marked her with hate.”

Sam’s expression darkened, his arms folding as the forest leaned heavy around them.

“She told me it was a nightmare. Said she was safe. Closed the door.”

“You believe her?”

Quil let out a sharp breath. “I didn’t know what else to do. She looked like she’d shatter if I pushed. But no one gets scars like that from nothing. That wasn’t a stumble or an accident. That was deliberate.”

Sam was silent, but the silence carried weight. Finally he said, “That place has an energy. Old. Not dark, not exactly. But it feels like magic rooted too deep for us to name. The trees hold her. They remember her.”

Quil blinked.

“She isn’t a threat. Not to us,” Sam continued. “But she’s carrying something so heavy it bleeds into the land. The wolves will feel it. Whether she wants us to or not.”

Quil’s hands curled at his sides. “She didn’t want help.”

“She might not know she needs it.”

Sam pushed off the tree and moved back into the dark. “Keep watch. Don’t follow, don’t push. Just stay near.”

Quil let out a slow breath and turned back to the forest, the scent of her fear still sharp beneath pine and damp earth. He didn’t understand her. Not yet.

The next morning Quil found his grandfather in the back of the shop, crouched over a crate of root vegetables. The soft scrape of his knife filled the quiet, steady as breath. He carved ginger, burdock, dandelion root, movements sure and unhurried, hands worn with the memory of the land.

Quil watched for a long moment before he spoke. “I saw her again. At the cabin.”

The knife stilled just slightly.

“She was screaming. Nightmare. She opened the door. She looked…” His voice faltered. “Broken.”

Old Quil didn’t lift his gaze. He gathered the sliced roots into a bowl, his voice a murmur. “You saw her skin.”

Quil’s throat tightened. He nodded. “Bruises. A scar on her arm. The word carved into it. I don’t even know what it means, but it looked like hatred made permanent.”

The old man leaned back and wiped his hands on the cloth at his belt. His gaze slid to the window where the mist pressed faintly against the glass. “It is wrong. The kind of wrong made by people who mistake cruelty for power. The kind who believe pain proves ownership.”

Quil frowned. “You care about her. More than I expected. You never usually…”

“Care for outsiders?” his grandfather finished. His voice was dry but not unkind. “No. I don’t. Not the ones who come only to take, or to gawk, or to walk on the land without listening to it. But she is not one of those.”

Quil’s eyes narrowed. “Why is she different?”

The old man’s gaze was deep as the tide, as if holding more years than one body should. “Because I have seen her. Not with these eyes, but in the fire, in cedar smoke. She came wrapped in ache, yes. But she carries light too. The kind that doesn’t shout. The kind that makes room for others to breathe.”

Quil swallowed hard. “She didn’t look like light last night.”

“She is surviving,” the old man said simply. “And even survival has its own kind of radiance. Pain can still carry peace. In time, she will bring it here, to the tribe. The forest has already begun to lean toward her.”

Quil rubbed at the back of his neck. “So we protect her?”

“We must. But gently. If it feels like control she will refuse it. If it feels like a cage she will run. She will only accept what moves with her own rhythm.”

Quil frowned. “So what do we do?”

“We listen,” his grandfather said. “We wait. And when the sky breaks, we will be the ones to hold the edges together.”

The old man returned to his roots, sliding them into the pot for steeping. The room filled slowly with the scent of earth and warmth.

“I’ll keep checking,” Quil said quietly. “Even if she shuts the door.”

His grandfather did not smile, but his face softened. “Then you are already learning.”

Chapter Text

The morning air pressed against the greenhouse with a gentler rhythm than usual, mist curling around the panes as the sun made tentative promises through the trees. Inside, Hermione sat on the edge of the old armchair with her knees drawn up, a blanket draped around her shoulders. The fire had burned down to sleepy embers, and she had not bothered to rekindle it. Her palms ached faintly, her magic unsettled. It was not from a spell gone wrong but from memories that had clawed their way into her dreams.

She had not taken dreamless sleep. She could have. The vial had sat in her hand before bed, turning slowly between her fingers as she imagined the silence it would bring. But she had learned after the war how quickly necessity could turn into dependency. She refused to slip into that rhythm again.

Last night had felt like drowning.

And worse, someone had seen her flailing.

Quil.

His face rose unbidden in her mind: concerned, confused, his lips parted with words he had not managed to speak. She remembered the way his eyes had changed when they landed on her bruises, the way his whole body had stilled. The scar on her arm, Mudblood, carved and burning, had slammed down between them like a broken door.

She had meant to cover it. She always covered it. Layers upon layers, careful and deliberate. But the dream had cracked something open in her, and in her scramble she had forgotten about sleeves.

And now he knew.

He was the first person to see all of it since Ron. Since Luna.

Mortification did not even begin to describe the feeling wrapped tight around her ribs. He could tell someone. She had been told she was hidden, shielded from both Wican records and the Ministry’s registries, but that did not mean she was safe if whispers began to spread.

She had to find him.

She had to tell him.

She had to make him understand he could not speak of what he had seen.

Her body moved automatically. She did not cast glamour that morning. She needed it real. She needed to remember. A scarf went around her neck. A heavier coat over her arms. Her wand slipped into the inner sleeve where her fingers could grip it if panic pressed again.

She left the cabin without breakfast, her steps quick and tight on the damp soil. Fog slipped past her boots as the stream hummed softly to her left, but she did not look. Her mind was already at the shop, already at the curtain separating rooms, the register near the door, the boy who had met her with a smile that had been too easy for the burden she dropped.

The grocery sat crooked in the morning light, pressed between a fishmonger and a florist that never seemed to open. She did not hesitate.

The bell chimed as she entered.

The same citrus-clean scent. The same stacked onions. A small pile of yesterday’s bread rested near the counter with a note that read: Fresh batch arrives noon.

But Quil was not at the register.

She stepped forward, her hand tightening around her wand just enough to steady herself.

A woman looked up from stocking lemons, her grey braid heavy against her shoulder. “Looking for something?” she asked.

Hermione’s throat caught before she managed, “Quil. He was working yesterday. I wanted to speak with him.”

The woman studied her for a beat too long, then nodded toward the curtain. “Might be out back with his grandfather. Just knock.”

Hermione stepped forward and pulled the curtain aside.

It rustled like leaves.

Quil looked up at the movement, expecting inventory or his grandfather’s quiet voice, not her. She stood bundled in a coat that looked heavier than it had the day before, a scarf drawn high, her fingers white around the wand hidden in her sleeve. Her cheeks were flushed, not from cold but from a mortification that knotted her stomach.

“Quil,” she said. Her voice was flat, urgent. “You cannot tell anyone.”

He blinked, startled by the severity. “Tell anyone what?”

She stepped fully into the room, the curtain falling shut behind her. “About me. That I am here. What you saw.” Her eyes darted, untrusting, hunted. “No one can know.”

Silence lingered before understanding spread over his face like sunlight pushing through stormclouds.

His eyes dropped to her sleeve where the fabric rode just short of her wrist. He saw her discomfort. He felt the panic humming in the air between them.

“I will not,” he said softly. “I swear.”

Hermione lowered her gaze but did not relax. She pressed herself against a cluttered shelf of dried herbs, her eyes running over the labels without reading them. Her hand trembled faintly at her side.

Quil stepped closer, cautious. “Are you okay? I mean… really?”

Her mouth pulled tight. “I did not mean for you to see.” She swallowed hard. “I do not like being seen.”

Before he could answer, the back door burst open with a bang that rattled the jars. Two Quileute men stepped inside, their frames filling the space. One had dishevelled hair and shoulders like stone, the other broad and younger, his hoodie damp from fog.

Their laughter filled the room, loud and easy.

“Didn’t know we were interrupting a date,” one joked, his eyes flicking toward Hermione as if her presence made perfect sense.

The other looked at her and paused. Only for a breath. But in that breath something shifted. Not recognition of the face, but of something deeper.

Hermione froze.

The room felt too small, the ceiling too low, the smell of sage too thick.

“I should go,” she murmured, already moving for the door. “I just… I am not good with crowds.”

Quil started to call after her, but the curtain was already lifting. She slipped through with a speed that said do not follow.

Her absence lingered in the room, humming like something sacred.

The town was still waking as she moved through it. Windows yawning open. The scent of coffee and sea-salted bread drifting from doorsteps. She kept her gaze down, scarf high, coat wrapped close, each step measured against the pulse still hammering in her chest. Something in her blood tugged with intent, though her mind had not yet given it a name.

She did not know why she was walking toward the beach. Only that she was.

The path tilted south, past shuttered art studios and the crooked bookstore she had left yesterday with more questions than answers. Her breath fogged faintly in the air, though the sun pressed bold and bright against her shoulder blades, trailing warmth along her collar.

As she neared the dunes she whispered the glamour. It rippled softly across her skin, blurring the edges of old bruises, hiding the scar beneath illusion, smoothing away the visible echoes of last night’s rupture. It did not erase the ache, but it made walking easier.

The ocean greeted her in silence.

No gulls. No voices. Only tide and sky.

She slipped off her boots and left them against a half-buried log. Her coat came next, folded neatly beside them. The wind danced around her bare legs, tugging at the hem of her dress—the one Luna had charmed with faint threaded stars, pale against navy fabric.

Hermione Granger, who had once commanded battlefields and mended shattered wands, stepped barefoot into the tide, her arms stretching wide as if the sea itself were her cathedral.

She paddled slowly at first, letting the foam tickle her calves, then kicked up a splash. Laughter, quiet and unsteady, caught in her throat as the droplets clung to her curls. The sun warmed her spine. The water loosened the weight she had not realised she was still carrying.

She twirled once, hair whipping sideways, the glitter of sea-glass catching her eye mid-spin. Her dress darkened at the hem with salt, but she did not care. She frolicked, not with abandon, but with choice. With the kind of rebellion only softness could hold.

She let herself forget.

Ron’s accusations. Harry’s disappointment. Quil’s stunned silence. Old Quil’s eyes that had seen too much and asked for truths she could not yet name.

She let it all dissolve into salt and sunlight.

For a while there was nothing but rhythm and water.

And a girl who remembered that healing was not always solemn. Sometimes it danced.

Chapter Text

Seth stayed crouched in the hush of the treeline, the wind brushing across his cheeks while the tide flirted with the edge of the beach. The girl in the surf hadn’t seen him, and he made no move to change that.

He didn’t know her. Had never seen her in town. She wasn’t Quileute, wasn’t one of the hikers who sometimes wandered too far up the coast. She moved like she belonged somewhere else entirely—like the sea had called her directly and she’d obeyed without hesitation.

She was dancing. Not wildly, but with intention, twirling in her soaked clothes while the seafoam curled around her knees. She lifted her arms to the sun, barefoot, laughter caught under her breath. There was something in the way she moved that held tension and release in the same moment.

Seth stayed quiet.

She reminded him of the animals he’d seen wounded in the woods—hollow-eyed foxes, trembling birds huddled beneath leaves. Not broken, just waiting out the shaking. She carried that same distance, as if she’d drawn a circle around herself and was only just daring to step beyond it.

He wanted to go to her. Felt it tug beneath his skin, that strange urging he couldn’t name. But he didn’t move. Not yet.

Instead, he sat in the brambles and let the ocean paint her in sunlight and silence.

She was a stranger. And somehow she needed to be.

Emily’s living room carried the quiet of ceremony.

The pack gathered around the hearth. Sam stood like he always did, spine straight, presence heavy enough to pull attention without saying a word. Jared and Embry kept to the windows, Jake lounged against the armrest, Seth perched halfway up the stairs, alert even when still. Leah leaned into the corner with her arms folded. Paul beside her, tapping the trim with restless fingers. Quil sat near the edge of it all, feet flat, heart thudding harder than it had during any run.

Something was unsettled.

Sam cleared his throat, gaze sweeping over them. “Someone’s moved into the cabin past the ridge.”

A beat of silence.

Paul scoffed. “Another hiker trying to play off-grid sage?”

Sam didn’t react. “She’s not a hiker. Quil’s met her. So has Old Quil.”

Every head turned.

Quil sat straighter, caught off guard by the sudden attention. “She came into the shop. My grandfather didn’t just acknowledge her—he respected her. That’s… not normal.”

“He spoke to her?” Jake asked.

“Privately. He led her into the back room and told me not to follow.” Quil rubbed at his knee, trying to steady himself. “I overheard a little. She came from England. Said she was escaping something. It wasn’t travel. It was running.”

Seth leaned forward. “What’s she like?”

Quil hesitated, her image rising unbidden—the dark curls, the bruises ghosted on her skin, the quiet way she moved like each step might give way beneath her.

“She’s small. Looks worn down. Quiet voice. She doesn’t move like she trusts herself.”

Leah’s sharp breath cut the room. Paul muttered low, but Leah spoke louder.

“We just dealt with one girl who ran straight to the leeches. You want us to risk all this again—for another stranger we didn’t ask for?”

Paul nodded quickly. “What if she is one of them? Sadness, secrets, trauma—always leads back to the Cullens.”

Quil’s jaw tightened. “She’s not like that. She’s not asking for anything.”

“Then why are you asking us to care?” Leah pressed.

“I’m not,” he said, voice steady even as heat rose in his chest. “But I saw her. She was covered in bruises. A scar carved into her arm. Not self-inflicted. Not new. She’s hiding, not hunting.”

Sam stepped forward then, voice quiet but edged. “Old Quil believes she’s part of something. That she’s here for a reason. And that she needs protection, whether she wants it or not.”

“From what?” Jared asked.

Sam’s gaze stayed steady. “That’s the question. But we don’t find the answer by turning our backs.”

The room stilled.

Embry rubbed at his jaw. Seth was watching Quil like he’d only just started to hear him clearly. Leah folded her arms tighter across her chest. Paul didn’t push again.

Sam gave a final nod. “We keep watch. We don’t crowd. We don’t provoke. If something’s coming for her, it’ll come through us first.”

Chapter Text

The clouds hung low over Forks, stretching grey and heavy across the town like a held breath. Hermione kept her coat close, hood drawn up, the kind of mundane disguise that would never protect her from what she feared most. She needed new clothes—something warm, practical, less torn at the cuffs—but it wasn’t want that had pulled her into town. It was necessity. Restlessness. And maybe the illusion of normalcy.

Shop to shop, she drifted. Quiet. Unassuming. She tried to keep her steps even, her breaths slow, her wand untouched. People moved around her with the ease she’d once envied. It had been years since she’d walked freely through a village without layers of silence between her and the world.

Then she saw her .

Short pixie-cut, pale skin that didn’t quite blush against the cold, eyes too alert, too bright.

Vampire.

Hermione stopped mid-step.

The girl was browsing scarves—fingers fluttering over fabric in a way no human did. Not unless they’d lived centuries and still hadn’t lost the grace for beauty. Outside the shop stood another, taller, watchful. Male. His eyes scanned the street with something not unlike vigilance.

Hermione’s stomach dropped.

Her breath caught.

Vampires fought for Voldemort.

She didn’t know these vampires. They weren’t like the ones she’d seen in Britain. But magic didn’t always honor geography. Allegiances twisted.

Before they turned, before she could be seen, she muttered the Disillusionment Charm beneath her breath, wand pressed to her thigh. Cold magic draped over her skin like melted frost—prickling, hiding, barely enough.

What if they recognised me?

Hermione turned sharply, clutching her coat, rushing toward the street corner. Her boots hit pavement too loud. Her breath fogged in panicked bursts. But even as she moved, she knew.

They’d seen her.

Not clearly. Not magically. But aware . The way predators turned their heads toward shifts in air.

The girl paused mid-fold.

The tall one outside turned slightly, eyes narrowed toward nothing.

Hermione broke into a full run.

She didn’t stop until the trees swallowed her again, until moss cushioned her steps, until the cabin came into view like a lifeline.

Then she collapsed against the door.

Her hands shook uncontrollably, wand clattering to the floor.

Her lungs refused air in even measures—shallow, then none, then too much. Her knees buckled. The glamour frayed as panic stormed her chest. She slid down the wood, curls damp with sweat, mouth open but no sound escaping.

Alone. Cold. Seen.

She gasped once.

Then again.

Then finally, her breathing began to loosen, the magic settling around her like trembling wings.

The pull toward England had been slow and steady, like a tide that refused to recede. Hermione felt it first in the aftermath of her panic—after the forest had swallowed her terror and the sea had tried to hush it. But some questions couldn’t be muted by wind or foam.

She needed answers. Not whispers. Not rituals.

Truth.

She stepped into the hearth at dawn, wand gripped tight and breath wrapped in silent resolve. The floo flared green, then pale as she called through the flames:

“Minerva. It’s Hermione.”

No title. No pleasantries. Just the name of someone who no longer needed permission to ask.

There was a pause, then a ripple, and McGonagall’s familiar face appeared in the blaze—glasses perched low, lips thinned in concern.

“Hermione,” she said, voice steady as stone. “Come through.”

Hermione stepped into the flame, and the cabin vanished behind her.

The Headmistress’s office was quiet, curtains drawn against the morning rain. Books lined the walls in regal towers, papers stacked with a precision only Minerva knew how to command. The air smelled of ink, lemon balm, and lingering firewood.

McGonagall stood waiting beside the desk, arms folded—not stern, but prepared.

Hermione brushed soot from her sleeve and met her gaze.

“I need to know more,” she said simply.

McGonagall didn’t ask what about. She simply gestured to the chair opposite hers and said, “Then you’re exactly where you should be.”

The fire flickered low in Minerva McGonagall’s study, casting long shadows over stacks of parchment and worn leather-bound tomes. Hermione sat perched on the edge of the chair opposite the desk, posture too rigid to be comfortable, coat still buttoned high like she hadn’t quite decided to let herself breathe.

“I’ve found myself in America,” she said, finally. “Forks, Washington. Near a reservation. There are legends there that I can’t uncover. Vampires, too. Quiet ones, hidden. Not like the ones from the war.”

McGonagall’s expression didn’t flinch. Just settled deeper into thought.

“I see,” she murmured, folding her hands. “You’ve always chased the edges of understanding, Hermione. You are, of course, welcome to browse the library—restricted section included. But…”

Hermione tilted her head, tension spiking. “But?”

“There are questions,” Minerva said gently. “Not from me alone.”

Hermione stiffened. “Questions?”

McGonagall sighed. “Rumours. I don’t believe them, but I must ask. For your own sake.”

Hermione’s chest tightened.

“They say,” Minerva continued, voice careful, “that you cheated on Ron. That he found out—and that you attacked him. Nearly left him for dead.” She shook her head sharply. “They say you fled the country to avoid arrest.”

Hermione’s breath vanished.

“No,” she said—but it came out small. Too small.

Her hands trembled against her knees. The edges of the chair blurred. Her lungs clawed at the air.

“I know it isn’t true,” Minerva said firmly, leaning forward. “But it frightens me to see you here like this—without a note, without explanation, hiding. What could have happened to make you leave so suddenly?”

Hermione couldn’t answer.

She sat frozen, every nerve in her body screaming. Panic pressed against her chest like a flood tide. She could hear Ron’s voice in her memory, feel the slam of guilt in Harry’s words. Her glamour pulsed over her skin, trying to hold its shape.

But something had shifted.

Quil had seen her.

And somehow, despite the shame that curled through her ribs like thorns, she knew—

Minerva could be trusted.

With shaking fingers, she pulled her wand. Whispered the counter-spell.

And the glamour dissolved.

The bruises were stark against her skin—deep shadows, faded purple, angry reds. Her collarbone bore the imprint of something jagged. The scar on her arm, cruelly carved, sat exposed.

McGonagall gasped softly.

Her voice broke. “Oh, my child…”

Hermione didn’t respond.

She just stared at the floor, too tired to hide.

And Minerva. Long stoic, rarely shaken - stood from behind the desk and came around to her side.

She didn’t ask more questions.

She simply placed a hand on Hermione’s shoulder and stayed.

The words broke free like a dam giving way.

Hermione clutched the blanket Minerva had draped over her shoulders minutes earlier, and sat hunched on the old velvet armchair, voice splintering as each sentence clawed its way from memory to air. It came not in a flood, but in jagged bursts—fragments of survival shaped into truth. She hadn’t shared this with Luna. She hadn’t dared. But here, in the quiet sanctuary of Minerva’s study, something deeper allowed itself to speak.

“Three years,” Hermione whispered. “Three years of him coming home drunk, angry… cruel. Blaming me for work, for noise, for standing too still. And when he wasn't shouting, he was… cheating. Never hid it. Just accused me of pushing him to it.”

Minerva’s lips parted slightly, but no sound came. Only listening.

“Most nights,” Hermione continued, hands trembling around her knees, “he hit me. Not always in rage. Sometimes just because it was easier than words. And I took it. I told myself he was grieving. I told myself we'd come back from it.”

She paused, eyes glazing with unshed tears. Then she said the hardest part.

“I got pregnant last year. I didn’t tell anyone else. He found a potion. Forced me to drink it. Said we weren’t ready. Said I’d trap him. Then, he told his family I’d lost it. Blamed me. Told Molly I was careless. That I hexed myself too tightly in grief.”

Minerva’s hand flew to her mouth, her eyes brimming.

She looked at Minerva then, truly looked and saw her mentor, her guide, her fierce protector, fall apart.

Tears streaked down Minerva’s cheeks silently, her face lined not with age, but anguish. “How could I not see it?” she murmured. “How could I never ask? Never know ?”

Hermione shook her head, crying now too. “You weren’t supposed to. I made it invisible. I had to. It was safer when no one saw.”

Minerva knelt beside her, cupped her cheek with shaking fingers. “You are not to blame. Not for loving wrongly. Not for surviving. Not for leaving.”

Hermione folded forward, forehead against Minerva’s shoulder, both women crying as the storm inside was finally given name and shape.

The Hogwarts library had never lost its air of reverence. Even after all these years, walking beneath the high arches and along the whispering rows of shelves brought something close to comfort.

Hermione moved with practiced ease through the stacks, Minerva walking quietly beside her. They searched through the archives on magical creatures and cross-cultural folklore, stopping frequently to skim passages and cross-reference dusty volumes.

But the results were… thin.

“Very little on Quileute magic,” Hermione murmured, scanning a line in a book marked Spiritual Practices of Non-European Magical Cultures . “It’s mostly speculative. Written from a distance. Not from within.”

Minerva nodded. “That often happens with tribal traditions. Oral histories don’t lend themselves to Ministry-approved parchment.”

But the vampire sections were different.

Hermione pulled out a large tome bound in black leather and cracked it open to a detailed index: North American Covens and Their Affiliations.

There they were.

The Cullen Coven.

“No ties to Voldemort,” she read aloud, brows raising. “No known violence toward magical folk. Self-declared pacifists.”

Minerva leaned over. “Curious.”

Hermione kept reading, fingers sliding across the page.

“Vegetarian vampires,” she said, almost amused. “Feed only on animals. Consider themselves morally elevated because of it.” She let out a small, startled huff. “I mean, the term’s a little optimistic… but it’s something.”

Minerva chuckled softly. “Perhaps they're less carnivorous, but certainly not herbivores.”

Hermione closed the book gently, eyes softer now. “They’re not like the ones from the war. Maybe I don’t have to be afraid.”

They walked in companionable silence through the library for a little while longer, Hermione pulling a few texts on healing brews and trauma-calming charms for later, Minerva occasionally passing her volumes with quiet care.

As they reached the archway, Minerva paused and placed a hand lightly on her shoulder.

“Come back anytime,” she said simply. “You’re still ours.”

Hermione nodded, holding the sentiment close.

The walk back to her office was slow, thoughtful. Her body ached less now, the heaviness from earlier replaced by a quiet focus. She’d spend the next few days back in her sanctuary; working her brews, steeping balm leaves, scribbling new formulations in Luna’s old ink.

She wouldn’t go near Forks.

Not yet.

Let the waters still.

Let her magic breathe.

She reached the cottage as the sun began to dip, casting pale gold through the corridor windows. Her fingers skimmed the runes etched into the doorframe, drawing strength from their steady presence.

But when she stepped inside, something vibrated in the air.

Low. Rhythmic.

Her eyes locked instantly onto the red envelope perched on the table.

A Howler.

It pulsed with stored rage—waiting, twitching, clearly active for hours. The charm keeping it whole was starting to fray at the edges, and small bursts of heat curled outward like smoke from its corners.

Hermione didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Just stared.

The light in the room dimmed slightly as the envelope jittered against the wood.

She’d find out soon what it carried.

But first, she needed to decide how deeply she was willing to listen.

Chapter Text

The envelope burst like a spell gone wrong, red wax curling into sparks as the voice ripped through the room.

“HERMIONE JEAN GRANGER.
HOW DARE YOU LEAVE WITHOUT TELLING ME.
I’VE BEEN WORRIED SICK.
RON’S BEEN SPOUTING ABSOLUTE RUBBISH ABOUT YOU—AND HE CAN’T EVEN KEEP HIS STORY STRAIGHT.
TELL ME YOU’RE SAFE. TELL ME WHERE YOU ARE.
LUNA SWEARS YOU’RE FINE BUT WON’T SAY WHERE.
I MISS YOU, MIA.”

The Howler burned out with a pop, scattering soot and silence across the room.

Hermione didn’t move. She stood frozen, shoulders hunched, eyes locked on the space the voice had filled. It felt like being struck in the chest and soothed all at once.

George.

Her anchor. Her laughter in the dark. The one person she’d tried hardest not to think about—because thinking about him meant remembering what she had lost, and what she still might lose.

But his voice—sharp, unfiltered, so unmistakably him—cracked something open in her.

Tears spilled before she realized they’d risen. She folded onto the sofa, breath hitching in uneven bursts. Not from shame. Not even from fear. From the shock of being missed.

George had always known. Not the details, but enough. He had tried to ask, tried to reach her, and she had slammed the door every time, terrified of what would happen if he saw too much.

But now his anger wasn’t at her. It was for her.

“I miss you, Mia.”

The words echoed until she was standing by the floo, hands trembling, ash smudging her wrist. She hadn’t planned this. But the ember of warmth that his voice had left behind tugged at her like a thread pulled tight across the sea.

“George?” Her voice cracked, but it carried.

His face burst into the flames almost instantly, green fire licking around his sharp cheekbones, his eyes wide and wild. “Mia?”

She nodded. “Can you come through? It’s open.”

There wasn’t a heartbeat’s hesitation.

The flames flared, and then he was there—tripping over the hearthrug, stumbling forward, before striding across the room in two long steps. His arms closed around her, solid and crushing, so familiar it hurt.

Hermione squeaked in pain, the bruises flaring like fire beneath his grip.

He froze, releasing her instantly, hands hovering uselessly in the air. His expression shifted in an instant from relief to horror.

“Right,” he said, voice tight. “What the hell’s going on, Mia?”

Hermione hugged her arms around her middle, words stuck behind her teeth. The only sound was the soft crackle of dying flame.

“I need to tell you,” she whispered.

George only nodded. He didn’t push.

The story didn’t pour out—it cracked, jagged and raw, each piece pried from a silence she had lived in too long. Ron’s drinking. His temper. The affairs. The bruises. The night she realized her body had stopped belonging to her. The pregnancy. The potion. The lies Ron had spun to protect himself at her expense.

When she said, “I cracked,” George’s jaw tightened.

When she said, “Luna saved me,” he took a step closer.

When she whispered, “I didn’t know if anyone would believe me,” his face broke.

George clenched his fists so hard she could hear the bones in his hands protest. “That bastard,” he growled. “That absolute— You’re my sister, Hermione. My family. And he did this under our bloody noses?”

She shook her head, voice thin. “I didn’t let anyone see.”

“But I should have.” His pacing was sharp, furious, a caged thing barely kept in check. “I knew something was wrong. I asked. Years ago, I asked you. And you told me you were fine.”

“I was scared,” she whispered. “Scared of losing all of you.”

That stopped him cold. His rage shattered into heartbreak. He turned, eyes shining, and said softly, “You never would’ve lost me. Not ever. You could’ve come to me with blood on your sleeves and no words in your throat, and I still would’ve stood by you.”

Her tears spilled freely.

George crossed to her, gentler this time, placing both hands on her shoulders with careful steadiness. “You don’t owe me anything. But thank you for telling me. And I swear to Merlin—he’ll never touch your life again.”

Hermione nodded, too raw for words.

This time, when he hugged her, he was careful. Slow. A solid weight that didn’t press against her bruises. Just held her.

The cabin sighed around them, wards humming softly at the window.

George eventually moved about like he belonged there, shrugging off his coat, poking at the shelves and bundles of dried herbs without touching. He whistled low. “Cozy little hideout you’ve got here. Proper witch’s den.”

Hermione smiled faintly into her tea.

Then George turned, grin tugging at his mouth. “Right. We’re going for a run.”

Hermione blinked. “A—what?”

“A run, Mia. You remember. After the war, when I couldn’t breathe through the grief and you refused to let me rot in it.”

Her eyes softened. “When we first learned Animagus transformation.”

“Exactly. You helped me rage. You let me survive. And you—” he jabbed a finger toward her, grin widening— “turned yourself into the finest snow leopard I’ve ever seen.”

Hermione flushed. “Ron used to accuse us of things.”

George rolled his eyes. “Let him choke on his own lies. Come on.”

He held his wand out like an invitation.

Hermione hesitated, the ghosts of bruises tugging beneath her skin. But George was already pulling her toward the door, already smiling like sunlight.

“Come on,” he coaxed. “Let me remind you that your bones were built for more than pain.”

She stepped forward.

He slung his arm around her shoulder, warm and solid. Together, they passed through the cabin’s wards and into the hush of the forest where autumn clung stubbornly to the leaves.

Without warning, George shouted, “Race you to the ridge!” and sprinted ahead, laughter trailing behind him like sparks of magic. Hermione watched him go, eyes wide. Then, her heart pounding with something close to old joy, she took off after him.

The forest welcomed them like an old friend. Leaves dappled with fading gold shifted softly in the breeze as Hermione paused at the edge of the clearing, fingers curled around the wand she had used more times for defense than discovery. George had already slipped off his coat, face flushed with anticipation, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

"You remember how, right?" he asked, half-teasing. "Don’t want you turning into a confused puffskein in the middle of my race."

She shot him a look, a mix of exasperation and affection, and closed her eyes. She hadn’t done this in years. Not since she had wrapped her transformation into silence alongside everything else. Becoming something other had once felt freeing, but Ron had twisted even that, making it something ugly.

Now, she breathed in. Magic spread through her limbs like warmth unfurling. She felt the shift as sensation fractured, her skin giving way to fur, bones reshaping, eyes sharpening with crystalline precision. Her breath became silent and effortless.

She stood, large and sure-footed, a snow leopard cloaked in moonstone fur patterned with pale silver rosettes that shimmered faintly in the afternoon light. Her form was sleek and powerful, built for stealth, for solitude, for swift grace. Her heart raced, not with panic, but with freedom.

Across from her, George had already shifted. His red fox form stayed low to the ground, vibrant and grinning. His tail curled like flame. He barked once in excitement and bolted into the trees.

Hermione hesitated just long enough to feel the strength in her limbs before taking off after him. She was faster, effortless. She slowed deliberately, letting him catch up, letting his joy fuel her own. The forest blurred around them, trunks whipping past, leaves scattering like laughter. Her thoughts quieted. There was no memory here, no shame, just speed, instinct, earth, magic, and movement.

She leapt over fallen logs with precision, curved her body through narrow spaces, weaving seamlessly through the trees. George weaved behind her in bright zigzags, nipping playfully at her heels.

Then she felt it, a presence. Large, not threatening, something steady and rooted deep. She slowed, ears twitching, nose lifting to catch the scent. It hovered, ancient and earthy, like pine needles and distant thunder. She glanced back at George, who had also slowed, sensing the shift.

With a low chuff, Hermione turned and led him left, away from the figure in the distance. She did not run in fear. She moved with caution, with wisdom, and the fox followed.

The shoreline was soft beneath their paws. Waves curled low like whispered laughter. Snow leopard and red fox darted through seafoam, weaving between driftwood and splashes, two flickers of magic unburdened by grief for an hour. Hermione led gracefully, skimming just beneath the rising tide before springing toward the dunes. George kept pace, leaping into the water with reckless joy, yipping once when a wave crashed over his tail. Together, they played in the sun-dappled spray, instinct replacing thought, hearts beating to a rhythm no longer shaped by survival.

Eventually, Hermione padded toward the treeline, and George followed. Both slowed, shedding their magic beneath the sighing leaves. Fur gave way to skin, silence to breath, and they stood again in human form, dripping and flushed with quiet exhilaration.

They did not notice the figure tucked behind the cypress grove, half-shadowed, watching with curiosity and restraint. The forest held its breath for them.

George slung his damp shirt over a branch before flopping into the sand, still grinning. Hermione settled beside him, curling into his side, resting her head just beneath his collarbone. The wind tugged at her curls gently, the sea humming behind them.

They sat in stillness, letting friendship, love, and sorrow occupy the same space.

“Fred would have killed Ron by now,” George said suddenly, voice low.

Hermione blinked slowly. “I still miss him,” she whispered. “Every day.”

George’s breath hitched. “He loved you, you know. Properly. Told me once—if he made it through the war, he was going to ask you out. Not as a joke. A proper date.”

Hermione froze for a moment, the ache that had hidden inside her chest surging forward. She remembered the sixth year, fleeting nights full of laughter. Whispered journal pages being the only thing keeping her sane he following year on the run. Fred had punched Ron when he left the she discovered years later.

George turned to her, eyes glassy. “I was the only one who knew, wasn’t I?”

She nodded, barely.

“We didn’t tell anyone,” he said softly. “Out of respect. For Ron. For the mess.”

George swallowed hard. “He’d want you happy now, Mia.”

Hermione reached for his hand and curled her fingers through his. The tears came quietly, unannounced. George let his fall too, unashamed. They sat together, two survivors wrapped in salt wind and memory, letting grief exist exactly as it needed to.

From the treeline, beneath a knotted cypress marked by age and storm, Old Quil watched. His eyes had tracked movement through the surf, flashes of pale fur and red blaze darting through seafoam like myth. The transformation stirred something ancient in him, something the fires had not spoken of in years. A snow leopard, uncommon and unforeseen, yet somehow right.

He’d seen her shift. Fur gave way to skin, magic loosening like a thread finally freed. He waited patiently until the pair settled into a comfortable silence before stepping forward.

Her head snapped toward the trees, heart hammering at the sight of him, half-tensed to flee, half ready to fight.

Old Quil raised a palm. No threat. No stance of war.

“You are not the only one marked by silence,” he said. “Your story spills into ours now. And the fires have started to listen.”

Hermione blinked.

George stepped forward instinctively, protective. “She’s not alone,” he said, steady.

Quil looked at him with curiosity, eyes narrowing in reverent study rather than suspicion. “The fires didn’t name you. And yet, you have stepped into her arc like a flame the wind didn’t plan for.”

Hermione felt her cheeks flush.

“He’s important,” she said simply. “To me.”

Quil nodded thoughtfully. “There’s a bonfire tonight, the old kind. Stories carved in smoke. You should come. Both of you.”

Hermione stiffened, instinct pulling her backward. “I’m not sure.”

George nudged her gently. “You’ve spent too long talking only to trees and tea kettles. People won’t heal you, but connection might.”

She glanced between them and then nodded hesitantly. “Okay. We’ll come.”

Quil turned with quiet grace. Before disappearing into the forest mist he turned and told the watching pair “I will not speak of what I have heard. I know both the pain and importance of secrets.” Hermione exhaled, the breath she hadn’t known she was holding leaving her in relief.

George stretched, cracked his knuckles, and shot her a sideways smile. “Race you back?”

She smirked. “Only if you don’t mind losing.”

They transformed together, snow and flame, and shot into the trees, laughter trailing behind them like magic itself.

Back at the cabin, Hermione stood over the wooden counter, sleeves rolled up. Her wand guided vegetables into slices mid-air. She brewed a spiced stew infused with comfort charms, cut sourdough rolls she had baked that morning, and ladled elderflower cider into bottles tied with warmth spells. If she was going to show up, she would show up with care.

Chapter Text

The fire pit was half-built, logs stacked in a careful starburst around a bed of kindling that smelled of sage and old cedar. Seth worked methodically, sleeves rolled up, palms smudged with ash and resin. The sun dipped low, casting soft shadows across the clearing as preparations continued. Embry and Jared joked nearby, stringing lanterns between trees, but Seth’s focus drifted.

He had been told she was coming. The outsider, like Bella had once been, though this felt different. Bella had been tethered to vampires, woven in tension. Hermione was untethered. Unknown. And yet Old Quil had invited her. That meant something. Seth did not know why his chest buzzed with anticipation. He did not know what he expected from someone who shimmered with secrecy. Something old inside him stirred, the kind of curiosity that walked hand-in-hand with instinct.

Near the edge of the clearing, Leah sat cross-legged on a stump, arms folded, her gaze sharp with irritation.

“She doesn’t belong here,” she muttered.

“You don’t know her,” Seth replied softly without looking at her.

“I didn’t know Bella either,” Leah snapped. “And look how that turned out.”

Seth said nothing. He only felt the trees shift. Two figures approached, one familiar, the other not. They stepped from the forest with quiet power, arms full of food, shoulders easy. The woman walked slightly ahead, graceful and careful, her curls catching the last sunlight. The man beside her moved differently, red-haired, bright-eyed, confidence carved into his stride. Quil had only mentioned one visitor. Seth’s attention sharpened.

Hermione stepped first toward Old Quil, dipping her head respectfully. Her voice was low and steady. “Thank you for the invitation,” she said.

Old Quil nodded slowly. “The fires acknowledge kindness,” he said.

He stood a few paces back, arms folded, trying not to smile too openly. Hermione reached his side and glanced between him and the group, then gestured toward her companion.

“This is George,” she said softly.

Seth’s eyes narrowed, not in suspicion but in curiosity. Even if the fires had not spoken of him, something about George’s relaxed, alert stance suggested he mattered just as much.

The scent of smoke and damp earth mingled as the sun fully disappeared behind the horizon. The bonfire crackled to life, shadows flickering across familiar faces and unfamiliar stories. Old Quil stood with the quiet gravity of someone who carried history on his shoulders. His voice was soft at first, reverent, the language of old fires, names carried in embers, truths etched in flicker and flame.

Hermione sat beside George, her posture small, hands folded tightly in her lap. She did not meet anyone’s gaze as she was introduced. Not Embry’s friendly nod, not Jake’s curious tilt of the head, not Seth’s steady watch. When George slipped his arm around her shoulders, something inside her settled. Not fully, but enough to stay.

Seth noticed. He told himself it was nothing, just curiosity, just caution. But when Hermione leaned into George, her tension melting slightly, he felt something lodge beneath his ribs. He did not understand it yet, but it stirred.

Quil introduced them simply. “This is Hermione and this is George. They have come bearing food and witness.”

Leah scoffed quietly, but the others nodded. No one pressed. No one questioned.

They settled around the fire in a rough circle. Logs and blankets passed like ritual. Old Quil took his seat beside the flame, the light painting his profile in amber and shadow. He spoke of legends, the first wolves, the songs of transformation, the covenant that kept their blood awake. Seth listened, half-lost in rhythm.

Hermione did not speak. She watched the fire, her head tilted toward George, anchoring herself to presence to resist slipping into memory. Then Quil told the tale of the cold ones. His voice dropped, timber deepening. He spoke of pale eyes, of battles wrapped in snow, of bloodlines broken and promises kept with teeth. He spoke of betrayal and terror and the way the cold ones move like wind through bodies unprepared.

Seth watched Hermione. Her expression shifted instantly. George turned to her at the same moment. Their eyes met, grimace matching grimace, not theatrical, not performative, just two people who knew seemed to understand the legend was not merely a legend. Fear flickered between them and Seth caught it. The fire burned quietly on, drawing all the stories into smoke.

When the last story faded into silence, the group began to shift. Some rose for drinks, others drifted to soft conversations at the edges of the firelight. The stars had spilled across the night, and yet Seth’s thoughts remained fixed on the woman beside the red-haired man. Hermione had barely spoken, but her presence lingered like an unfinished melody. That wary grace, the way she leaned into George—not for show but for steadiness—kept Seth watching more closely than he meant to.

Eventually, he crossed the space between them. “Hey,” he said, casual enough, though there was roughness in his voice he had not anticipated. “I just wanted to say welcome.”

Hermione turned slowly her body towards him, but her eyes continued watching the firelight and the sea beyond. George glanced over, giving Seth a lopsided grin and a nod.

“Thank you,” she said softly. “It’s beautiful here.”

Seth tucked his hands into his pockets. “What brought you?”

Hermione responded, “I needed a break from England. A friend owns a cabin nearby, so I came to breathe. I didn’t plan how long I’d stay.” Her voice carried truth but also the precision people use when they try not to bleed too much into conversation.

George smiled, easy and bright. “I couldn’t let her disappear entirely,” he said, kissing Hermione’s temple with warmth that asked for nothing in return. “I missed my Mia. I’m only here a week. Work calls.”

Seth nodded, but something caught in his chest. A glance, quick and instinctive. When Hermione’s eyes met his, her gaze was steady, unreadable, yet something shifted. A soft pulse behind his ribs. The ground seemed to tilt gently beneath him, like a tide pulled by a gravity too ancient to name. The scent of salt air sharpened, the flicker of firelight softened.

She was suddenly the center of everything. She was the sea and the storm. The sunlit break and the dark sky before it. She was light, she was the stars, she was the earth.

Seth blinked and said nothing.

Chapter Text

The moment her eyes met Seth’s, everything unravelled.

Hermione had known magic in its many forms before. She had felt the coils of prophecy wind around her, had endured the tug of danger like a storm pulling her into its heart. But this was something different. It was not threatening, not aggressive, yet it arrived with such suddenness and vastness that it stole her breath. It was unfamiliar and yet it demanded to be acknowledged.

She stumbled back a fraction, her heart hammering in a rhythm that jarred against her chest. The world seemed too sharp and too blurred all at once. Her hands clenched at the edge of her coat as though by holding onto something tangible she might keep herself from being swept into an unseen current.

George leaned close, concern flickering beneath his usual composure. “Mia?”

Her throat closed around the word. “I… I need to leave. Now.”

George did not question her. He turned at once, his eyes scanning the gathered pack with the easy charm that came so naturally to him. “Sorry, everyone,” he said lightly, though his tone carried a quiet insistence that made it clear he meant it. “She’s not feeling her best. A bit too much excitement for one evening. Thank you for the warmth and the stories.”

Old Quil gave a single nod, slow and knowing.

Seth remained still, his gaze following Hermione as though the air itself was charged between them. Tension hummed off her like the thrum of spellfire.

Without hesitation George placed a steadying hand against her back. She clung to his arm as though it were the only thing holding her together, her breaths coming shallow and unsteady. They slipped back into the forest, the night pressing close around them.

The cabin received them in silence.

Hermione collapsed onto the sofa, every muscle slack with exhaustion though her mind still reeled. Her hands trembled, her chest ached. She had no name for what she had felt, no explanation for the way that single look had embedded itself within her as if it had always belonged there. She hated the uncertainty, hated not understanding the nature of her own reaction.

George crouched beside her, drawing a blanket over her knees with gentle precision. He said nothing. He knew her too well to press when the storm was still raging behind her eyes.

Outside, the forest listened.

The fire snapped softly, painting the walls in strokes of gold. Hermione sat cross-legged on the rug, her notebook balanced against her knee, wand tapping idly at its spine. George lay sprawled across the sofa, one arm shielding his eyes, the other stirring the remnants of his tea with the end of his wand as if it were some idle game.

She scarcely noticed him. Her mind was tangled, thoughts knotted too tightly to release.

“Those legends Quil told,” she murmured, almost to herself. “The great wolves, guardians against something they called cold ones.” Her brow furrowed. “That has to mean vampires. It’s too precise, too aligned with lore we already know, for it to be coincidence.”

George cracked one eye open. “And the term ‘cold ones’ was hardly subtle.”

Hermione nodded, turning another page. “If the vampires are real, which we already know they are, then what about the rest of it?” Her voice lowered. “The boys at the bonfire. Not the elders, but the ones who stayed further out. They were enormous. Not just tall, not just broad. Unnaturally so.”

George let out a thoughtful sound. “One of them brushed my shoulder and I nearly ended up in the stew.”

She didn't laugh. Her gaze fixed on the fire. “They’re wolves, aren’t they?”

George sat upright, more serious now. “You believe the legends were literal.”

“I think…” Hermione exhaled slowly. “I think I escaped one kind of magic only to stumble into another. I left behind spells, politics, a world that devoured me. I wanted quiet. Simplicity.”

George’s expression softened as he watched her.

“And instead I’ve walked straight back into stories. But these aren’t tales told around a hearth. They’re living, breathing truths. Shape-shifting boys, ancient protectors wrapped in the bodies of teenagers.”

Her voice faltered. “And whatever happened with Seth… I felt something. It was not magic, not as I have ever known it. It was something older.”

George reached for her hand, giving it a firm squeeze. “You don’t have to understand it tonight. You only need to know you aren’t alone.”

She lifted her eyes to him, shining with unshed tears.

“Some days I think the universe is forcing me to remember,” she whispered. “Not forget.”

George leaned back thoughtfully. “Or perhaps it’s telling you that you’re not finished yet.”

Silence stretched between them, her fingers curling too tightly around the edge of the blanket. Firelight flickered across her face, painting her grief in gold.

“You’re spiralling, Mia,” George said gently. “Go to bed. Please. Let your thoughts rest for a while.”

She did not argue.

He guided her to the small bedroom, his hand warm against her back. She slipped beneath the sheets without protest, but though the cabin’s wards thrummed softly, her mind refused to still. The pull from the bonfire, the legends, Seth—it all pulsed inside her like a heartbeat that did not belong to her.

Eventually, sleep claimed her.

The dream took her back to the flat above the joke shop, back when the walls rang with laughter and home was painted in every corner. Golden light soaked everything in nostalgia.

Fred leaned against the counter, his usual grin softened into something gentler.

“You finally let me in,” he said.

Hermione’s throat tightened. “I’ve dreamed of you for years. But you never came.”

He stepped forward, smile faltering. “It wasn’t time.”

She broke.

The tears came without warning, wrenching sobs that folded her in on herself. Fred caught her instantly, arms wrapping her with a strength that grounded her. She pressed her face against his shoulder, breathing in the faint scent of his shirt, something she had forgotten until this very moment.

“I’m sorry,” she cried. “I left you. We all left.”

Fred pulled back just enough to brush a strand of hair from her face. “Don’t apologise for surviving,” he said gently. “And don’t you dare feel guilty for moving forward.”

Hermione lifted her eyes, finding his gaze serious now, heavy with a truth that weighed on his voice.

“I should have been there,” he whispered. “For everything. For Ron. For the bruises. I wanted to keep you safe like I promised.”

Her lip trembled. “You didn’t know.”

“I knew enough,” he said, his voice breaking. “And I watched you suffer when you thought no one saw.”

She swallowed hard. “Then why didn’t you stop him?”

His answer came ragged. “Because I couldn’t. I was paralysed by grief and fear. But I have never stopped wanting you safe.”

She clung to his hand, desperate not to lose him again.

He squeezed it once. “There is someone who will look after you the way you deserve. You may not see it yet, but it’s coming.”

Her heart thundered as her eyes closed.

Fred pressed a kiss to her forehead, soft and steady, and then the dream dissolved.

She woke to the sound of birdsong and George moving in the kitchen. Her pillow was damp, her body heavy. Yet something had shifted.

Fred had come back.

And he had left her with more than memory. He had given her permission.

Days passed and the ache returned.

It settled low in her chest, a subtle tug, as if her magic was trying to pulse in rhythm with something beyond her reach. Hermione sat on the cabin’s porch steps, knees drawn up, staring into the moonlit trees as though they might surrender their secrets.

George leaned against the doorway, watching her quietly.

“It’s been three hours since you tried pretending you’re fine,” he said softly. “Might be time to stop pretending.”

She did not look at him. “Something’s wrong with me.”

He crouched beside her, serious but kind. “Nothing’s wrong. You’ve simply stumbled into something you don’t yet understand. Shall we run?”

After a moment’s hesitation, she nodded.

The forest embraced them like an old confidant.

Hermione shifted easily this time, her snow leopard form slipping into being with quiet elegance. George bounded ahead, all russet fur and lithe grace, weaving between the brambles like flame through dry leaves. They spoke no words. They simply moved.

With each stride Hermione felt her mind clear, her thoughts stripped bare under the touch of the moon. The ache within her dulled. She was breath and muscle and instinct.

Until she felt something else.

It did not come with scent, not at first. It was presence. Vast. Alive. Moving.

Hermione slowed, ears pricking toward the ridge where the trees thinned. George halted beside her, fox-form taut with alertness.

And then it stepped into the open.

A wolf.

Massive, silent, fur dark as twilight, eyes golden and unreadable.

It did not snarl. It did not bare its teeth. It simply stood, watching.

Hermione froze, not with fear but with recognition.

The ache in her chest surged, then steadied. It was no longer pain but something else entirely. A whisper from deep within, as if something long lost had murmured at last, there you are.

She had no language for it, yet it was undeniable.

The wolf stepped forward, slow and deliberate. Its gaze never wavered. There was no threat, no hesitation. Only awareness.

George pressed close to her flank, his fur brushing hers, anchoring her to the earth.

They didn't run.

They stood together in the clearing, three creatures born of myth and magic, suspended in a silence that was too precise to be chance.

Hermione exhaled, muscles easing. She took a single step forward, cautious, acknowledging rather than challenging.

The wolf did not retreat.

Something shifted in the air, intangible but certain. Not words, not spellcraft, but a recognition older than language itself.

Two threads had found their way back to the same stitch.

Chapter Text

The wind had been quiet tonight.

He’d followed its scent patterns for hours, brushing along familiar moss and shale, weaving past cedar trunks tattooed with age. His form shifted with practiced ease: muscle, fur, heat. The wolf ran not out of duty tonight, but instinct.

But then, there they were.

He paused, mid-stride, at the edge of the slope. Froze.

A fox.

Fine. Odd, but not impossible.

Then—a snow leopard.

He stilled.

The wolf didn’t move. Didn’t breathe loudly. His eyes narrowed, posture low but controlled.

The forest didn’t know these creatures.

They didn’t belong.

And yet, they weren’t illusions. He could hear their paws against soil. See their sides rising with breath. They were real. Out of place. Completely foreign.

They weren’t vampires.

They weren’t pack.

And they didn’t run.

The wolf lowered his head slightly, not in submission but in measure. Watching. Assessing.

Their scents weren’t aggressive. The fox had tension. The leopard had focus. He didn’t understand what they were doing here but neither appeared lost. And that disturbed him more.

The three animals stood together, looking at one another. None taking a step closer, none stepping backwards. 

Seth felt the strain on his imprint easing slightly. Hermione.

She must be nearby, in the woods. It wasn’t safe, there were unknown animals. THe fox would be harmless, but leopard. That would cause harm. 

The wolf stepped forward, slowly, deliberately, towards the animals. Hoping to scare them into brush, move them along, away from Hermione.

He succeeded, before he could get closer, the leopard scooped the fox in it’s mouth, spinning to pad away.

Across the mind-link, Seth’s thoughts stirred the quiet like ripples in still water.

“I just saw something,” he said, voice laced with disbelief and low tension. “Snow leopard. Fox. Together. Moving like they know the land.”

The mental thread buzzed, filled with confused murmurs from the pack:

“A snow leopard? What the hell?”
“Not possible. That’s not even native.”
“Why would a leopard be running with a fox?”

The questions came fast, clipped, but one thing was clear: they didn’t recognize it.. Whatever it was… it didn’t belong. And yet, it didn’t feel hostile.

Sam’s voice cut through the static, steady and commanding. “Follow them. Don’t engage. Just watch. If they’re moving together, that means something.”

The wolf turned back toward the glade, paws gliding across earth that suddenly felt unfamiliar. He could still hear the quiet breath of the forest. Still feel the scents stirring, grounded but foreign.

Fox. Leopard.

And they weren’t afraid despite turning and moving awat.

That, more than anything, made his hackles rise.

The snow leopard turned, muscles rippling under moonlight, and with a swift, startling motion, scooped the fox into her jaws like a mother lifting a cub.

He barely had time to process before she ran.

Not bolted.

Ran.

Fast.

Blurring-fast.

The forest blurred around her as if it had bent to her speed. Her paws barely touched the ground. Leaves didn’t rustle, branches didn’t snap. Instead, just silence and motion, untethered.

The wolf surged forward in response, pushing his body to its limit, lungs burning, limbs stretching into every ounce of enhanced strength. But he couldn’t close the distance.

Not even close.

How?

Wolves were the fastest living things in this territory. Their magic was built for pursuit, for cutting through woods like flame. But this creature… she ran like she belonged to wind itself.

Her scent faded quickly, but not entirely. He kept tracking, leaping fallen logs and skimming river bends until he reached the invisible threshold.

The pack’s border.

He stopped.

Claws dug into moss.

She’d passed into Cullen land.

He wasn’t allowed there. But he couldn’t stop watching. Eyes narrowed, body coiled, listening.

The woods beyond felt impossibly quiet.

No crack of twig. No whisper of breath.

He stayed there for nearly an hour.

Listening.

Watching.

Waiting for something to return the gaze.

But they didn’t return.

Chapter Text

The trees thinned just enough for the moonlight to spill across their forms. Hermione crouched beneath a thick fir, moss hanging from its branches, her breaths shallow but steady. George was beside her, muscles coiled, his russet fur blending with the shadows. The sprint through the forest had cleared her mind mostly, yet her heart still pounded as though it might burst.

George flicked his tail once, low, a quiet signal that did not escape her. She narrowed her eyes, scanning the treeline with alert precision. Every shadow seemed to move. Every rustle made her senses flare.

Then came the sound: deliberate, sharp. Movement from the darkness. She stiffened, and so did George.

From the shadows stepped a figure, calm and deliberate. Blonde hair caught the moonlight, tousled yet perfect in its chaos. His eyes were amber, piercing, intelligent, and they locked on them with a measured curiosity that made Hermione’s blood run taut with caution. He moved fluidly, controlled, like every step had been rehearsed a thousand times over.

A vampire.

Hermione’s ears flattened instinctively, and George lowered his body closer to the ground.

“Shift back,” the man said. His voice was smooth, calm, neutral. There was no venom, yet it carried the weight of authority, the unspoken understanding that obedience was expected.

Neither of them moved. Hermione’s hackles rose, the instincts of predator and human alike bristling in tandem.

The vampire tilted his head slightly, an unfazed, calculating tilt. “I will not harm you,” he repeated, slower this time. “But you are on my territory. I will say it once more. Shift.”

George flicked his ears toward her, tension rippling through his body. Hermione met his gaze, a silent command: let me handle this.

She stepped forward. Her snow leopard form moved like mist across frozen ground, silent and purposeful. She stopped a few feet from him, her amber eyes locking with his in a gaze neither friendly nor hostile, yet deeply aware.

The world seemed to hold its breath in that moment.

Slowly, deliberately, Hermione allowed her body to shift. Bones realigned, limbs folding inward, the heat pulsing beneath her skin before fading. Fur gave way to flesh. She stood upright now, wand in hand but lowered, shoulders squared despite the dampness clinging to her cloak.

“Territory,” she said evenly, her voice quiet but firm. “Forgive us. We did not know.”

The vampire studied her without flinching. “Few know,” he said. “Few realize crossing boundaries in animal form is dangerous. Especially snow leopards.”

“You knew we were not normal animals,” Hermione said, her voice steady.

“You were watching the wolf,” he replied. “Smart. But he was not the only one observing.”

George stepped closer, standing beside her now in human form, tousled hair damp with forest dew. His grin was casual, but it did not reach his eyes. Hermione did not trust it entirely.

“Perhaps a proper introduction is due,” George said lightly.

The vampire inclined his head faintly. “Carlisle Cullen. I do not yet consider you a threat. I remain cautious, yes.”

Hermione’s grip tightened on her wand. “I mean no harm,” she said honestly. “I am hiding. That is all.”

Carlisle studied her, amber eyes steady and knowing. “From whom?” he asked.

She did not answer.

A breeze stirred the branches above, the forest exhaling softly as if aware of the fragile truce forming. Carlisle did not move closer, yet his presence was solid, timeless, like marble carved over centuries. His words were careful, precise, deliberate. “We were not involved in your war,” he said. “We were aware, yes. But we did not support the dark side.”

Hermione’s stance remained strong. Her wand hand was loose but ready. “No,” she said quietly. “You did not support us either.”

Carlisle nodded once. “It was not our fight. We do not intervene unless necessity demands it. Survival. Protection. Peace.”

She considered his words, the faint hum of magic along her fingertips reminding her that she belonged to another world, one governed by human hands and arcane forces. “I mean no harm to you or your family,” she said. “But I will defend myself if I must.”

He inclined his head again, acknowledging her tone. “Understood. I would not expect anything less.”

There was a shift in the air, subtle yet palpable. Carlisle took a small step back, a gesture that felt more like permission than departure. “This land holds ancient tensions. Yours may stir them. I will speak to my family. You are not hunted here, yet we will observe.”

Hermione exhaled, feeling the knot in her chest ease slightly. George, leaning back, crossed his arms with quiet amusement. “Well,” he said, “that was not ominous at all.”

A faint smirk curved her lips.

Carlisle began to retreat, his steps soundless, disappearing into the mist of trees. Hermione whispered, “Thank you.”

But he was already gone, swallowed by the night.

The forest held still for a moment longer, the only sound the rustle of pine needles and the faint sigh of wind. George lingered, watching, before shifting. The russet fur and fox form melted into limbs and breath, leaving him upright and human once more. Wand tucked into his sleeve, he exhaled slowly. “Well,” he said, brushing dirt from his trousers, “that was dramatic.”

Hermione remained in her snow leopard form a moment longer, ears flicking, muscles still taut, feeling the echo of what had passed. She had stared unflinchingly into a vampire’s eyes in her unshifted form, and something in her told her it mattered.

They walked together through the forest, human now, footsteps soft on the pine needles. George occasionally glanced at her, checking for cracks in her calm. Hermione’s mind raced, piecing together observations, analysing territory, the wolf, the vampire’s intent, and the strange interplay of their presences.

At last, they reached the ridge where the cabin rose through the trees, warm light spilling from its windows across the darkened earth. Quil stood on the porch, arms crossed, watching their approach. Hermione noticed the subtle way his nostrils flared, the way he tilted his head as though the scene before him did not entirely fit with expectation.

“Can we help you?” Hermione asked, keeping her tone steady.

Quil held up a leather-tied sack. “Bottles and pots. From the bonfire.”

Hermione’s expression softened. “Of course. Thank you.”

George stepped forward, his usual easy charm in place. “Come on in then. We’ve got leftover stew and a fire that is somehow still trying to burn my socks off.”

Hermione gave him a glare sharp enough to make him stagger, yet he only winked in return.

Quil hesitated, then nodded slightly before crossing the threshold into the cabin with measured calm, the weight of the night lingering in his posture.

Hermione followed, breathing in the warmth and the smell of woodsmoke, feeling the tension in her body slowly release, though the echoes of the forest would not leave so easily.

As they settled into the cottage’s living space, the beat of owl wings sliced through the quiet like warning bells. It came fast, talons skimming the air, parchment clutched tightly in its beak. The owl landed on the branch above her, feathers ruffled, eyes sharp.

Hermione rose slowly, instinct prickling at the back of her neck. She needed to leave. Quil was here. She had to move, to vanish before anything else happened. But before she could take a step, the crimson seal cracked open.

The forest erupted.

Hermione Jean Granger!

The voice was unmistakable. It tore through the trees, furious and sharp, echoing off bark and startling birds from their roosts. Molly Weasley’s howler didn’t just speak, it screamed.

You vicious, ungrateful girl. How dare you disappear after what you did to Ron. You hexed him. You hurt him. And now you’ve run off like a coward. Did you think no one would follow? That justice wouldn’t catch up with you?

Hermione staggered back, her face drained of colour. Her mouth hung open, slack with disbelief. The words hit like blows, each one louder than the last.

You are not our daughter. Not anymore. We trusted you. We loved you. And this is how you repay us? Injuring my son and vanishing like a thief? You’ve disgraced yourself and broken this family. You are not welcome in our home until you return and make it right.

The scroll flared with heat, curling in on itself before burning to ash. Smoke rose in a thin spiral, twisting into the air like accusation.

Hermione didn’t move.

She stood in the silence that followed, ears ringing, heart cracked wide open. Her lips parted, but no sound came. Not apology. Not protest. Just silence. A silence so deep it felt like it had weight, pressing down on her chest, anchoring her to the forest floor.

She didn’t cry.

She didn’t scream.

She simply stood there, hollowed out by the words that had chased her across miles and miles of wilderness, and found her anyway.

Hermione’s breath started to come in short, uneven bursts. The echo of Molly’s voice still rang in her ears, sharp and unforgiving, like it had carved itself into the bark of every tree around them. She turned toward George, eyes wide, panic blooming fast.

“She sent a howler here. Here. In front of...”

George was already moving, wand half-raised, scanning the perimeter. “We need to wipe him,” he muttered. “We can’t leave it like this. That was a full magical breach. He heard everything.”

Hermione nodded, trembling. “He saw the owl. The seal. The fire. He heard, he heard all of it.”

Quil, still seated on the edge of the worn armchair, watched them with a strange calm. His expression didn’t shift. No fear. No confusion. Just a slow, amused grin.

“You know,” he said, voice light, “Old Quil, he's a seer.”

Hermione froze.

George stopped mid-step.

Both turned to stare at him, stunned into silence.

Quil leaned back slightly, arms resting on his knees, as if he’d just mentioned the weather. “My dad was a wizard too. Didn’t talk about it much. Said it was better to keep things quiet after the war. But Grandad? He was involved in the Grindelwald mess. Helped Newt Scamander, actually. Has a thing for magical creatures. Used to say foxes were good omens.”

Hermione blinked. Her mouth opened, then closed again. No words came.

George looked like someone had just hit him with a Confundus charm.

Quil stood, stretching, and wandered into the kitchen. “I’ll make tea,” he said cheerfully, as if nothing had happened. “You two look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Hermione turned to George, voice barely audible. “Did he just say, Newt Scamander?”

George nodded slowly. “And Grindelwald.”

They sat in stunned silence as the kettle began to boil.

Quil returned a few minutes later, setting mismatched mugs in front of them. He didn’t sit right away. Just stood there, watching them with that same quiet amusement.

Then he said, casually, “So. That howler. Bit intense, wasn’t it?”

Hermione flinched.

Quil didn’t press. Just sipped his tea, waiting.

Chapter Text

Hermione collapsed into a chair, the echo of Molly’s howler still rang in her ears, sharp, unforgiving, cutting through every thought she’d tried to push aside. Permeating this news from Quil. Her chest felt tight, her breaths shallow and uneven.

 Every muscle in her body felt as though it had been on constant alert for days, and now, suddenly, the tension was snapping. Her hands trembled uncontrollably, small, useless movements that she couldn’t quite stop. For the first time since leaving Ron behind, Hermione felt herself teetering on the edge.

George settled himself onto another of the threadbare chairs by the fire. Shadows flickered across his face, drawn tight with calm observation. He didn’t say anything. He simply watched her, taking in every flinch, every tense shoulder, every nervous twitch. Hermione had never let herself break down in front of him before. 

She’d always been the one to hold it together, to manage the chaos, to pretend that nothing could shake her. But now, with the howler’s words still clawing at her mind and Ron’s letter from yesterday still burning like acid behind her eyes, all that control seemed to be slipping.

She laughed suddenly, sharp, high-pitched, manic. It echoed off the walls, startling even herself, but it wouldn’t stop. It bubbled out of her like a torrent she hadn’t realised she’d been holding back. The laughter collided with panic, absurdity, disbelief. She stood up once again, pacing, muttering fragments of thought to herself, half coherent, half nonsense. 

“I came here to hide! To be invisible! And instead… instead it’s wolves and vampires and… and everything else I didn’t even ask for!” She flung her arms wildly. “I’m supposed to be safe! I’m supposed to be anonymous! But nooo, apparently I’m starring in some… some supernatural horror show! I have a Seer watching out for me, aware of what I am whilst I tried with everything I could to hide it.”

George didn’t move. He stayed seated, letting her whirlwind of panic and fury spill across the cabin without interference. He understood that Hermione’s brain was trained to anticipate danger, to hold herself in check at all times, and that these rare moments of total vulnerability were incredibly important. 

He let her unravel. He let her release the pressure she had been holding in for weeks, perhaps months. 

Quil watched with curiosity, as he slipped back into the room, tea in hand, concern plastered over his face.

Hermione’s pacing increased, turning in tight, frantic circles around the cabin. She darted to the windows, pressing her hands to the glass, peering out at the dark forest beyond. Moonlight silvery brushed across the treetops. 

For a moment, she let herself imagine running through those trees again, shifting into her snow leopard form, claws silent on the mossy floor, wind tangling her fur, freedom rushing through her limbs. 

But the weight of reality slammed back: the howler, Ron’s constant harassment, the vampires, the wolves, Old Quil, Seth’s strange, suffocating presence in her mind, and the fear of being caught, unprotected, in the middle of all this. 

The cabin felt too small. The world felt too large. And the weight of it all pressed down on her like a living thing.

Finally, George rose from his chair, moving to the cupboard by the hearth. He pulled out a bottle of firewhisky and placed it deliberately on the table. 

Hermione froze mid-step, eyes widening. Her lips parted, but no words emerged. Memories she didn’t want to relive flared like hot coals: Ron drinking it, every day, the scent of it lingering in the house, the sharp bitterness on his tongue, the tension it brought. Panic clawed at her chest.

George didn’t hesitate. “We’re getting drunk. Right now,” he said simply. The tone carried authority that left no room for argument. Hermione’s pulse spiked.

“You can’t,” she whispered, voice brittle. “I… I can’t do that. Not after…” She trailed off, unable to finish the thought.

George shook his head, taking a small step forward. “Don’t think about it like that,” he said gently. 

“You’re not drinking it like him. You’re not drinking it to escape. You’re drinking it to survive, to let go a little, to push through the panic. 

You want to get over the past? You drink your way through it. One glass at a time. You face it until it doesn’t control you anymore.”

Hermione hesitated, her fingers hovering over the glass, trembling. The firewhisky’s amber glow reflected the dancing light from the fire. The memories of Ron’s relentless anger, of days spent walking on eggshells around him, of nights she hadn’t slept, of bruises on her body that still fought to heal —they crowded her mind. 

And yet, George’s calm, steady gaze anchored her. He didn’t push. He didn’t demand. He simply offered the bottle, the moment, the permission to let go.

She took the glass, shaking hands wrapped around it. The burn as it slid down her throat made her wince, but she exhaled sharply, letting the liquid anchor her. 

George poured himself a glass, sipping slowly, deliberately, as if it were part of some unspoken ritual. Hermione mirrored him, letting the rhythm of drinking, of inhaling and exhaling, guide her back to some semblance of control.

Quil, spoke up finally, an infuriatingly casual smirk plastered back over his face, raised an eyebrow. “Am I invited to this little party?”

George considered him carefully, eyes narrowing in calculation. “Fine,” he said after a pause. “You can join. But no whining. No complaints. Just drink and shut up.”

Quil grinned. “Well, that’s generous,” he said, sliding a chair closer and seating himself opposite Hermione.

Hermione let out a breath she hadn’t realised she was holding. The tension didn’t vanish, but it eased slightly, the absurdity of the situation punctuating the fear in a strange way.

She lifted her glass again, voice shaky, muttering under her breath, “I can’t believe this is my life.”

“Believe it,” George said, leaning back in his chair, firelight flickering across his face. “Right here, right now, with us, firewhisky in hand, and no one judging. You’re alive, and you’re here. That counts.”

Quil leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand, voice soft and teasing. “And judging a bit, but mostly just enjoying the chaos.”

Hermione laughed, a wet, ragged sound that mixed humour with relief and panic. She slumped into the chair, letting herself finally settle, if only a little. She hadn’t allowed herself this release in months, maybe years. The combination of firewhisky and presence of people who didn’t demand perfection felt strange and comforting at once.

George poured a second round, sliding a glass across the table to her. She grabbed it quickly, the warmth of the liquid in her hands almost grounding her. She sipped, winced, and laughed quietly at the burn.

“You know,” Quil said, swirling his glass, “for a girl who apparently summons shouting paper and magic, you’re remarkably human about losing it.”

Hermione snorted. “I am not exactly… graceful in my breakdowns, am I?”

“Nope,” George said softly, shaking his head. “And that’s fine. Not everything has to be graceful. Sometimes you just need to scream into a bottle and let the fire burn a little.”

She laughed again, quieter now, more controlled, feeling the tension in her shoulders loosen fractionally. “I came here to disappear. To be invisible. To be… safe. And instead… it’s wolves, vampires, magical creatures I don’t understand, and now… now I’m drinking firewhisky with a wolf and a half-insane twin. Brilliant.”

Quil raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Could be worse. You could be in a snowstorm naked and trying to charm a leech into making you tea.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, the laugh spilling out of her again. “Oh yes, because that’s exactly the situation I wanted.”

George leaned forward, resting an elbow on the table. “Sometimes you just have to let go of the plan, Hermione. Forget invisibility. Forget safety. Forget control for a little while. None of it matters if you’re too rigid to breathe.”

She considered that, glass pressed to her lips, fire burning down her throat. She could feel the panic bubbling in the back of her mind, threatening to return, but she took another sip. The warmth spread slowly, a small anchor in the chaos, giving her a momentary reprieve from the weight she carried.

Quil chimed in, lightly teasing again. “You know, you’re really not subtle about stress. The way you pace and flail, it’s… artistic, in a tragic sort of way.”

Hermione blinked at him, eyebrows raised. “Artistic? Is that what you’re calling my breakdowns now?”

“Yes,” Quil said solemnly, holding up his glass in mock toast. “Pure, tragic, firewhisky-soaked art.”

George shook his head, a small, fond smile tugging at his lips. “She’s surviving. That’s the art here.”

Hermione allowed herself to tilt back in the chair, laughing quietly, letting the tension in her body ease fractionally. She wasn’t fully calm, far from it, but she could exist in this moment without feeling crushed by it.

For the first time in weeks, she allowed herself to speak freely. She rambled about the wolves, about Seth, about the vampire. She didn’t name the feelings or fully explain the magical interactions, but she vented some of the fear and confusion. She didn’t hold herself back.

George listened quietly, occasionally offering words of reassurance. Quil added levity, teasing without dismissing. Hermione laughed more, cried a little, cursed under her breath, all in turns, until the cabin felt like a space where she could exist without the constant pressure of perfection or control.

By the third round, Hermione was beginning to feel the first real sparks of her old self returning. She wasn’t fully healed, but she was reclaiming agency, reclaiming voice, reclaiming a tiny fragment of power she thought she’d lost.

She lifted her glass, whispering, almost to herself, “To surviving. One glass at a time.”

George raised his glass in reply. “See? Not dead yet.”

Quil smirked, sipping his drink. “Witches in La Push… never a dull moment.”

Hermione let herself relax fully, leaning back in her chair. The fire flickered across the walls. Outside, the moonlight illuminated the forest, serene, indifferent to the chaos inside. 

She glanced at the firewhisky, then at George, then at Quil, and laughed softly. It wasn’t manic this time. It wasn’t desperate. It was hers. And that small, fragile reclaiming of herself felt like the beginning of something she hadn’t believed she could have again.

For now, the chaos outside could wait. Inside the cabin, there was warmth, there was laughter, and there was firewhisky.

Chapter Text

Quil had never realised how loud a quiet cabin could feel until now. The fire had burned down to embers, glowing soft and low, throwing long shadows across the wooden floor. The night outside was still, but inside it felt like the air was holding its breath.

Hermione had fallen asleep at last. She was curled into the armchair, curls tumbling across her face, her hand still clenched as though she hadn’t quite let go of the fight. George had draped a blanket over her shoulders and taken the empty glass from her fingers, setting it aside with a care that surprised Quil. For all the laughter and sharp quips George liked to throw about, there was something tender in the way he looked at her now.

Quil stayed where he was, arms folded, trying not to move too much in case it disturbed the fragile calm that had settled. He glanced at George, who was sitting a little way off, his eyes fixed on the fire like he was trying to read something in the flames. For once, George wasn’t filling the silence with a joke or a story. He was just… quiet.

Quil shifted in his seat, finally breaking the stillness. “She always like that?” he asked, keeping his voice low, nodding towards Hermione.

George flicked his gaze to him, his expression guarded. “Like what?”

“You know. Holding it all in until she cracks. Laughing when it’s not funny. Then dropping out cold the moment she stops fighting herself.” Quil kept his tone calm, softer than he usually let it be.

George looked back at the fire. “Not always. But it’s not new either.”

Quil let that hang there for a beat. He knew he was stepping somewhere delicate, but curiosity and something deeper pushed at him. “What happened to her?”

George stiffened, shoulders squaring like Quil had just asked for the deepest secret in the world. For a moment, Quil thought he was going to be told to shut up, that it wasn’t his business. He almost wouldn’t have blamed him. But then George let out a long breath and rubbed at his jaw.

“I shouldn’t,” he said finally, voice rougher than before. “She doesn’t tell people. Not really. And it’s her story, not mine.”

“I’m not asking for gossip,” Quil said. “But if she’s here, in La Push, around us… I need to understand what I’m looking at. Because tonight, she looked like she was about to shatter and laugh herself to pieces all at once. That’s not normal.”

George huffed a laugh, humourless. “You’ve no idea what normal means for her.”

The weight in those words made Quil’s chest tighten. He kept still, waiting. After a long stretch of silence, George’s posture shifted, as if he’d finally decided something.

“I’m going to have to go back soon,” he said, eyes fixed on the fire. “England. Responsibilities. And when I do, she’ll still be here. Which means she’ll need someone around who sees past the mask she puts on. You saw her tonight. She cracked. First time in a long time. Tomorrow, she’ll pretend it didn’t happen. She’ll be sharp and stubborn and act like she’s fine. But you’ll know different.”

Quil nodded, though his throat was dry. He kept his eyes on George, waiting for him to go on.

George leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his voice low and steady. “She grew up taking care of everyone else. My younger brother, a mate of ours, whoever needed it. Never herself. Then the war came. And we’d have lost without her. No doubt about it. She’s the reason Harry’s still standing. The reason any of us are. She was tortured. Badly. I won’t go into the details—you don’t need them—but it left marks. You can’t see them, but they’re there.”

Quil blinked hard, staring into the embers. Tortured. The word sat heavy in his stomach.

George kept going, his voice quieter now. "She was close to my Twin - Fred - Very close." Quil saw the sorrow hidden in his gaze. "He died in the war." Quil's Stomach dropped at this confession.

“After the war, she ended up with my little brother. Ron. At first, it seemed right enough. They’d been through hell together. She’s loyal to a fault, and he leaned on that. But it turned sour. He drank. Got mean. He hit her. She left one night and didn’t look back. But Ron… he’s been going round telling people she was the abusive one. And people believe him, because Harry believes him. Harry’s word is gospel, and hers never counted for enough.”

Quil couldn’t speak. His mind was reeling, his gut twisted. He thought of Hermione’s flinch at the sight of the bottle earlier, the way she’d laughed like she was unravelled, the hollow edge in her eyes. All of it slotted together now, too sharp and too clear.

George’s voice carried something Quil hadn’t expected. Not just anger, though it was there, but pride too, buried under grief. “She’s broken. I won’t lie about that. But tonight was the first step back. She let herself break. And that means she can rebuild. She’s stronger than anyone I’ve ever known, but she can’t do it alone. And she won’t ask, not directly. So I’m asking you. Promise me you’ll look after her. Keep her safe. Even when she pushes you away. Especially when she pushes you away.”

George turned then, looking Quil dead in the eye. “She deserves someone in her corner. Always.”

The silence that followed pressed on Quil like a weight. He looked at Hermione again. Her face was soft in sleep, all the sharpness gone, the fight dulled for now. She didn’t look like a war hero. She didn’t look like someone who’d been tortured or someone who’d walked away from abuse with the world against her. She looked fragile, breakable. But George’s words wouldn’t leave his head. She’d been through all of that, and she was still here. Still standing.

Quil forced himself to swallow past the lump in his throat. “She’s been through all that,” he murmured, “and she’s still… surviving?”

George’s expression softened, just for a second. “That’s Hermione. She survives.”

Quil leaned back, staring at the beams of the ceiling. His thoughts ran circles he couldn’t quite catch. He thought of Seth, of that strange weight in the air earlier when Hermione had looked at him. The imprint. He didn’t understand it, not fully, but he knew enough to recognise it mattered. And now, knowing what George had told him, it felt heavier. Terrifying. Like being tethered to someone whose fire burned too bright, but also like being given a chance to protect something that mattered more than anything.

He lowered his gaze back to George, steadying his voice. “I’ll look after her. I promise.”

George studied him, eyes sharp, before finally nodding once. Some of the tension eased out of his shoulders, though not all. But there was relief there too, faint but real.

Quil sat in silence after that, listening to Hermione’s steady breathing and the quiet crackle of the fire. He still couldn’t wrap his head around it. The woman who had seemed so fragile, so closed off, had survived more than anyone he’d ever heard of. She was broken, yes, but she was also unbreakable in a way that left him in awe.

And now, somehow, he was part of it.

He didn’t know what it meant yet, or what it would demand of him, but one thing was certain.

He wasn’t going to let her down.

Chapter Text

The cabin door shut behind him with a soft click, the sound somehow too loud in the thick hush of the woods. Quil lingered on the porch for a moment, breathing in the sharp bite of night air. The fire’s warmth still clung faintly to his clothes, the ghost of smoke and firewhisky threading through him. Behind that closed door Hermione slept, wrapped in the fragile kind of peace that came only after breaking apart. And George… George had looked him dead in the eye and demanded a promise, and Quil had given it.

The words still rang in his head. Keep her safe. Look after her.

He tightened his fists and let them fall loose again. He had no idea what he’d stepped into tonight. He only knew that Hermione was no ordinary girl. Broken, yes, but not defeated. Fragile, but forged in fire. He didn’t know her story in detail, and maybe he didn’t need to. He knew enough. Enough to feel the weight of it, heavy as stone in his chest.

For a fleeting moment he considered phasing. He could be home in minutes if he shifted, the forest yielding beneath his paws like a second skin. But then George’s words struck hard: Hermione’s story wasn’t his to tell. And that was exactly what would happen if he phased. The pack would see it all, taste it in his thoughts before he had a chance to shield it. Some things weren’t meant to be shared, not like that.

So he didn’t.

Instead, he ran on human legs, bare feet slapping earth and pine needles as he moved through the dark woods. The night was still, the trees whispering overhead, the scent of moss and damp soil grounding him. His breath came fast but steady, his muscles singing with the rhythm of movement. He didn’t tire. Wolves never did, not really. And tonight, sleep wasn’t an option anyway.

By the time Sam’s cabin came into view, the first thin brush of dawn was lightening the horizon, smudges of pale grey slipping between the trees. The house sat quiet, shadowed, the hum of the ocean not far off. Quil slowed, heart hammering harder now for reasons that had nothing to do with the run.

He hadn’t come here lightly. Sam wasn’t the kind of person you woke at this hour without good reason. And what Quil was about to ask… it wasn’t small.

He strode up to the door and knocked, once, twice, sharp raps that echoed in the silence. It took a long moment before the door opened.

Sam appeared, bleary-eyed but alert, dark hair mussed from sleep, jaw set. He didn’t waste time with pleasantries. “Quil?” he said, voice low but firm. “What’s wrong? Did something happen?”

Quil shook his head quickly. “No. Not like that. Everyone’s safe.”

Sam’s shoulders eased a fraction, but suspicion lingered in his gaze. “Then why are you here at—” he glanced past him at the paling sky “—whatever ungodly hour this is?”

Quil swallowed, feeling his throat dry. He hadn’t planned the words, not properly. They came tumbling out raw. “I need you to order me. As Alpha.”

That got Sam’s full attention. His posture sharpened, his eyes narrowing. “What?”

“Order me,” Quil repeated, heart pounding. “I need you to command me not to think about something. To lock it down so the others can’t see.”

Sam stared at him like he’d grown another head. “That’s not how it works. And even if it was—why? What could you possibly have learned that you don’t want the rest of the pack to know?”

Quil clenched his fists at his sides. “I can’t tell you.”

Sam’s brows furrowed. “You can’t or you won’t?”

“Both,” Quil admitted, frustration slipping into his voice. “It isn’t mine to share. And if the others saw—if anyone saw—it’d betray her. I can’t let that happen.”

Sam was silent for a long beat, studying him with the sharp patience of a man who weighed every word. “You’re talking about the girl,” he said finally. “Hermione.”

Quil didn’t confirm it, didn’t deny it. He just held Sam’s gaze, jaw tight.

Sam let out a slow breath, rubbing a hand across his face. “Quil, you can’t ask me to throw orders around without knowing what I’m protecting. That’s not how leadership works. You’re asking me to blindfold the pack. To blindfold myself.”

Before Quil could answer, another voice broke in.

“Sam.”

Emily stood in the hallway, wrapped in a blanket, her hair tumbling loose over her shoulders. She looked tired, but her eyes were sharp as they flicked between the two men.

“You’ve been loud enough to wake the dead,” she murmured, stepping closer. Then her gaze settled on Quil, and something like understanding passed through her expression. “It’s about her, isn’t it?. Hermione.”

Quil’s throat tightened. He didn’t answer, but maybe he didn’t need to. Emily’s eyes softened.

“I heard enough,” she said quietly, turning back to Sam. “If Quil’s asking you to order him not to think about something, it’s because it’s not his secret. It’s hers. And if it’s hers, then it’s not for us to know.”

Sam’s jaw flexed. “Em—”

“No,” Emily cut him off gently but firmly. “Listen to him. He’s not asking for himself. He’s asking for her. If he phases with this on his mind, the whole pack will know. She’ll be stripped bare whether she wants it or not. That isn’t fair. Not to her.”

Quil met Emily’s gaze, and in that moment he saw it. The flicker of recognition, of shared experience. She didn’t know some details, he didn’t know how many. But enough. She knew what it was to have pain that wasn’t for public consumption. Her scars told that story without words.

The silence stretched, thick with unspoken things. Finally, Sam exhaled slowly, shoulders lowering in resignation. “You’re asking me to trust you with something I don’t even know.”

“Yes,” Quil said simply.

Sam looked at him a moment longer, then nodded once. His voice dropped into that deep, resonant timbre that carried the weight of authority, the Alpha’s pull threaded through it. “Quil Ateara, I order you not to think about what you’ve learned tonight. Lock it down. Do not share it. Do not let it rise when you phase. It stays with you, and only you.”

The command hit Quil like a wave rolling through his bones. It wasn’t pain, not exactly, but it was absolute. He felt the tug of obedience settle deep, closing over the memory like a vault sealing shut. The relief was immediate and startling.

He let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. “Thank you,” he said, voice rough. He looked at Emily again, gratitude in his eyes. She gave a small nod, quiet and knowing.

Sam still looked unsettled, but he didn’t press. “You’d better have a damn good reason for this,” he said.

“I do,” Quil replied simply. “One day, maybe I’ll explain. But not now. Not mine to give.”

Sam studied him for another long moment, then gave a curt nod.

Quil shifted on his feet, suddenly aware of the ache in his chest that had nothing to do with running. “I should go. My grandfather’ll be up soon, and I need to talk to him.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “About this?”

Quil shook his head. “No. About me.”

He didn’t wait for a reply. He gave them both a short nod, then stepped back into the thinning night. The door shut softly behind him, and the woods opened before him, the first gold of sunrise brushing through the trees.

For the first time all night, Quil felt like he could breathe.

Chapter Text

Sunlight crept slowly across the cabin floorboards, spilling over the rug in pale stripes. The fire had burned out entirely, leaving only cold ash in the grate. Hermione stirred, her eyelids fluttering as the unfamiliar brightness pulled her reluctantly into wakefulness.

Her head was heavy, her throat dry. For a moment, she didn’t know where she was. The armchair beneath her wasn’t hers, the blanket draped over her shoulders smelt faintly of pine and smoke, and the hush of the woods beyond the window was far too quiet for any London street.

Then memory returned like a flood.

The howler. The laughter that had broken loose and wouldn’t stop. George’s stubborn insistence on dragging out the firewhisky. Quil’s steady presence.

Hermione squeezed her eyes shut again, groaning softly. Merlin. She’d let herself unravel. Completely.

“Morning, Sleeping Beauty,” a voice drawled.

Her eyes flew open to find George slouched at the kitchen table, hair sticking up at odd angles, a mug of steaming coffee clutched in his hand. He looked maddeningly awake, though his eyes betrayed a red-rimmed weariness that coffee alone couldn’t mask.

Hermione pushed herself upright, clutching the blanket tighter around her shoulders. “What time is it?”

“Late enough that even Hagrid would’ve finished his porridge by now,” George replied. “Not that you missed much. Just me heroically preventing the cabin from collapsing without your supervision.”

Despite herself, Hermione’s lips twitched. “You’re insufferable.”

“Thank you, I try,” he said, raising his mug in mock salute.

She rubbed her temples, suddenly very aware of the lingering taste of whisky in her mouth. “I… didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

“You were out before I even finished telling Quil the tale of how I once wrestled a garden gnome with nothing but a toothbrush.” George’s grin was quick, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Hermione gave him a flat look. “That never happened.”

“Course it did. You just weren’t there to witness my moment of glory.”

He let the teasing hang there for a beat before softening, his gaze settling on her with a steadiness that made her fidget. “You needed the sleep, Hermione. Don’t fight me on that.”

She dropped her eyes to the blanket, fingers worrying at the frayed edge. She didn’t want to admit he was right. She didn’t want to admit how utterly exhausted she was from holding herself together for too long. Last night had been… dangerous. She’d cracked in front of them, and now she couldn’t pretend it hadn’t happened.

“Where’s Quil?” she asked finally, if only to change the subject.

“Gone before dawn. Didn’t even nick any toast on the way out, which is suspicious behaviour if you ask me. I’ll have to investigate later.” George sipped his coffee, watching her over the rim. “He seems alright though. Bit quiet, but harmless.”

Hermione hummed noncommittally, though something in her chest tightened. Quiet wasn’t the word she’d use for Quil. He’d been… steady. Grounding. And there had been something in his gaze when she’d unravelled, something she couldn’t name.

George set his mug down and leaned back in his chair, stretching. “Listen,” he said, more serious now. “Last night… it wasn’t nothing. I know you’ll want to brush it off, make it seem like you’re fine. But it mattered. You let yourself break a little. And that’s not weakness, however much your brain will try to tell you it is.”

Hermione’s throat tightened. She wanted to argue. To insist she’d only been tired, that the howler had caught her off guard, that it wasn’t a pattern, it wasn’t proof of anything. But the words stuck, hollow before they even formed.

George’s expression gentled. “You don’t have to be fine today. Or tomorrow. You just have to keep going. And you don’t have to do that alone anymore, alright?”

The blanket around her shoulders suddenly felt heavier. Hermione bit the inside of her cheek, fighting the sting in her eyes. She hated crying in front of people, hated the loss of control. But George wasn’t pushing her for tears, wasn’t demanding explanations. He was just… there.

After a long silence, she whispered, “Thank you.”

He gave her a crooked grin. “You can repay me later by brewing me tea. I’ve been surviving on this abomination of coffee that Quil left in the cupboard. Tastes like burnt socks.”

Hermione let out a weak laugh, the sound surprising even herself.

George’s grin widened. “There she is. I knew I could get at least one laugh out of you before breakfast.”

The cabin smelt of smoke and pine when George finally set his mug down and folded his hands on the table. The humour had faded from his face, leaving behind something more serious, something Hermione couldn’t quite read.

She shifted beneath the blanket, uneasy at the sudden quiet. “What is it?”

George drew in a long breath. “I need to head back.”

The words landed heavier than she expected. Hermione blinked at him, the blanket slipping from her shoulders. “Already?”

He gave a small shrug. “Lee's holding the shop together, but I can’t leave him to run it forever. He’ll burn the place down or end up married to Verity without telling me.”

Hermione tried to smile but it came out faint, brittle. “He’d never manage without you.”

“And you don’t need me here,” George said softly, though his eyes flickered with doubt. “You’ve got your cottage, your ridiculous mossy trees, your new… acquaintances.”

She flinched. “That isn’t the same.”

“I know.” His voice was gentler now. “But it has to be. I can’t stay here forever. If I did, you’d never find your own feet.”

Hermione stared down at the floorboards, her throat tightening. The thought of him leaving carved a hollow into her chest. George had been her one tether, her one link to home that hadn’t turned sour. Letting him go felt unbearable. And yet… hadn’t she wanted this? To be free, to be on her own?

Her voice cracked when she finally said, “When?”

“Tomorrow.”

She nodded, jaw clenched tight, refusing to let the tears come. She would not fall apart again.

George, reading her like a book as always, pushed his chair back and stood. “Come on,” he said, holding out a hand.

She looked at him warily. “Where?”

“For a run. One last before I go. Unless you’ve suddenly lost your nerve.”

Hermione’s lips curved despite the ache in her chest. “You’ll regret saying that.”

Minutes later, the two of them were outside, the crisp morning air filling their lungs. Hermione shifted first, the familiar pull of magic racing through her bones, the snow leopard bursting free in a ripple of light and fur. George followed, his fox form stretching lean and russet in the sun.

They darted into the trees together, paws pounding the earth in sync. The forest welcomed them, pine needles scattering beneath their weight, the canopy whispering overhead. For a while, neither thought nor grief existed, only movement. Hermione leapt over fallen logs, breath sharp in her chest, the wind streaming past her whiskers. George kept pace, weaving effortlessly through the undergrowth, his tail flashing bright against the shadows.

It was freedom. Pure, unfiltered freedom.

They ran until Hermione’s muscles burned and her lungs begged for rest. She slowed near the ridge, where the trees opened to reveal a sweep of ocean below. The waves crashed against the rocks in steady rhythm, endless and wild.

Shifting back into herself, Hermione hugged her cloak around her shoulders, her cheeks flushed from the run. George appeared a moment later, human once more, hair sticking up every which way, his grin breathless and bright.

“Still faster than you,” he teased.

“In your dreams,” Hermione retorted, though her voice was soft. Her gaze drifted back to the sea, to the horizon that seemed to stretch forever.

George stepped up beside her, their shoulders brushing. For a while they simply stood in silence, the waves crashing far below.

Finally Hermione spoke, her voice quiet but sure. “I think I need a job.”

George turned his head sharply. “A job?”

“I miss… having purpose,” she admitted. “Back home, I was always doing something. Fighting, studying, planning. Even when it was awful, it mattered. Here, I just… exist. It isn’t enough.”

George studied her for a long moment. “You don’t have to rush.”

“I’m not rushing,” Hermione said firmly. “I just… I need to do something with myself. Something useful. If I don’t, I’ll drown in my own head.”

He gave a slow nod, a flicker of admiration in his eyes. “That’s my Hermione. Can’t sit still even at the end of the world.”

Her lips quirked. “Someone has to keep busy.”

“Just… make sure you’re choosing it for you, not because you think you owe anyone anything.”

“I know,” she whispered, though the words tasted complicated on her tongue.

They lingered there until the sun began to climb higher, painting the water in gold.

Back at the cabin, the reality of goodbye pressed heavier with every step. George packed what little he had with him, shoving clothes into a worn rucksack, checking for his wand twice before cinching the straps. Hermione lingered near the hearth, arms wrapped tightly around herself.

When he finally turned to her, she forced a smile. “You’ll write?”

“Constantly,” George promised. “You’ll be sick of me by Christmas.”

“I doubt it.”

He stepped closer, resting his hands on her shoulders. For once, his eyes weren’t joking, weren’t dancing with mischief. They were steady, fierce. “You’ll be alright, Hermione. I know you don’t believe it yet, but you will. You’re stronger than anyone I’ve ever known.”

Her throat burned. She blinked hard, swallowing the words that wanted to rise. Instead, she simply nodded.

George squeezed her shoulders once more before pulling her into a tight hug. She buried her face against his shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of smoke and soap, clinging harder than she meant to.

When they finally pulled apart, George gave her one last grin. “Try not to terrorise the locals too much.”

Hermione’s laugh wobbled. “No promises.”

And then he was gone, striding into the trees with his rucksack slung over his shoulder, leaving Hermione standing in the doorway of the cabin, the blanket still around her shoulders, the morning sun spilling over her hair.

She stayed there long after he vanished, the echo of his footsteps fading into the forest, the ache of goodbye mingling with the faint, stubborn spark of something new. Purpose. A job. A beginning.

Chapter Text

George stumbled out of the Floo into the Burrow’s sitting room, brushing soot from his sleeves. He barely had a moment to straighten before Molly enveloped him in her arms, clinging as though he might disappear if she let go.

“My boy,” she murmured, voice thick with tears. “Oh, George, you’ve come home.”

George stood stiff as wood, his arms rigid at his sides. Home. The word tasted bitter on his tongue.

When she finally drew back, searching his face with watery eyes, he muttered, “I’m fine, Mum.”

But the room was not empty. Arthur had risen from his chair near the fire. Ginny and Harry sat curled together on the sofa, and Ron leaned in the doorway, arms folded, smirk tugging faintly at his mouth.

The sight of him snapped something in George’s chest.

“You’re fine?” Molly repeated, worry pulling her features taut.

George barked a laugh, sharp and humourless. “Oh, is that what you all want me to say? That I’m fine? That I’ll keep my head down, open the shop, play the grieving twin who cracks a few jokes so you don’t have to look too closely at what’s festering underneath?”

“George—” Arthur began softly.

“No,” George snapped, his voice cutting through the air. His gaze locked on Ron, and the fury he’d been biting back for months surged like wildfire. “You’ve got some nerve standing there, looking smug after what you’ve done.”

Ron blinked, taken aback. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“You know bloody well what I’m talking about,” George snarled, stalking forward until he stood inches away. “Hermione.”

The name silenced the room like a spell.

Ron’s expression flickered, then hardened. “Oh, so she’s filled your head with lies as well? Figures. She always did know how to twist things to make herself look like the victim.”

George’s fist connected with Ron’s face before anyone could stop him. The crack of bone echoed in the room. Ron stumbled back, clutching his nose, blood spilling between his fingers.

“How does it feel,” George said, voice low and dangerous, “to finally be on the receiving end?”

“George!” Molly shrieked, horrified. “He’s your brother!”

“No,” George snapped, whirling on her. “He’s an abuser. He spent years breaking Hermione down, and you all let him. You let him!” His voice shook with rage, with disgust. “She finally found the strength to leave, and what did he do? He spread lies about her, told everyone she was the abusive one. And you—” his voice cracked, and he rounded on Molly, Ginny, Harry “—you believed him. You abandoned her when she needed you most.”

Ginny’s face flushed red, her jaw tightening. “George, you don’t understand—”

“Oh, I understand perfectly,” George snapped. “You were too busy protecting precious Ron to see the truth staring you in the face. You ignored her. You sent her a bloody howler, Mum! You chose him over her. And Harry—” George turned, his eyes blazing. “You, of all people, should’ve known better. You’ve seen her fight, you’ve seen her bleed for you. And still you took his side. Cowards, the lot of you.”

Ron staggered upright, bloodied and furious. “She’s a slag, George. That’s all she is. First me, then Fred, and now you—what’s next? Gonna work her way through the whole family?”

The room erupted. Molly cried out in horror, Arthur barked Ron’s name, Ginny shouted at George for striking his brother, Harry demanded to know where Hermione was so the Aurors could sort this mess.

But George’s fury burned hotter than all of them. He turned on Ron, his voice shaking with unfiltered rage. “Don’t you ever speak her name again. Don’t you dare drag Fred into your filth. He loved her like a sister, and you—” George’s voice cracked, grief and fury colliding. “You disgust me.”

He swept his glare over the room, his chest heaving. “Until you get your heads out of the sand, until you stop protecting him, don’t you dare go looking for her. If you do, if you send anyone after her, I swear I’ll never step foot in this house again.”

“George—” Arthur tried, but George had already grabbed a handful of Floo powder.

He cast one last look at them—his family, or what was left of it. “Sort yourselves out. Or don’t. I don’t care. But leave her the hell alone.”

The flames roared green, and George vanished, leaving chaos and silence in his wake.

The quiet after George’s departure didn’t last long. The Floo was still glowing faintly when Molly rounded on Arthur, her face flushed with anger and grief.

“How could you just stand there and let him say those things?” she cried, her voice raw. “Accusing Ron like that. His own brother. After everything Ron’s been through. It’s cruel, Arthur, it’s heartless.”

Arthur looked at her, weariness pulling deep lines into his face. “Molly, maybe you don’t want to hear it, but George has reason to be angry. He’s lost Fred, and now Hermione’s been cast aside by this family. Don’t you see what that looks like?”

Molly shook her head fiercely. “No. I won’t have it. George is grieving, he’s not thinking straight. Ron would never do what George accused him of. Never. Hermione hexed him, Arthur, she left him bleeding on the floor. We’ve all seen her temper, how sharp she can be with her words. I can believe she snapped. I can’t believe Ronald would hurt her.”

Ron, still dabbing at his nose, gave her a pitiful look. “Thanks, Mum.”

Arthur’s mouth was a tight line, but he said nothing more.

Across the room, Ginny sat stiffly on the sofa, her eyes darting between them. She looked like she wanted to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. Her fingernails dug into her palms, her knuckles white.

Harry was silent too, though for different reasons. His face was pale, brow furrowed, as though George’s words were rattling around in his skull and refusing to settle. He stared into the dying fire, not at Ron, not at Molly, not at anyone.

Ron broke the quiet with a snarl. “I’ll tell you what we need to do. We need to find her. Drag her back here and make her face what she’s done. She can’t just disappear, can’t make me out to be the villain and get away with it.”

Ginny flinched. “Ron, you sound—” She bit the word back, but it was too late. He caught it.

“I sound what?” he demanded.

“Dangerous,” she whispered.

Ron’s face twisted with fury. “Dangerous? Me? She’s the one who hexed me! She’s the one who ran off like a coward! You’re all too bloody blind to see it.”

Molly went to him quickly, putting her hands on his shoulders like he was still a boy needing soothing after a nightmare. “You hush now, Ronald. Don’t upset yourself. We’ll sort this. We’ll speak to Kingsley, to the Aurors. She can’t hide forever.”

Harry finally looked up then, sharply, but he didn’t speak. He just stared, his green eyes unreadable, at Molly’s hand on Ron’s arm and Ron’s wild expression.

Arthur stepped back from the hearth, folding his arms. His voice, when he spoke, was low but firm. “No one is dragging Hermione anywhere. If she left, it was for a reason. And maybe we should stop asking how to bring her back, and start asking why she felt she had to go.”

Molly gasped, horrified. “Arthur!”

Ron shoved away from her, bloodied rag dropping to the floor. “You’re all mad. Every single one of you. I’m the victim here and no one’s listening. Fine. Don’t help me. I’ll find her myself.”

Ginny’s voice cracked as she whispered, “Ron, stop.”

But he didn’t. He stormed out of the kitchen, his heavy footsteps pounding up the stairs, the slam of his bedroom door rattling the walls a moment later.

The silence left behind was choking. Molly was crying again, whispering that George had poisoned the whole family. Arthur’s face was like stone. Ginny sat frozen, her hands trembling in her lap.

Harry stood there, still silent, still watching the fire. But the set of his jaw gave him away. He was thinking, calculating, trying to piece together truths he didn’t want to face.

And above it all, the Burrow groaned with unease, the weight of fractured loyalties pressing down on the old house until it seemed even the walls were listening.

Chapter Text

The afternoon sunlight slipped quietly through the curtains of the cabin, its pale gold beams cutting across the wooden floor in soft stripes. Hermione stirred on the sofa, eyes slowly blinking away the remnants of her nap, her mind unusually calm after everything that had happened. 

The memories of Molly’s howler, the sting of betrayal from people she had once thought of as family, were still present and painful, yet there was something else settling over her now. It was not peace exactly, but it was close enough to give her strength. She felt determined, anchored by the thought that she could not and would not let the bitterness of the past dictate the rest of her life.

She rose quietly and lingered, breathing in the clean, pine-scented air of the cabin. It was different from the Burrow, where the air had always felt so crowded with noise, magic, and other people’s emotions. Here there was space. Here there was stillness.

The shower was brisk but deliberate. She scrubbed her skin, letting the hot water chase away the lingering heaviness in her bones. Every drop seemed to rinse away a fragment of memory she did not wish to carry.

By the time she stepped out and wrapped herself in a towel, she felt lighter, as though the weight of other people’s voices had been reduced to a murmur she could finally shut out. She brushed through her hair, tied it back, and dressed simply in jeans and a jumper, clothes that made her feel practical and steady rather than decorative.

The cabin had slipped into disorder during the last few days. There were mugs left on the table, blankets half-unfolded across the sofa, and a fine scatter of ash near the fireplace. Hermione moved about the room with a sense of quiet purpose, tidying as she went. 

The rhythm of it soothed her. There was something comforting in restoring order to her surroundings, something almost therapeutic about folding, washing, and setting things in their proper place. When she was finished, the cabin looked lived in but warm. It looked like a space where she might build something new.

She laced her boots and stepped outside into the cool air. A faint sea breeze drifted inland, carrying the salt tang of the water mixed with the damp green scent of the forest. She drew in a long breath, feeling her lungs expand, and then set off down the track that led towards the small community of La Push.

The high street was modest but charming in its own way. There were hand-painted shop signs above wide windows, the sort that looked as though they had been cleaned with care rather than obligation. 

A few locals lingered outside the bakery, chatting with an easy familiarity that only people in small towns seemed to possess. Hermione felt her stomach tighten slightly as she walked past them, acutely aware of how much she stood out. She reminded herself that this was temporary. In time, she would become part of the scenery.

Her first stop was a café at the corner, its chalkboard menu decorated with messy loops of writing that advertised pumpkin bread and clam chowder. Inside it smelled rich and comforting, and for a moment Hermione longed to sit and simply exist there. Instead she approached the counter and asked whether they happened to be hiring. The woman behind the till gave her a kind smile but shook her head.

“Not at the moment, love. But best of luck.”

Hermione thanked her, her voice polite though she felt a flicker of disappointment, and stepped back out into the street.

Two more shops later, a florist and a small grocery, and she had received the same answer. No positions. No work. She felt the beginnings of discouragement pressing at the edges of her determination, but she held herself upright and steady. This was not about desperation. It was about purpose. She did not need a job to survive, not when she had money left over from selling her parents’ home and the wages she had never truly spent during her years at the Ministry. She needed work because she missed it. She missed having somewhere to be, something to achieve.

It was the bookshop that finally drew her in. Nestled between a bakery and a thrift store, its window display was cluttered with uneven stacks of novels, some faded and well-loved, others crisp and new. 

The sign above the door read Riverside Books in neat, hand-painted lettering. Hermione felt a pang of recognition deep in her chest, a reminder of the girl who had once felt most alive surrounded by shelves of words. She pushed open the door and was enveloped by the familiar scent of old paper and ink.

Behind the counter sat a woman with silver hair neatly plaited down her back. She looked up from a ledger when Hermione entered, her expression shrewd but not unkind.

“Can I help you?” she asked, her tone measured.

Hermione hesitated for a moment, then stepped closer. “I was wondering if you might be hiring.”

The woman’s eyes narrowed just slightly. “You’re new around here.”

“Yes,” Hermione admitted. “I’ve only just arrived.”

The woman studied her for a long, considering moment before setting down her pen with a sigh. “As it happens, I do need someone. My niece used to help but she has gone back to college. The work is nothing glamorous, mind you. The pay is not much either. Enough for groceries and rent if you live light, but not more than that.”

Relief spread warm and steady through Hermione’s chest. She shook her head quickly. “That is perfectly fine. I do not need much.”

The woman’s stern gaze softened just slightly. “It is long days, sorting shelves, arguing with teenagers who insist they returned their books when they did not, and keeping track of more paper than you can imagine. Still interested?”

Hermione’s lips curved into the first genuine smile she had felt in weeks. “Yes. That sounds perfect.”

The woman nodded briskly, as though satisfied by her answer. “Very well. You can start next week. My name is Mae.”

“Hermione,” she replied, extending her hand.

Mae shook it firmly. “We shall see if you last the week, Hermione.”

Hermione laughed, the sound surprising her with how light it was. When she stepped back onto the high street, the drizzle had thickened, speckling her hair and coat. She glanced at her reflection in the glass window of the shop and saw someone still tired, still scarred by the past, but steadier than before. T

Hermione had only taken a few steps when she heard Seth’s voice again behind her.

“Hey—wait.”

She turned, brows slightly lifted, and found him jogging a few paces to catch up. He looked faintly sheepish when he reached her side, rubbing the back of his neck with the hand not holding the bag.

“Sorry,” he said quickly. “I just thought… if you’re heading back towards the cabins, I could walk with you. It’s not far out of my way.”

Hermione hesitated, her instinctive caution prickling at the idea of company. But then she saw the earnestness in his face, the way his expression held no expectation, only quiet hope. Against her own surprise, she found herself nodding.

“All right,” she said, shifting her bag slightly higher on her shoulder. “If you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.” Relief coloured his smile, and he fell into step beside her as they began to make their way down the street.

The drizzle had eased into a fine mist, clinging to their hair and coats. The high street was quieter now, only a few people hurrying along with their collars turned up. Their footsteps echoed softly on the damp pavement.

For a while, neither of them spoke. It was not an uncomfortable silence, though Hermione was acutely aware of the space between them, of the strange pull that seemed to hum just beneath her skin whenever he was near.

“So,” Seth said at last, breaking the quiet, “a bookshop, huh? That’s… kind of perfect for you.”

Hermione arched a brow at him, amused despite herself. “And how exactly would you know what is perfect for me?”

He flushed faintly, his smile turning a little sheepish. “I mean… you just give off that vibe. Like someone who would know her way around books. You seem… clever.”

Hermione let out a soft laugh, shaking her head. “That is one way to put it.” She glanced sideways at him, her voice gentling without her intending it to. “Thank you. It has been a long time since I felt like I belonged somewhere. Perhaps this will help.”

Seth’s expression sobered, his gaze turning thoughtful. “Everyone deserves a place where they feel they belong.” He hesitated, then added, “You’ll find it. I think you already are.”

The quiet conviction in his words tugged at something deep inside her, something she was not ready to look at too closely. She tightened her grip on the strap of her bag and quickened her pace a little, though she could not quite bring herself to step away from him.

They turned down a narrower road that led out towards the forest. The drizzle had stopped altogether now, leaving the air cool and sharp with the scent of pine. Hermione breathed it in, letting it ground her.

“Do you… miss England?” Seth asked after a while.

Hermione blinked at the question, surprised. Most people did not ask. “Sometimes,” she admitted. “Not the place itself, perhaps, but… parts of it. I miss the familiarity. And I miss having a purpose. I worked very hard for years, and when I left…” She trailed off, pressing her lips together.

Seth glanced at her, his eyes warm. “Well, working at the bookshop sounds like a good start. And… you’ve got time. To figure things out.”

Hermione tilted her head, studying him. He was young, younger than she was by several years, yet there was a kind of steadiness in him that she had not expected. It unsettled her, how easy it was to talk to him, how natural his presence felt.

“You are very certain about things for someone so young,” she remarked, her tone light but curious.

He laughed softly, the sound carrying easily in the quiet street. “Maybe. Or maybe I just know a good thing when I see it.”

Hermione’s breath caught for the briefest moment at the way he looked at her then, unguarded and almost too open. She tore her gaze away, focusing on the curve of the path ahead. The thread between them pulled tighter, insistent, and she had to will herself to ignore it.

As they reached the edge of the trees where the path split, Hermione slowed. The cabin was only a short walk further, and she was suddenly aware that she needed a moment alone to collect herself.

“This is me,” she said gently, nodding towards the trail.

Seth stopped with her, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Right. Well… I’m glad I ran into you. Really.”

Hermione allowed herself a small smile. “So am I. Thank you for walking with me.”

His answering smile was brighter than the morning sun. “Anytime.”

For a moment they lingered, neither moving. Then Hermione inclined her head in farewell and started up the path. She could feel his eyes on her back until the trees swallowed her from sight, the thread between them thrumming all the while.

Chapter Text

The trees closed in behind him as Hermione disappeared up the trail, her dark hair slipping out of sight between the branches. Seth stayed rooted for a moment, his breath fogging faintly in the damp morning air, his heart hammering like it was trying to break free from his chest. He swallowed, dragging a hand down his face, but the grin broke out anyway. He felt ridiculous and lightheaded all at once, like someone had slipped him a dose of magic he did not understand.

He had walked her home. That was all. Just a walk, just a few minutes in the rain, just a little conversation about books and belonging. It should not mean anything. Except it did. It meant everything.

“Man,” he muttered to himself, shaking his head, “I’m gone. Completely gone.”

He set off through the trees, moving quickly, restless energy propelling him forward. He did not even bother to phase, though running as a wolf would have eaten up the ground faster. He needed his hands to fidget, to shove through his hair, to pull at his jacket like that would help him burn through the buzzing warmth fizzing in every corner of him.

Her smile kept replaying in his mind, uninvited and unstoppable. Not the polite smile she gave strangers, not the guarded one she had worn at the bonfire, but the small one that tugged at the corner of her mouth when he told her she belonged in the bookshop. It had been faint, hesitant, but real. He had made her laugh too. A real laugh, not forced. That sound had sunk straight into him like sunlight.

He could not believe how beautiful she was up close. Not the kind of beauty the magazines shoved in your face, not glitter and gloss. She was sharp and soft at once, her eyes carrying a thousand secrets but her voice steady, her presence unshakable even when she clearly wanted to retreat. She did not even seem to know how striking she was, which only made it worse. Or better. He could not decide.

By the time the cabin came into view, his cheeks ached from smiling to himself. He tried to school his face into something resembling normal, but he could already hear voices inside, the low rumble of his pack, and knew they would take one look at him and pounce.

He pushed open the door, ducking his head against the wave of heat and noise. The whole lot of them were there, sprawled across the mismatched furniture or leaning against walls. The smell of coffee and damp wood filled the air.

Paul was the first to notice him. He sat up straighter on the sofa, his mouth already twitching with mischief. “Well, look who decided to grace us with his presence. You’re late, pup.”

“I’m not late,” Seth shot back, though he knew he was. He tried to keep his voice steady, tried not to sound too buoyant, but he could feel the giddiness leaking through every word.

“You look like you’ve just been kissed,” Paul said immediately, smirking.

Seth rolled his eyes but felt his cheeks heat. “Shut up.”

Embry raised his brows. “Come on, Seth. You can’t walk in here looking like that and not spill.”

Sam entered then, saving Seth from having to answer. The murmurs stilled at once, everyone turning towards their Alpha. He carried that weight so easily, like his presence alone demanded respect. His eyes swept the room, sharp, until they landed on Seth, who was still struggling not to grin like an idiot.

“We’ll start in a minute,” Sam said. “Jacob’s on his way.”

A groan rippled around the room. Jacob was never early.

Sure enough, ten minutes later the door swung open and Jacob strode in with a casual air, but he was not alone.

Bella followed him.

The mood shifted instantly. The easy banter evaporated. A cold silence wrapped the room.

Sam’s jaw tightened. His eyes flicked between Jacob and Bella, and the weight of his disapproval was so thick it was almost a tangible thing.

“This is a pack meeting,” Sam said slowly.

“She’s with me,” Jacob replied, like that explained everything. He kept his chin high, stubborn.

Bella looked uncomfortable under the weight of so many stares. She gave a small wave, her voice quiet. “Hi.”

No one answered.

The silence stretched. Seth felt his stomach knot. He glanced around at the others. Paul looked ready to explode, Embry had raised his brows in disbelief, and Jared shook his head slowly. Quil, however, was unreadable.

Sam did not move. He just stood there, his arms folded across his chest, every line of his body radiating authority. “This is not the time,” he said finally. His voice was low, measured, but there was steel in it. “We’ll postpone.”

Jacob’s eyes narrowed, but Sam’s glare silenced whatever protest he was about to make.

“Fine,” Jacob muttered.

Sam did not acknowledge him. He just turned away, ending the discussion.

Emily appeared from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel. Her expression was gentler, though her eyes flickered with concern. She touched Sam’s arm lightly, guiding him towards the corner, whispering something in his ear.

Quil rose to his feet then, quietly excusing himself and following Emily into the kitchen. Seth watched them go, curiosity burning in his chest.

The remaining wolves muttered to one another in low voices, throwing sharp glances at Jacob and Bella. Bella shrank under it, but Jacob only looked more defiant.

After a while Quil and Emily returned. Quil’s expression had softened, though there was still a shadow of seriousness clinging to him. He looked around at the others before clearing his throat.

“We were thinking,” he said, his voice measured, “maybe we should do another bonfire. Nothing formal. Just… something easier. A way for Hermione to get to know everyone without pressure.”

The name drew attention instantly. Seth’s chest tightened. He was torn between pride at hearing her mentioned and anxiety at how the others would react.

“That witch?” Paul asked bluntly.

Seth bristled. “She has a name.”

Paul raised his hands in mock surrender, smirking. “Alright. Hermione then.”

Emily stepped in, her voice calm and even. “It would be good for her. A chance to meet you properly, in a safe place. Without feeling like she’s on trial.”

There was a murmur of agreement around the room. Even Jared nodded.

Then Bella spoke. “Could I come?”

The words dropped into the silence like a stone into still water.

Seth’s heart sank.

Quil hesitated, looking at Emily, then at Sam. Embry frowned. Paul laughed under his breath.

Jacob spoke before anyone else could. “Of course you can. You should meet her. It’ll be fine.”

The weight of his tone made it clear he expected no argument, but that did not stop Seth from bristling. He leaned forward, unable to keep quiet.

“Why should she come?” His voice cracked with frustration. “Hermione barely feels comfortable around us as it is. Why would she want Bella there too?”

Bella’s face flushed. She opened her mouth, then closed it again, clearly hurt.

Jacob’s eyes flashed. “What’s your problem, Seth?”

“My problem,” Seth shot back, “is that Hermione’s finally starting to feel like she belongs, and the last thing she needs is more strangers making it harder for her. She doesn’t even know Bella.”

“She’ll be fine,” Jacob snapped.

“You don’t know that,” Seth said, his voice rising.

Sam’s voice cut through the tension like a knife. “Enough.”

Silence slammed down. Everyone stilled under the Alpha’s authority.

Sam’s eyes moved between Jacob and Seth, his jaw tight. “We’ll discuss it later. For now, the meeting is over.”

There was no room for argument.

The pack slowly dispersed, muttering amongst themselves, some throwing glances at Bella, others at Seth. Jacob kept his hand on Bella’s arm, protective, leading her out. She looked shaken, though she tried to hide it.

Seth sat back in his chair, his chest heaving. His mind spun with frustration and something deeper, sharper. Hermione’s face rose in his mind, the way she had smiled at him earlier, the way she had seemed lighter for the first time since she had arrived. 

Chapter Text

The cabin was warm, fragrant with the faint steam rising from simmering cauldrons. Hermione had propped every available window open, but the scent of herbs and crushed roots still clung to the air, earthy and sharp, layered over with the sweeter traces of lavender and peppermint. She had tied her hair back loosely, strands curling around her face as she leant over her workbench, stirring one of her smaller cauldrons with slow precision.

She was in her element. For the first time in what felt like years, her hands moved without hesitation, her mind sharp and calm. The bubbling of potion was steady, the colour exactly the right shade of deep amber, and the faint ripple of satisfaction that ran through her chest almost startled her. There had been a time when she thought she might never feel this way again, like herself.

The radio played in the corner, one of the local La Push stations she had discovered last week. She didn’t know half the artists, but it didn’t matter. The music was light, cheerful, and it filled the cabin with a sense of normalcy. She found herself humming under her breath as she carefully decanted the potion into a row of corked vials.

Tomorrow she would start her new job. Just the thought of it sent a small thrill through her. It wasn’t glamorous, not in the slightest, and the owner had apologised in advance for the low wages, but she hadn’t cared. It wasn’t about money. She had enough tucked away from the sale of her parents’ house and her untouched Ministry pay to last her years if she wanted. This was about purpose, about something to get her out of the house each day. Something to remind her that she could still build a life.

She glanced at the corner of the table where the letters had once sat. A few days ago, she had finally burnt them all. The words that had haunted her, threatened her, weighed down her every breath. Gone in an instant, eaten away by fire. She had been surprised at the relief that had swept through her. It had been as though the ashes that drifted into the night had taken the last of that burden with them. She hadn’t realised how heavy those scraps of parchment had been until they were no longer there.

She placed the last vial into the rack with a steady hand, wiped her palms on a cloth, and allowed herself a small smile. Peace. She was not used to it, but she found she liked it very much.

The sudden knock at the door startled her. She froze for a heartbeat, then moved quickly, flicking her wand to close the door to the small potions room and layering the wards she always used. She didn’t want anyone stumbling into her work. Not yet.

When she opened the door, her face broke into a grin at the sight that greeted her.

“Emily,” she said warmly.

Emily stood there, her dark hair plaited over one shoulder, a gentle smile tugging at her lips. There was always a quiet grace about her, one that Hermione admired.

“May I come in?” Emily asked.

“Of course,” Hermione said, stepping aside at once. “Come in, please.”

Emily glanced around as she entered, and Hermione noticed the faint surprise flickering across her features. She didn’t comment on it, but Hermione saw it all the same. The cabin was tidy, the air light with music, and Hermione knew she must look different from the woman who had stumbled through the last few weeks weighed down by ghosts.

“Sit down,” Hermione said quickly, suddenly eager to be a good hostess. She moved towards the kitchen counter. “I have tea, or coffee if you’d prefer. And I made a cake this morning. You’ll have to try a slice.”

Emily’s brows lifted slightly, amused and pleased. “Tea would be lovely. And cake sounds wonderful.”

Within moments Hermione had set down a tray between them, steam rising from two cups and a plate of soft sponge cake dusted with sugar. She settled opposite Emily on the sofa, tucking her feet beneath her, and felt that odd hum of contentment once again.

Emily studied her for a moment before speaking. “You seem… happy tonight.”

Hermione laughed softly, a little self-conscious but not denying it. “I think I am. I’ve been working on a few potions, keeping busy. I start my new job tomorrow.”

Emily’s face lit up. “That’s wonderful. Where?”

“The bookshop in town,” Hermione replied. “They needed help and I thought it was perfect. I’ve missed having a reason to get up and go somewhere. Missed… feeling like I’m useful, I suppose.”

“I’m so glad,” Emily said, her tone full of quiet pride. “It’s not easy, working on yourself. But you’re doing it.”

Hermione felt a lump rise in her throat. She took a sip of tea to steady herself, letting the warmth spread through her. “I’ve realised that if I don’t start moving forwards, I’ll just stay stuck forever. I don’t want that anymore. I want… I want to live again.”

Emily reached across and squeezed her hand briefly, her smile tender. “I’m proud of you.”

Hermione blinked quickly, surprised by how much the words meant. She cleared her throat, determined to keep the conversation light. “So, what brings you here? Not that I don’t enjoy your company, of course.”

Emily laughed softly. “I came to invite you to another barbecue. Just the pack tonight. Nothing formal, nothing overwhelming. We thought it might be nice for you to spend time with everyone in a more relaxed way.”

Hermione hesitated for only a moment before nodding. “I’d like that. Really, I would. I’m… I’m happy to be included.”

Emily’s smile deepened, though she seemed to be studying her closely, as if measuring how genuine her words were. “Good. It’ll be at the beach, as usual. You’ll come?”

“I will,” Hermione said.

They lapsed into a more casual conversation then, sipping tea and picking at slices of cake. Hermione found herself speaking easily, more easily than she had in months. Emily had a gift for listening, for making one feel safe enough to open up without fear of judgement.

At one point Hermione found herself asking, almost against her own will, “How is Seth?”

Emily’s lips curved into a small, knowing smile, though she kept her gaze steady and kind. “He’s good. He’ll be there tonight.”

Hermione felt her cheeks warm. She busied herself with her teacup. “That’s… good to hear.”

Emily didn’t press, though Hermione suspected she had noticed far more than she let on. The conversation drifted to gentler topics after that, the weather, the best place in town to buy groceries, and the fact that Emily swore she had once seen an eagle perched on her porch railing.

Eventually Emily stood, brushing crumbs from her skirt. “I should get back. I need to start the food for the fire. Sam will eat half of it before anyone else gets a look if I don’t keep him busy.”

Hermione laughed, standing as well. “Would you like me to make something to bring? I can easily whip up a few things.”

Emily’s expression softened with gratitude. “That would be wonderful, thank you. Anything you’d like.”

“Consider it done,” Hermione said firmly.

They embraced lightly before Emily departed, her smile lingering as she stepped out into the cooling evening. Hermione watched her go for a moment, then turned back into the cabin with a sense of purpose thrumming through her.

She tidied away the tea things, slipped her wand into her pocket, and grabbed her bag. Within minutes she was walking down the narrow path into town, the evening air crisp on her skin. She felt lighter than she had in months, as though each step carried her further away from the weight that had once threatened to crush her.

The high street was quiet, the glow of shop windows spilling golden light onto the pavement. Hermione ducked into the grocer’s, list forming in her head. Ingredients for salads, perhaps a few loaves of bread, maybe something sweet. Something simple, something she could bring to the fire and set down with pride.

Hermione stepped out of the grocer’s with two bags balanced against her hip and another hanging from her arm. She had gone in for just a few ingredients but had, as usual, ended up with more than she planned. A part of her thought she was compensating, trying to fill empty cupboards as if food might make the cabin feel more like a home. Still, she was satisfied with her haul. She had fresh vegetables, herbs, some fruit, and enough ingredients to make something simple but filling for the barbecue.

The evening air was cooler now, the faint mist of earlier having lifted. A soft glow of lamplight stretched across the pavement, and the high street was quiet apart from the occasional car rolling by. Hermione adjusted her grip on her bags and began walking back towards the edge of town, already mentally listing what she needed to chop first when she got in.

Movement on the opposite pavement caught her eye, and she froze when she realised who it was. Seth Clearwater.

She hadn’t seen him since that walk a few days ago, and she was startled at the rush of warmth that filled her chest at the sight of him. It was as though her body recognised him before her mind had time to catch up. She raised her hand without thinking, her voice carrying across the street.

“Seth!”

He turned sharply, and when he spotted her, his whole face lit up. The grin that spread across his mouth was blinding, the kind of smile that seemed to chase away shadows. Hermione’s breath caught at how wide it was, how unguarded. He looked delighted, as though seeing her had made his entire day.

He broke into a jog, then a run, weaving between two parked cars and crossing the street to her. He was taller than she remembered, towering over her by at least a foot, all broad shoulders and lean muscle that moved with an easy grace. His skin was warm-toned, a deeper bronze than most in town, and strands of dark hair had fallen loose across his forehead. But it was his eyes that made her forget herself for a moment. They were unlike anything she had ever seen, not simply brown but a rich, glowing warmth that seemed to hold a light of their own. Kindness radiated from them, an openness that disarmed her completely.

“You’re here,” he said a little breathlessly, as if he had half-feared she might vanish before he reached her.

Hermione found herself smiling back at him, unable to stop it. “I am. What are you doing in town?”

“Just finished work,” Seth replied, shifting easily to her side as if it were the most natural place in the world to stand.

Hermione tilted her head, curiosity catching her. “Work? You have a job?”

“Yeah,” he said with a grin that held just a trace of pride. “I help out at the animal sanctuary up the road. Feeding, cleaning, sometimes running errands for the vet. Nothing huge, but I love it. I get to be around the animals all day.”

Hermione blinked at him, taken aback. She had not expected that answer, and her heart gave an odd twist. “That’s… wonderful,” she said softly, and she meant it. “Truly. Animals are… well, they’re honest, aren’t they? They don’t hide what they feel.”

“Exactly,” Seth agreed, his grin widening. “They’re straightforward. Loyal. I like that.”

Hermione studied him quietly, still surprised at the gentle warmth that seemed to radiate from him. There was something about him that felt so different from the people she had left behind. Less complicated. More sincere.

“I was just heading home,” she said, adjusting one of the bags on her arm. “I promised Emily I’d cook something to bring to the bonfire tonight.”

Seth’s eyes lit up even further at the mention. “You’re coming?”

“I said I would,” Hermione admitted with a small laugh. “I thought it might be… nice.”

“That’s brilliant,” he said at once, the enthusiasm in his voice making her cheeks warm. He hesitated for a moment, almost as though gathering his courage, before blurting, “Do you want a hand? With the cooking, I mean. Or carrying. I could help, if you’d let me.”

He looked almost nervous as he said it, his fingers brushing the seam of his jeans, but his smile was still there, earnest and bright. Hermione hesitated, her instinct to manage everything herself warring with the warmth she felt at the offer. It had been so long since someone had wanted to help her without an ulterior motive. So long since she had simply accepted kindness.

“All right,” she said after a pause, her voice gentler than she intended. “If you’d like to.”

The relief that swept across his face was almost comical. “Definitely,” he said quickly, and before she could protest, he reached for the bags.

“Seth, you don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he cut in, lifting the heaviest ones as though they weighed nothing. “Honestly, you’ll break your arms carrying all this on your own.”

Hermione rolled her eyes but couldn’t hide her smile. “Thank you.”

He adjusted the bags easily, clearly unbothered by the weight, and fell into step beside her as they began the walk out of town. His presence was solid but not imposing, his long strides slowing to match hers. Every so often she caught him glancing at her, and each time she did, his grin returned like he couldn’t help himself.

The path towards Hemlock Sanctuary curved beneath the trees, the evening light softening into gold around them. Hermione felt oddly at ease, as though the silence between them was companionable rather than awkward. She glanced at him once, at the way his hair brushed across his forehead and his eyes seemed brighter in the fading light, and thought with a suddenness that startled her that he was very handsome. More than handsome. Beautiful, even.

She pushed the thought away quickly, focusing instead on the rhythm of their footsteps. Still, the warmth in her chest refused to fade.

Seth shifted the bags against his hip and gave her another quick smile. “So… what are we making?”

Hermione laughed softly, shaking her head. “We? I hadn’t planned for you to cook as well.”

“You agreed to let me help,” he reminded her, eyes sparkling. “You can’t go back on it now.”

She sighed dramatically, though her smile betrayed her. “Fine. Salads, some bread, maybe something sweet if I have time.”

“Sounds perfect,” he said, as though she had just announced a feast fit for a king.

Hermione found herself laughing again, a real laugh, light and unguarded. It startled her with how easy it felt. And as they walked together towards the cabin, she realised that for the first time in a long while, she was not thinking about the past or the shadows that clung to it. She was simply here, in this moment, walking beside Seth Clearwater, and it felt… good.

By the time Hemlock Sanctuary came into view, the bags heavy with food and the air filled with the smell of pine and damp earth, Hermione realised she was almost reluctant for the walk to end.

Chapter Text

The cabin smelled faintly of herbs and beeswax when Hermione pushed the door open and led Seth inside. She felt an odd twist in her stomach at the sight of him stepping over the threshold, his broad shoulders nearly brushing the frame, those dark eyes of his flicking curiously around the space. He looked completely at ease, though she suspected he was anything but. He still had her shopping bags balanced effortlessly in one hand, and he grinned as though carrying half her kitchen home was no effort at all.

“Make yourself comfortable,” she said lightly, moving towards the counter and flicking the kettle on out of habit. “You’ve already done the heavy lifting.”

Seth shook his head with a boyish grin, setting the bags on the table. “Nah, you just tell me what to do and I’ll help. Honestly, it’s better this way. My mum always says I eat more when I cook, and she’s right.”

Hermione laughed, pulling out a loaf of bread and a basket of vegetables from one of the bags. “I’ll have to remember that. The pack might start recruiting me to cook for them if that’s the case.”

“They’d love you for it,” Seth said without hesitation, then winced as if he had spoken too quickly. His ears tinged a little pink, and Hermione found herself looking away, a small warmth creeping into her chest that had nothing to do with the stove.

She set the chopping board down and picked up a knife. Seth came to stand beside her, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead before reaching for the carrots.

“You’re good with a knife?” Hermione asked, half teasing.

“Depends what you mean by good,” he said, chuckling as he picked one up and started slicing. His technique was enthusiastic rather than neat, but at least he kept his fingers well out of the way. “No one’s died yet.”

Hermione shook her head with amusement. “That’s very reassuring.”

They worked in a companionable silence for a few minutes, the only sounds the chop of vegetables, the bubbling of water on the stove, and the faint hum of the radio still playing quietly in the background. Hermione felt a rare sense of calm. It was so ordinary, standing in a kitchen and preparing food with someone else, and she had not realised how much she had missed that.

It was Seth who broke the quiet. His tone was casual, but his eyes were curious. “So what actually brought you to La Push?”

Hermione’s knife paused mid-slice. Her body stiffened before she could stop it. The question should have been expected, yet it still felt like someone had thrown cold water down her back. For a moment, the walls of the cabin seemed too close, the scent of rosemary and thyme almost suffocating.

She forced herself to breathe slowly, in and out, counting until the tightness in her chest eased. When she finally spoke, her voice was softer than she intended. “I had a bad break up and needed to get away for a while.” She put the knife down and steadied herself with both hands on the counter. “The cabin belongs to a friend of mine, Luna. I don’t think you’ve met her. She leant it to me, and now… here I am.”

Her words felt brittle, like glass balanced too close to the edge of a table. She braced herself for the inevitable flood of questions. Everyone always wanted more. Why did it end? What happened? What did you do? Her breath caught as she waited for the blow.

But Seth simply turned to look at her with the same steady warmth in his eyes that she had noticed before. He did not frown, or press, or demand explanations she could not give. He only said, quietly, “I’m sorry to hear that. You clearly have some lovely friends. I hope, in time, you know you can talk to me if you ever need.”

Hermione blinked at him, caught completely off guard. She had expected curiosity, maybe even judgement, but not this gentle acceptance.

“Thank you, Seth,” she murmured, and this time the smile she gave him reached her eyes.

The heaviness between them lifted, and he grinned again, brighter now, as though the moment had never happened. He scooped up the carrots and dropped them into a bowl with a flourish. “Right, what next, chef?”

Hermione chuckled, directing him to the herbs and spices. As they worked, Seth began talking about his job at the animal sanctuary, and she found herself listening with genuine interest. His face lit up as he described the wolves they cared for, the injured birds they rehabilitated, the mischievous raccoon that had learned how to open food bins.

“You should see the otters,” he said, laughing as he sprinkled salt over the bread. “One of them actually stole a keeper’s watch last month. We had to drain the pool to find it again.”

Hermione laughed, shaking her head in disbelief. “That sounds chaotic. But wonderful.”

“It is,” Seth agreed, his voice softening as he stirred the pot on the stove. “It’s… I don’t know. They rely on us, and it feels good to give them a chance. I’ve always loved animals.”

There was a gentleness in his tone that struck Hermione in a way she had not expected. She caught herself staring at him for a moment, surprised at the warmth in his voice and at the way it made something shift inside her chest. She almost scolded herself for being surprised at all. Seth had never been anything but kind and gentle with her. It was her own mistrust she was hearing, not a reflection of him.

She turned back to the bread quickly, cheeks warming. “I think that’s lovely,” she said, and meant it.

They drifted into easier conversation after that, trading little stories, laughing over Seth’s clumsy knife work, debating which herbs would taste better with the roasted vegetables. Hermione realised she was smiling more than she had in days, and she had not even noticed when the knot of tension in her chest had loosened.

By the time they finished, the table was laden with platters of food, the warm scent filling the cabin. Seth wiped his hands on a towel and looked at her with that irrepressible grin.

“Not bad for an afternoon’s work,” he said. “Shall we?”

Hermione nodded, gathering up the covered dishes. As they stepped out into the fading evening light, the sea breeze carried the faint crackle of a fire already burning on the beach. For the first time in a long while, Hermione felt something stir in her chest that was dangerously close to anticipation.

And when Seth’s shoulder brushed against hers as they walked side by side, she found she did not mind it one bit.

The fire on the beach was already burning by the time Hermione and Seth stepped down onto the sand. The sky above had begun to dip into deep blue, the edges painted with streaks of pink and gold where the sun had just disappeared beneath the horizon. The air was rich with salt and smoke, the scent of roasting meat already clinging to the breeze.

Hermione shifted the platters in her arms, balancing them carefully, though Seth had insisted on taking the heavier dishes himself. The sound of laughter drifted towards them from the group already gathered around the fire. Most of the pack were sprawled on logs or stretched out on the sand, their voices carrying easily across the crackle of the flames.

For a moment Hermione hesitated, her heart thudding in her chest. These were people she barely knew, people whose secrets pressed sharp against the edges of her awareness. She told herself firmly that she had faced down worse, but even so, it was different when the danger was hidden behind easy smiles.

Seth brushed her arm with his elbow, a small gesture of reassurance. “You’ll be fine,” he murmured, his grin as bright as ever. “They’re good people.”

She nodded, grateful for the steadiness in his tone. Then, before she could say anything else, someone was on their feet and striding towards her.

Quil closed the distance in a few quick steps and, before Hermione had a chance to react, swept her up into a crushing hug. She let out a startled laugh as her feet left the sand, her arms caught tightly against her sides.

“You look so much better than last time I saw you,” Quil said against her hair, his voice low, almost conspiratorial, though there was no hiding the warmth in it.

Hermione’s throat tightened, but she managed a small smile when he set her back on her feet. “I’ve been working on healing myself,” she said honestly. “Trying to… move forwards.”

Quil’s grin softened. He bent without hesitation and pressed a quick, tender kiss to her forehead. “I’m glad,” he murmured. “Really glad.”

The sound that cut through the air next was nothing like laughter or the sea breeze. A low, guttural growl rolled across the circle, sharp enough to freeze the hair on Hermione’s arms. She spun on her heel, eyes wide, scanning the firelight for the source.

Quil stepped back at once, his hands raised in a placating gesture. “Easy,” he said quickly, his tone directed towards someone over Hermione’s shoulder. “It’s nothing.”

Hermione’s heart thudded uncomfortably. She opened her mouth to ask what was going on, but before she could, Emily was suddenly at her side, sliding an arm around her waist.

“Come on,” Emily said brightly, tugging her gently but firmly away from the tension. “Show me what you brought. I swear if it tastes as good as it smells, you’ll have them all worshipping you before the night’s over.”

Hermione allowed herself to be pulled towards the long makeshift table where bowls and trays of food were already laid out. She set down her dishes with careful hands, though her eyes betrayed her. They flicked back to where Seth and Sam had both moved in close to Quil, their voices low and tight. The firelight cast sharp shadows across their faces, too far for Hermione to hear the words but close enough that the tension was unmistakable.

Emily began lifting lids and peeking inside with delighted noises. “Is this rosemary bread? Oh, Hermione, they’re going to demolish this in minutes. And this pasta bake, Merlin—sorry, habit—this looks amazing.”

Hermione forced herself to look down, to smile at Emily’s enthusiasm. She picked up a knife and began slicing the loaf of bread, steadying her breath with each motion. Yet her mind replayed the growl, Quil’s quick retreat, the way Seth had immediately stepped in, protective and unyielding.

Around them, the rest of the pack had shifted slightly. Some still lounged casually, their smiles easy, though Hermione caught Leah’s sharp eyes on her from across the fire. Paul, too, seemed more withdrawn, his posture closed off, his expression unreadable.

But others were openly curious, intrigued even, their glances at her far warmer. Jared waved her over when he saw the bread, calling out something about her being their new chef. Embry leaned closer to Seth, his grin conspiratorial, clearly teasing him about something. Hermione caught only fragments, but Seth’s ears went pink, which told her more than enough.

Even in the warmth of Emily’s presence, Hermione could not quite shake the unsettled feeling in her chest. She set the bread neatly on a plate and told herself she would not ask questions she already half knew the answers to.

Instead, she looked up at Emily with a small smile. “Do you need help with anything else?”

Emily’s eyes softened, as though she could see straight through Hermione’s calm facade. But she only squeezed Hermione’s hand gently and shook her head. “No, you’ve done plenty. Just enjoy yourself tonight. That’s all I want for you.”

Hermione nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat. She tried to ignore the murmurs of conversation behind her, the way Sam’s hand landed firmly on Quil’s shoulder, the way Seth stood just a step closer than necessary, as though ready to intervene at any moment.

The fire cracked louder, sparks flying into the darkening sky. The smell of food drifted thickly over the beach. Around her, voices lifted in easy chatter, laughter spilling like water over stone. 

Hermione sat down close to Quil, grateful for the warmth of his presence. He had always had that steadying effect on her, as though just being near him anchored her a little more securely to the world.

When Seth dropped down onto the log beside her, she thought nothing of it at first. But then his leg brushed against hers, an accidental knock that sent a quiet shiver spiralling through her. She kept her eyes on the fire, telling herself it was just coincidence, but when it happened again, a subtle press of his knee against her own, she realised he was sitting closer than he needed to. Strangely, she found that she liked it. She felt no need to move away.

Seth glanced sideways at her, his mouth tugging into a grin that looked as though he could not quite keep it contained. She raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“Nothing,” he said quickly, though his grin widened. “Just… nothing.”

Hermione shook her head, though a smile tugged at her lips despite herself. The comfort of the fire, the closeness of Quil and Seth, and the chorus of voices around her made her feel, for the first time in a long while, something like safe.

The group were swapping stories, each one trying to outdo the last with something funnier or more embarrassing. Jared had just finished telling the tale of how Paul once tripped over his own boots during a patrol, landing face first in the mud. Paul had barked out a protest, swearing it had only been because Jared had distracted him, but even Leah had cracked a smirk at the memory.

Hermione felt her chest tighten with the urge to join in. Her fingers twisted in her lap for a moment before she lifted her chin. “Can I tell you one?”

Several heads turned towards her. Seth’s eyes lit up instantly. Quil leaned back, his grin easy. “Course you can,” he said.

Hermione wet her lips, trying to find the words. “It’s about… well, two friends of mine from school. George who you met, and his twin, Fred. And they had a habit of… causing chaos.” Everyone missed her sorrowful look at mentioning Fred.

“Chaos how?” Embry asked, already intrigued.

Hermione smiled faintly. “One time they taped shut… um, a door. Made stick shut whenever a particular teacher tried to walk through it. He spent nearly half an hour shouting before someone let him out.”

The laughter that followed rang out loud, carrying over the fire. Seth tilted his head back with a proper bark of laughter, while Jared slapped his knee, already demanding another one.

“Alright, alright,” Hermione said, warmth creeping into her cheeks. “Another time, they put… itching powder into someone’s—well, let’s just say, his uniform. He couldn’t sit down for days. Every lesson he was squirming in his chair, practically climbing the walls.”

The pack howled with laughter. Even Leah, who had been leaning back with her arms crossed, let a reluctant smirk flicker across her face. Paul grumbled but Hermione swore she saw his mouth twitch.

“Sounds like my kind of people,” Quil said, eyes gleaming.

“They were infuriating,” Hermione admitted, though her own smile was soft, touched with something that might have been fondness. “But brilliant. You never quite knew what to expect next.”

“Sounds like you miss them,” Seth said quietly.

Hermione looked at him, the firelight flickering in his dark eyes. She opened her mouth to answer, but before she could, the sharp crunch of tyres on gravel broke through the laughter.

The sound of a truck pulling up near the edge of the beach cut straight through the easy warmth of the group. Conversation faltered, then stilled altogether. The silence that followed was heavy, as though the air itself had shifted.

Hermione glanced around, bewildered by the sudden change. The boys who had been laughing seconds ago were now tense, shoulders tight, their eyes fixed towards the headlights cutting through the dark.

Emily leaned forward suddenly, her hand brushing Hermione’s arm. “I forgot to mention, Hermione. I’m so sorry. Jacob has brought a girl with him tonight. Bella.”

Hermione blinked. “Oh. No, that’s fine.” She hesitated, her voice lighter than she felt. “Is it his girlfriend?”

The reaction was immediate. Several of the pack burst out laughing, others groaned. Quil actually choked, and Jared smirked so wide it looked painful. Leah rolled her eyes dramatically.

Hermione raised her brows, startled. “What?”

“No,” Jared said with a grin. “Not his girlfriend.”

“She has a boyfriend already,” Embry added, though his grin soured slightly as though the whole thing irritated him. “They’re just friends.”

Paul grumbled under his breath. “Yeah, if you believe that.”

Hermione’s gaze flicked between them, confusion knotting in her stomach. Clearly there was far more to this than she understood, but before she could ask anything else, movement drew her eyes to the edge of the firelight.

Two figures walked down the sand, one taller, broader, his familiar gait instantly marking him as Jacob. Beside him walked a girl with pale skin and long brown hair, her arm brushing close to his as though tethered. She looked hesitant, her eyes scanning the fire and the faces gathered around it.

The easy laughter from moments ago was gone, replaced by a heavy silence. Hermione felt Seth shift beside her, his knee pressing firmer into hers, a silent reminder that he was there. She did not know why, but suddenly she was grateful for it.

Chapter Text

The girl moved into the light of the fire, the flames catching her pale skin and soft brown hair. Her eyes swept the circle with uncertainty, and though her chin was lifted as though she was trying to appear calm, her hands twisted together in front of her. Jacob was beside her, taller, broad shouldered, his usual easy confidence in place.

“Evening,” he called out as though he had just walked into any other gathering.

The pack muttered greetings back, but Hermione noticed at once that none of them sounded particularly enthusiastic. Even the ones who had been laughing loudly minutes earlier now seemed quieter, more restrained.

Jacob gave a grin that looked rehearsed. “This is Bella. Thought I’d bring her along.”

Bella gave a small smile, her voice barely carrying across the fire. “Hi.”

Hermione, who had been sitting with Seth and Quil on either side of her, set down the plate she had been holding and rose to her feet. She told herself that this was nothing unusual, that politeness cost nothing. She smoothed her hands down her jeans, then offered a gentle smile. “Hello. I’m Hermione. It’s nice to meet you.”

Bella’s eyes darted towards her, flickering up and down as though taking in her face, her posture, her clothes. She gave a short nod. “Hi.”

For a heartbeat there was silence. Then Seth broke it with his usual brightness, patting the empty log across from them. “Sit down, both of you. There’s plenty of food.”

Jacob tugged Bella with him to the other side of the fire. Hermione returned to her seat, aware of the way Quil shifted his weight slightly, his shoulder brushing hers in a small, grounding gesture. Seth leaned forward to grab another plate, passing it across the fire to Jacob who muttered thanks.

The tension did not dissolve. It hovered like smoke above the flames.

Jared tried first, launching into another story, something about how Embry once tried to impress a girl by showing off his motorbike and promptly stalled it. The pack erupted into laughter, and Embry shoved him with a groan. Hermione laughed too, the image easy to picture.

Bella, though, only sat stiffly, her eyes moving across the group. When her gaze landed on Hermione, there was something sharp in it, as though she were trying to measure her, trying to understand why everyone leaned towards her with such open warmth.

Quil nudged Hermione lightly. “Got any more stories about those twins of yours? I reckon they could give us some inspiration.”

Hermione chuckled, reaching for her drink. “They would be unbearable if they ever met you lot. You’d only encourage them.”

“Oh, come on,” Embry grinned. “Give us one more.”

Hermione tilted her head, pretending to think. “Alright. Once, they managed to get a swamp into the school. Don’t even ask me how, you wouldn’t believe me. The teachers couldn’t work out how to get rid of it for over a week.”

Seth burst out laughing, doubling over. Even Leah’s mouth twitched again, though she caught herself quickly and looked away.

Bella spoke suddenly, her voice cutting across the laughter. “Sounds like they were troublemakers.”

Hermione glanced at her, surprised. “They were, yes. But they had good hearts. They made life lighter when everything else was heavy.”

Bella did not answer. She picked at the food in front of her, though her eyes kept slipping towards Hermione, narrowing slightly when she saw how Quil leaned towards her or how Seth could not seem to stop grinning in her direction.

The conversation flowed on, Seth telling them about a raccoon at the sanctuary that had managed to sneak into the feed room, Jared teasing Paul about his cooking, Emily trying to keep order by scolding them good naturedly. Hermione found herself laughing more than she expected, warmth settling in her chest.

Bella did not join in. When Emily passed her a plate of bread Hermione had brought, she muttered thanks but did not look at her. When Jared asked her a question about school, she gave short, flat answers. Her eyes slid repeatedly back to Hermione, sharp and unreadable.

Hermione noticed, but she said nothing. She had grown used to wary looks, suspicion, even outright hostility. She refused to let it shake the fragile peace she was building here.

Seth leaned closer, his shoulder brushing hers as he reached for more food. His voice was quiet, meant only for her. “You alright?”

Hermione nodded. “I’m fine.”

“You look like you’re thinking too much,” he murmured, a small smile tugging at his lips.

She smiled back, soft. “Maybe I am.”

Across the fire, Bella saw the exchange. Her jaw tightened, the bread in her hand breaking slightly under her grip. The pack might have been willing to laugh at Hermione’s stories, to welcome her food, to lean closer when she spoke, but Bella saw it differently. She saw another outsider, another stranger, stepping into their circle and being met with warmth that Bella herself had never been given.

The fire crackled and spat embers into the night sky. Hermione shifted slightly on the log, the warmth of Quil’s shoulder beside her a quiet comfort. Seth still sat close, just within her peripheral vision, and she felt a strange, fluttering tug in her chest at the contact. He didn’t push or move unnecessarily; he simply existed near her, as though by proximity he could shield her from the lingering edge of unease that had settled around the bonfire since Bella and Jacob arrived.

Bella had taken a seat across from Hermione, close to Jacob. From the moment she had arrived, her eyes had been fixed on Hermione, sharp, measuring, and subtly hostile. Hermione had tried to ignore it, laughing along with Seth and Quil, listening to the pack’s stories, and tasting the small spark of normalcy she felt in the air. But the awareness of Bella’s gaze made her shoulders tense.

“So, Swan,” Paul’s voice rang out suddenly, cutting through a lull in the conversation. “What does Cullen think about her being here?”

Hermione froze mid-laugh, the fork in her hand hovering above her plate. Heads turned. Seth’s knee nudged against hers, a gentle warning, but Hermione could feel the awkward shift in the pack immediately.

Bella’s jaw tightened, her pale hands gripping the sides of her chair. She gave a small shrug, her voice careful. “He doesn't mind.”

Paul smirked, leaning back slightly, but the tension in the air did not leave. Hermione could see the subtle stiffening in the others, the way some glanced at Sam, who was watching everything silently. Quil’s jaw clenched almost imperceptibly.

Hermione tried to smile lightly, trying to smooth over the sudden unease, but she could feel it settling heavy around them. Her eyes flicked to Seth, who avoided her gaze for a moment, fiddling with a twig near the fire, clearly caught off guard.

“Do you want to go for a walk?” Seth’s voice was quiet, directed at Hermione.

Before she could answer, Bella laughed, low and sharp. “So that’s why she’s here. I did wonder,” she said, her tone carrying just enough venom to make Hermione flinch. “She’s an imprint.”

The words cut through the warmth of the fire like a knife. Conversation stuttered, laughter ceased entirely, and even the crackling flames seemed to pause. Hermione’s stomach dropped.

Sam stood immediately, his presence suddenly commanding, a towering figure in the firelight. “Bella,” he said, low and dangerous, “that is enough. Now.”

Quil’s voice followed, forceful and urgent. “Jacob! Take her and go. Now!”

Jacob opened his mouth to argue, a flush rising to his cheeks, but Sam’s eyes met his, hard and unyielding. “I said now.”

Jacob’s shoulders slumped in reluctant obedience, and he nodded at Bella, who stared at Hermione one last time before moving away with him. She did not speak, did not glance back, but Hermione could feel the weight of her eyes, sharp and judging, even from a distance.

Hermione and Seth had walked a little way from the fire, letting the pack’s voices fade behind them, the smell of smoke and the tang of salt from the ocean lingering in the air. The night was calm, stars scattered across the sky, and the waves lapping at the sand seemed almost gentle in contrast to the turmoil building inside her.

Seth finally broke the silence. “I… I think I should try to explain,” he said quietly, his dark eyes flicking toward her but then away, as though he was unsure how to start. “About the us. About what… what we are, and how things work.”

Hermione turned to look at him, her brow furrowed. “I know,” she said, almost too casually. “I knew the legends were real.”

Seth froze mid-step. His mouth opened, then closed, and he just blinked at her in disbelief. For a moment he said nothing. “You’re… not running,” he said finally, his voice low, tinged with both surprise and cautious hope.

Hermione let out a small laugh, shaky but self-assured. “Well, I’ve known this for a bit of time. It’s not the strangest thing that’s happened to me.” She glanced at him, her eyes softening. “So… what’s an imprint?”

Seth swallowed and exhaled slowly. “Well… the legends believe that every wolf has a soulmate. It’s rare, finding them. Really rare. But the moment a wolf sees theirs, everything stops. A wolf will do anything to make them happy. Anything. Be a friend, a partner, a sibling… whatever they need.”

Hermione froze, the words sinking into her like stones dropped into still water. She stared at him, her mouth slightly open, and then the words came out before she could stop them. “And… you’re my imprint?”

Seth’s eyes widened slightly, and there was an unspoken hesitation in the air. “Yes,” he admitted quietly, his voice almost breaking with the weight of it.

Something inside Hermione twisted, a visceral, icy panic that coursed through her veins. For so long she had been careful, controlled, rebuilding herself piece by piece after years of abuse, manipulation, and terror. And now, this. The idea of being tied to someone like this, even someone like Seth, even someone who clearly meant well, felt impossible to bear. She tried to step back, to put distance between them. Her breathing quickened, shallow and harsh. “I… I need to go,” she said, her voice trembling.

Seth, quick and instinctive, reached out, grabbing her wrist gently, as though to stop her from leaving. But the touch, meant to be protective, became a trigger. Hermione’s body reacted like a spring snapping free. Memories she had worked so hard to bury crashed through her mind. The dark corners of her past, Ron’s grip, the constant fear, the feeling of helplessness, the screams she had swallowed. It all came back in an instant.

“No! Let go! Get away from me!” she screamed, her voice raw and panicked. She tried to wrench her wrist free, but Seth’s grip, unyielding, pinned her in place, and the flashback was overwhelming. Her legs trembled, and her vision blurred with tears she hadn’t expected.

Seth’s eyes went wide, panic rising on his face as he realized what was happening. “Hermione, I’m—” he started, but she could barely hear him. Every fibre of her being was screaming to escape, to run, to get away from someone holding her, someone so strong, someone she didn’t know yet in the ways that mattered.

And then, suddenly, Quil was there. He had been nearby, keeping watch, sensing the tension between them, and now he ran forward with a speed and urgency that made Hermione’s panic spike further. He pushed Seth gently but firmly away, freeing her from the hold that had inadvertently set off the wave of fear and memory.

Quil’s arms wrapped around her instantly, holding her tight against his chest, a familiar, safe weight. “I’ve got you,” he whispered, his voice steady and calm, grounding. “I’ve got you, Hermione. You’re okay. You’re safe.”

Hermione’s entire body shook in his arms, her chest heaving with sobs she couldn’t hold back. The memories were still there, still clawing at her mind, but Quil’s presence, the warmth and certainty in his embrace, was like a lifeline. She clung to him, burying her face in his shoulder, letting herself be held for the first time in months without shame or fear of being judged.

Seth stumbled back slightly, his hands raised, his dark eyes filled with guilt and confusion. “I didn’t mean to—” he started, but Quil’s look silenced him. It was a brief, sharp glance, the kind that said only one thing: step back, now.

Hermione’s sobs slowed but did not stop. Quil’s arms never wavered, the pressure of him against her steady and unwavering. “I’ll take you home,” he murmured again, giving her an encouraging squeeze.

He glanced briefly toward Sam, who had been watching from a distance. Sam’s expression was unreadable, but there was a subtle nod, almost imperceptible, that told Quil he had Sam’s silent approval. Hermoine did not see it, her attention entirely on Quil, on the safety he provided.

They moved together toward the path leading back to her cabin. Hermione’s hands clutched at his jacket, nails digging in lightly, though Quil made no move to pull away. She let herself lean into him completely, her body trembling but slowly beginning to let go of the panic, the fight or flight that had seized her.

Seth remained at the edge of the clearing, standing frozen, staring after them, guilt written on every line of his face. He wanted to call after her, to apologise, to explain that he had never intended to hurt her, but Quil’s presence had made it clear that there was nothing he could do right now except wait.

The moonlight lit the way as Quil carried Hermione back through the familiar path, the sounds of the ocean accompanying them, waves soft against the shore. When they reached the cabin, Quil opened the door gently, the smell of woodsmoke and lingering warmth wrapping around them.

He guided her inside, keeping his arms around her until she settled onto the couch. Quil crouched beside her, his hand resting lightly on her back. “You’re okay,” he said softly. “You’re safe now. That’s what matters.”

Hermione’s breaths came in ragged bursts. She looked up at him, tears streaking her cheeks, and gave a small, shaky laugh. “I… I don’t know how to… how to deal with that,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.

Quil smiled gently. “You don’t have to do it alone. Not anymore.”

She nodded, leaning back into him slightly, letting herself rest. The terror had passed, leaving a residue of exhaustion and relief. For the first time that night, she allowed herself to feel that she could breathe without immediately thinking about threats, about control, about abuse.

Outside, the ocean continued its steady rhythm, the moonlight spilling across the cabin windows. Inside, Quil held her close, a steady anchor against the storm that had almost overtaken her.

Chapter Text

The bonfire threw long flickering shadows across the sand, painting the wolves’ faces in shades of gold and orange. The sound of waves lapping against the shore seemed distant, as though the fire had absorbed everything around it. Normally, the warmth of the night, the closeness of the pack, would have made him feel calm, anchored. Tonight it felt hollow, like he was standing on the edge of something he could not see.

Seth’s hands rested loosely in his lap. He had replayed the moments over and over in his mind, trying to figure out where he had gone wrong, trying to understand how a few seconds could unravel everything. He could still feel Hermione’s panic when he had grabbed her wrist, that raw, palpable fear. That tiny, perfect human trembling against him. That had been his imprint. His responsibility. And he had hurt her.

Emily’s voice cut through the night, sharp, urgent, and full of rage. “What happened?!” she shouted, her green eyes blazing as she strode toward him.

Seth’s head dropped slightly. “I… I told her. I just… I grabbed her arm to keep her steady and she just lost it. I didn’t mean—” His voice cracked. His heart felt like it had been ripped in two. His hands twitched against his knees. “I didn’t mean to hurt her.”

Emily’s hands shot out, trembling with the intensity of her anger. “You idiot!” she yelled, her voice carrying across the beach and making several of the pack flinch. “Her ex used to abuse her. He was a horrible man. Holding on to her obviously brought back those memories. Why didn’t you let go of her?”

Seth flinched, as if he’d been struck. The weight of her words landed on him like stones in his chest. He felt empty, hollow, shattered. His chest tightened, his throat burning with the guilt that refused to ease. The normally calm, measured Emily was raging, and it was all aimed at him.

Sam stepped in, placing himself between them, his presence solid and commanding. Emily did not pause, she was still shouting, but Sam’s sheer authority kept her from running forward. He held her back gently but firmly, his voice low and warning. “Emily, calm down. Step back.”

Seth looked at Sam and then back at Emily. She was trembling, eyes wide, jaw tight with fury. “I’m going to see her,” she shouted, her voice rising above the crackle of the fire. “Stay away from her, Seth, or so help me God.”

The beach fell silent. The pack, who had been laughing, teasing, joking only moments ago, froze. The firelight danced over their shocked faces, the orange glow reflecting in wide eyes and furrowed brows. Seth felt a wave of despair roll through him. He had hurt Hermione. His imprint. The girl he had spent hours getting to know, learning to trust, she was now scared, panicked, and maybe even regretting having come out tonight.

Leah’s voice broke the silence, soft, tentative. “I didn’t know… how bad it was.” Her words carried an edge of guilt, of realisation, but they were quiet. Almost whispered.

Sam’s gaze sharpened, turning toward her. “You saw the images in Quil’s mind of the bruises weeks ago. That’s not an excuse. You don’t get to pretend you didn’t know.”

Leah didn’t snap back, didn’t argue, and that was testament to the weight of what Seth had just experienced. He could feel it in her, the memory of her own pain, the resonance of trauma. He had first-hand experience of Leah’s suffering before she had been with Sam. He could read her quiet understanding, her acknowledgment of what Hermione had gone through.

Seth sank lower, keeping his eyes fixed on the fire. He felt every wave of Hermione’s anguish through the bond, every beat of fear, every echo of mistrust and panic. The hollow, distant ache in her chest was like a storm in his own. He felt the bond tighten around his chest, his stomach twisting painfully.

“You don’t go near her here,” Sam ordered, his voice low and unwavering, his alpha presence filling the space between them. “You wait for her to approach you, Seth. Not the other way around.”

Seth nodded numbly. He could barely speak. He felt small, fragile, utterly defeated, and for the first time, the weight of the responsibility of being an imprint pressed down on him in full force. He sat back, hands braced against the sand, watching as Emily stormed up the beach, her anger still radiating, even as Sam maintained control.

The sound of the ocean returned, but it was distant, muted. Seth’s thoughts were consumed by Hermione, by what he had done, by the way her small body had trembled and shook in panic when he had made a simple mistake. His chest ached. He felt broken in ways he hadn’t thought possible.

Paul’s voice came next, low and clipped, full of bitterness. “Swan doesn’t come back.” The words were sharp, carrying the sting of reality, of loss, of a recognition of mistakes that could not be undone.

The rest of the pack nodded, murmuring in agreement or simply holding the silence, the weight of what had occurred settling over them like a thick fog. There was anger in their eyes, concern, disbelief. Seth felt it all pressing down on him, a tide of emotion he could neither avoid nor deflect.

He closed his eyes, letting the firelight wash over him, letting the heat fill his senses in the only way that felt grounding. He could still feel the panic in Hermione, the sharp intake of breath, the terror he had unintentionally caused. The bond pulsed with her fear, and it left him hollow, drained, consumed.

How could a night that had started with hope, laughter, and connection end like this? How could a day that had felt almost perfect dissolve into panic and guilt in the span of moments?

He kept silent. He could do nothing. He could not apologise again. He could not reach Hermione when she was so raw and vulnerable. Sam’s orders were clear. He had to wait. And so he did. Sitting there in the sand, letting the firelight warm him even as his chest felt like it might cave in, he kept watch over the darkness between the cabin and the fire, his eyes flicking across the beach, searching for her small form, wishing with every fibre of him that he could turn back time, that he could undo the grip, the panic, the flashbacks, the tears.

And yet he could not. He had hurt her, and now he had to sit with the weight of that knowledge.

The fire crackled. The waves lapped softly at the shore. Emily’s anger had moved away for now, leaving him with the silence and the bond. Sam’s alpha presence was steady, unyielding. Leah and Paul were quiet, thoughtful, tense.

And Seth sat there, heart heavy, mind replaying every movement, every word, every breath Hermione had taken when panic had overtaken her. The hollow ache in his chest was matched only by the guilt, by the knowledge that the girl who was meant to be his soulmate had been scared by him.

He let the night stretch on around him, the firelight painting shadows across his face, the waves providing a muted rhythm. He felt empty, he felt small, he felt helpless. But he also knew that he had to wait. That he had to respect her space. That he could not reach for her until she was ready.

And so he waited.

Chapter Text

The cabin was quiet except for the faint crackle of the fire in the hearth. Outside, the night pressed close against the windows, the heavy hush of the forest wrapping the little sanctuary in stillness. Hermione sat curled into the corner of the sofa, knees drawn up, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. Her chest ached with the weight of everything that had happened. She hated how her hands trembled, how her eyes still burned with tears she could not seem to stop.

Quil sat nearby, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees, his expression open and gentle. He was not trying to fill the silence. He just stayed there, offering his presence like a steadying hand without ever reaching for her. It was oddly comforting, knowing he would not push her to speak before she was ready.

Hermione brushed at her cheeks with the back of her sleeve, embarrassed by the wetness that would not seem to dry. “I am sorry,” she whispered, her voice rough. “I should not… I should not be like this. I thought I was stronger.”

“You do not need to apologise,” Quil said softly. “You went through something horrible back there. Anyone would be shaken.”

Hermione looked down at the blanket bunched up in her lap. She wanted to believe him, but shame clawed at her chest. She had faced war, she had faced monsters, she had faced things no one her age should have, and yet a simple touch had unravelled her. She hated that it had been in front of everyone. She hated that Seth had seen her fall apart.

The cabin door burst open, banging against the wall. Hermione jumped, heart lurching, but then Emily was there, striding across the room. She dropped to her knees beside the sofa, wrapping Hermione into her arms before she could even think to resist. Emily’s embrace was warm and firm, her voice a low murmur against Hermione’s hair.

“It is all right,” she whispered again and again. “You are safe. You are safe here.”

Hermione sagged against her, trembling, tears slipping free once more. Emily held her tightly, stroking her hair, whispering comfort in a steady stream. Quil watched them quietly, his gaze heavy with understanding. For a moment, his eyes met Emily’s over Hermione’s shoulder, and something passed between them. They both knew. They both understood in a way that needed no words.

After a long time, Hermione pulled back, embarrassed by the way she had clung. She scrubbed at her face with the heel of her palm, shaking her head. “I did not mean to react like that. It just… it just happened. I could not stop it.”

Emily sat back on her heels, her face softening. “You do not have to explain if you are not ready.”

But Hermione felt the words building in her throat, pressing against her until she had no choice but to let them out. “The idea of imprinting… it terrifies me.” Her voice cracked on the word. She took a shaky breath, eyes fixed on the flames in the hearth. “Being tied to someone like that. I have already lived through something that felt like it would last forever, and it nearly broke me.”

Neither Quil nor Emily interrupted. They simply waited, giving her the space to continue if she wanted to.

Hermione swallowed hard, twisting the blanket in her lap. “When I was with Ron, it was not always bad. He was nice at first. Kind, even. And I thought… I thought that meant he always would be. But it changed. He changed. He pinned me down, held me by the wrists, and he would not let me go.” Her voice faltered. “I used to think maybe if I had fought harder, if I had done something differently, it would not have happened. But it did. And when Seth grabbed my wrist, even though I know he did not mean it, it took me straight back. I felt trapped. I could not breathe. It was as if I was back there all over again.”

Her face burned with shame as the words spilled out, her voice breaking on the edges. She wrapped her arms tighter around herself, unable to meet their eyes. “I do not know if I can handle being bound to someone again. Not when it could turn out like that. Not when I could end up with someone who might hurt me without even realising it. Ron started out nice too.”

For a moment, the only sound was the steady crackle of the fire. Emily reached forward, gently placing a hand on Hermione’s knee. There was no pity in her eyes, only understanding and an unspoken strength. Quil leaned back, his gaze steady, as though he was willing her to see that she was not alone, that she had people here who understood.

“You do not need to make any decisions tonight,” Emily said softly. “No one is asking you to. All you need to know is that you are safe here. You are not tied to anything you do not choose. And you are not wrong for reacting the way you did. What you lived through was real, and it left scars. You have every right to feel the way you feel.”

Hermione’s throat tightened, her eyes filling again. She shook her head slightly, voice barely a whisper. “It feels weak.”

“It is not weak,” Quil said firmly, leaning forward. His tone was so steady, so matter-of-fact, that it made Hermione glance up at him in surprise. “It is human. You are allowed to hurt. You are allowed to be scared. That does not make you weak.”

Emily nodded in agreement, squeezing Hermione’s knee gently before letting go. “You are stronger than you realise. And you are not alone in this.”

Hermione sat in silence, her chest rising and falling with uneven breaths. Slowly, bit by bit, the tightness began to ease. The shame did not vanish entirely, but it loosened its grip. Emily remained close beside her, and Quil stayed watchful and steady, and between the two of them Hermione found herself slowly, cautiously, beginning to calm.

The fire crackled on, filling the quiet with warmth. Hermione leaned back into the sofa, exhausted, her eyes heavy but her heart a little lighter. She still feared what imprinting meant. She still feared what it could cost her. But for now, in the small wooden cabin, wrapped in warmth and surrounded by people who understood, she let herself rest.

The fire burned down to glowing embers, filling the cabin with a soft warmth that did not quite reach the tight knot in Hermione’s chest. Quil had stretched himself out in the armchair, long legs sprawled in front of him, while Emily stayed close beside her on the sofa, one arm draped protectively along the back. The silence was comfortable, but Hermione’s thoughts were not. She rubbed at her face with both hands and finally let the question spill.

“How is Seth?” Her voice cracked despite her effort to keep it steady. “I didn’t mean to react like that. I know he did not mean to frighten me. I am worried I hurt him.”

Quil shifted in his seat, watching her carefully. Emily leaned forward, taking Hermione’s hand into both of hers.

“He is shaken,” Emily admitted softly. “But not angry. Not at you. He will be blaming himself. He will be tearing himself up inside for what happened.”

Hermione pressed her lips together, a lump forming in her throat. “I do not want him thinking he did something wrong. I panicked. I saw his face. He looked so… lost. I cannot bear that it was because of me.”

Emily gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “Hermione, you reacted to something that triggered you. That is not your fault. And Seth… well, Seth is bound to you now. His first instinct will always be to protect you, even from himself.”

Hermione’s eyes widened, and the word tumbled out before she could stop it. “Bound.”

Quil rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. “I think we need to talk about imprinting properly. No pressure, no expectations, just the truth. You deserve that much.”

Hermione sat very still, her hands tightening in her lap. “Please,” she said quietly.

Emily glanced at Quil and then turned back to Hermione, her expression earnest. “Imprinting is… difficult to explain. It is like gravity shifts. Once it happens, the wolf’s whole world changes. But it does not have to mean romance, not unless you want it to. If all you want is a friend, then that is what you will have. If you need a brother, he will be that for you. There is no forcing, no pushing. It is about being what you need.”

Hermione’s brows furrowed. “You make it sound so… gentle. But I do not see how it could ever be gentle, being tied to someone whether you choose it or not.”

Emily’s eyes softened with something that looked a lot like sorrow. “I know how you feel. When Sam imprinted on me, I was terrified. I cared for him, I loved him even, but he was with Leah at the time. Can you imagine what that felt like? The guilt, the pain it caused her, the shame I carried because I could not stop what had already happened.”

Hermione’s heart twisted. She turned to look at Quil, but his gaze was on Emily, steady and supportive. She could see the weight of it on both of them, the ache that lingered even now. “That must have been unbearable,” she whispered.

“It was,” Emily admitted. “But I learned something. Imprinting does not erase who you are or what you feel. It simply offers… a bond. What you do with it is still your choice. I will not pretend it was easy, or fair, but it is not a prison. It never has to be that.”

Hermione sat back, letting the words sink in. She thought of Seth, of the way he had smiled at her in town, shy and earnest, nervous in a way that had felt strangely endearing. Her chest tightened. “Tell me about him,” she said suddenly. “If I am tied to someone, I need to know who he is. I need to understand him. I need to know if I can trust him.”

Quil raised his brows. “You think I would lie to you?”

Hermione shook her head quickly. “No. I do not think so. I just… I need to hear it.”

Quil leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His voice was steady, quiet, but filled with conviction. “Seth is the kindest soul you will ever meet. Truly. He is the calmest of all of us, the one who pulls everyone back from the edge. He works at the animal sanctuary, and honestly, he is better with them than most people. They trust him, they come to him. It is like he was born for it. He has a way of seeing the good in everyone, even when we cannot.”

Hermione blinked, surprised by the warmth in Quil’s tone. It was not just loyalty; it was respect. She chewed her lip, leaning closer. “And Leah is his sister, yes?”

Emily nodded. “Yes. And their father… he died when Leah first phased. It was a shock to him, seeing her change. His heart just… gave out. Seth was young, barely more than a boy, and he had to face that loss and the weight of becoming a wolf almost at the same time.”

Hermione’s chest ached. She knew that kind of loss. She knew what it was to grieve a parent and still be expected to keep moving, to fight, to survive. She closed her eyes for a moment, her throat tight. “That is awful. No one should have to carry that.”

Quil gave a small shrug, though his eyes were sad. “He did. But he never let it make him bitter. If anything, it made him softer. Stronger too, in his own way. He is… he is the best of us, Hermione.”

Hermione swallowed hard, her thoughts spinning. She remembered Seth’s grin when he crossed the road to her, the way he had carried her bags without hesitation, the way his knee had brushed hers by the fire. She had thought it was simple kindness, a boy being sweet. Now she saw the weight beneath it. The bond. The imprint.

Emily touched her arm gently. “I know you are scared. I was too. And you have every right to feel that way, after what you have been through. But Seth is not Ron. He never will be. And no one here will ever let you be trapped again. Not ever.”

Hermione nodded faintly, though her mind was still in turmoil. She wanted to believe them. She wanted to believe Seth was as kind and safe as they said. But the fear lingered, curling around her ribs.

Chapter Text

Harry had been pacing his small officer for almost an hour before he finally gave in to the restless energy tugging at his chest. His Auror reports lay untouched on the table, ink half dry on the quill, parchment curling at the edges. He had read the same paragraph three times without absorbing a single word. George’s voice from that night at the Burrow still rang in his ears, as sharp and cutting as if he had shouted it only moments ago.

Ron’s smirk. Molly’s howler. The look on Ginny’s face when she turned away from him.

It had been weeks, and Ron had disappeared. No one had heard from him. The family avoided mentioning it, and Ginny in particular shut down whenever Harry tried to broach the subject. She would fold her arms, glare, and say she was not going to fight about Hermione. He had stopped trying, though the unease in his gut only grew heavier.

That morning, standing in the Ministry atrium, Harry had caught sight of his reflection in the polished tiles. He looked older, wearier. And he could not shake George’s words.

“You all let her suffer. You all chose Ron over her.”

The shame had burned in Harry’s chest.

By the time he finished his shift he knew what he had to do. He could not keep sitting in silence, circling the same doubts over and over in his head. He needed answers. He needed the truth.

The bell above the door to Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes gave a cheerful jingle as he pushed it open. The shop was quieter than usual, though still buzzing with the hum of enchantments. Shelves stacked high with pranks gleamed under charmed lanterns, and a couple of teenagers were poking at a pile of Fainting Fancies, giggling under their breath. Harry ignored them, his eyes locking on George.

George stood behind the counter, arms folded, his expression sharp. He looked up as Harry entered, and there was no warmth in his face. No crooked grin. No spark of mischief. Just cold appraisal.

Harry’s chest tightened. He had braced himself for this, but the reality still stung.

“Can I talk to you?” Harry asked, voice quieter than he meant.

George stared at him for a long moment, long enough that Harry almost turned on his heel. But finally George jerked his head towards the back room. “Fine.”

The room smelled faintly of gunpowder and sugar, boxes stacked high against the walls. George leaned against the workbench, arms folded, waiting. Harry shifted awkwardly, suddenly aware of how little right he had to be there.

“I… I wanted to ask about Hermione,” Harry began, hating the uncertainty in his own voice. “I can’t stop thinking about what you said that night.”

George’s eyes narrowed. “Good. Maybe you should.”

Harry swallowed. “I don’t understand. Ron said—”

“Of course Ron said,” George cut across him, sharp and bitter. “Ron’s been saying a lot, hasn’t he. And you just believed him.”

“That’s not fair,” Harry said, though the protest felt hollow even as it left his lips. “I didn’t just believe him. He—he took Veritaserum. To prove it.”

For the first time, George’s expression faltered. Shock flickered across his features before settling back into cold anger. “He what?”

“He took Veritaserum,” Harry repeated, firmer now, as if saying it twice made it sound more credible. “He wanted me to know he was telling the truth. And he… he was convincing. Too convincing. I couldn’t just ignore that.”

George pushed himself off the bench, pacing once in a tight circle. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides. “Wait. Hold on. You’re telling me Ron just happened to have Veritaserum on him? That he just pulled it out of his pocket in the middle of an argument?”

Harry hesitated. “Yes. He said he bought it, that he wanted to put an end to the doubts.”

George turned sharply, his eyes burning into Harry’s. “And how do you know it was real?”

Harry froze.

The question hung between them, heavier than any shout.

“I—well—” Harry’s voice cracked. He had not thought of that. Not once. He had been so caught up in Ron’s performance, in the way the words seemed undeniable, that he had never questioned the potion itself. Ron had handed him a vial, drunk it, and declared himself innocent. Harry had taken it at face value.

George’s lips curled, not quite a sneer but close. “You’re supposed to be an Auror, Harry. Trained to spot deceit. And you never even checked.”

“Fuck,” Harry whispered, the word tumbling out before he could stop it. He rubbed a hand down his face, his stomach churning. “Fuck. I need to talk to her. I need to hear it from her. I can’t—this doesn’t make sense anymore.”

George’s expression hardened again. “You don’t get to know where she is.”

Harry’s head snapped up. “George, please. I just need to talk to her. I need to hear her side. If I made a mistake—Merlin, if I let her down like you said—I need to fix it.”

“You can’t fix it,” George said flatly. “Not like this. She doesn’t need you barging back into her life because your conscience is eating you alive. She needs peace. She needs people who aren’t going to pick Ron over her the moment he smiles at them.”

Harry winced. The words hit like a curse.

George stepped closer, lowering his voice though his anger still pulsed beneath it. “You want answers, fine. Go to Luna. She knows more than you do, and maybe she’ll still give you the time of day. But don’t you dare chase Hermione down. Don’t you dare make this about your guilt. She doesn’t deserve that.”

Harry swallowed hard, his throat tight. “I never wanted to hurt her.”

“You did,” George said without hesitation. “Whether you meant to or not. And until you understand that, you don’t deserve to speak to her.”

Harry flinched. He wanted to argue, to defend himself, but the words died in his throat. Because George was right. He had believed Ron. He had stood by and let Hermione face it alone. And now, standing in the back room of the shop, Harry felt the crushing weight of that choice more than ever.

“Luna,” he said quietly, nodding once. “I’ll go to her.”

George watched him for a long moment, then turned away, picking up a half-finished prototype from the bench. The conversation was over.

Harry lingered, staring at the back of George’s head, at the set of his shoulders, at the absence of Fred that still lingered like a ghost in every corner of the shop. He wanted to apologise, but the words would sound empty now.

Harry Apparated outside Luna’s soft house. What would have been welcoming, screamed warning to him. Warning to turn around and leave.

He almost turned back. George’s harsh words still rang in his ears, but it was Luna’s he feared more. Luna, who had always seen through him, who had always spoken with that calm certainty that made it impossible to argue. If Luna thought he had failed Hermione too, then he truly had.

But he forced his feet forward, crunching over the grass until he reached the odd-looking house. He raised his hand to knock, only for the door to swing open before he touched it. Luna stood there in a paint-splattered cardigan, her long hair loose around her shoulders. She looked exactly the same as ever and yet different. The dreamy half-smile was still there, but her eyes had a hardness to them, a sharpness that caught him off guard.

“Hello, Harry,” she said, as though she had been waiting.

He swallowed. “Hi, Luna. Can I—can I come in?”

“Of course,” she replied serenely, stepping aside.

The house was as strange as always, full of humming contraptions and odd decorations hanging from the ceiling. Harry had always found it comforting in its eccentricity, but tonight he felt out of place, clumsy in the middle of it. Luna padded across the room and gestured to a chair at the table.

“You’re here to ask about Hermione,” she said simply, not even turning.

Harry sat, his throat tightening. “Yes. George wouldn’t tell me anything. He told me to come to you.”

Luna poured tea into mismatched cups. She did it with care, as though the ritual of it mattered more than the tea itself. Then she sat opposite him, folding her hands, her gaze steady.

“And what do you think you deserve to know, Harry?” she asked softly.

The question hit him like a stone. He fumbled for words. “I just… I need to understand. I don’t know what’s true anymore. I trusted Ron, but now—I’m not sure. I think I might have made a mistake. A terrible one.”

Luna’s expression didn’t change, but her silence was heavy. Harry pressed on, the words tumbling out.

“Ron said things about her, things I didn’t want to believe but he swore he was telling the truth. He even took Veritaserum, and I thought that meant something, but George—George asked me how I knew it was real. And I didn’t. I never even questioned it. I just… went along with Ron.”

“Of course you did,” Luna said quietly. “You’ve been going along with Ron since you were eleven.”

Harry flinched. “That’s not fair.”

“It is fair,” she replied, still calm, still maddeningly composed. “You wanted things to stay simple. You wanted the trio, the Weasleys, the neat story. You wanted loyalty to mean never asking questions. But Hermione needed more than that, and you chose not to see it.”

Harry felt heat rising to his face. He gripped the cup between his hands, staring down at the steam. “I didn’t mean to hurt her. I never wanted that.”

Luna leaned forward just slightly. “Meaning to hurt someone is not the same as hurting them. Intentions don’t heal wounds, Harry. Actions do.”

Her voice was still soft, but the edge in it cut through him. For the first time, he could not find comfort in her gentleness. It felt instead like a mirror held up, reflecting back everything he had tried not to see.

“Please,” he said, his voice breaking. “Just tell me where she is. Let me talk to her, explain myself. I need to put this right.”

Luna shook her head. “No.”

The single word hit harder than a hex. Harry looked up, startled. “What do you mean, no? She needs to hear me out.”

“She doesn’t,” Luna said, her tone unchanging. “She needs space. She needs to heal. She doesn’t need you crashing back in, dragging your guilt with you. If you want to say something to her, you will write it down. You will send it to me. If I think it will help, I’ll give it to her. If I think it will hurt her, I won’t.”

Harry stared at her, lost for words. “That’s not fair,” he managed finally.

“It’s the only way,” Luna replied. “I won’t have you setting her back. She’s worked too hard to claw herself out of the pit you all helped dig.”

The words hit harder than anything George had thrown at him. He had known Luna would be honest, but to hear her speak so firmly, so sure that he was part of the problem—it left him hollow.

He tried once more, though his voice was small. “Please. Just trust me.”

“I do trust you, Harry,” Luna said, and for the first time her smile reached her eyes. “I trust that you want to do better. That’s why I’m giving you this chance. But if you truly care for Hermione, you will let her choose when and how she hears from you. Not you. Not Ron. Not anyone else.”

Harry sat back in his chair, the fight draining out of him. He felt dejected, but beneath the ache was the faintest spark of something else—relief, maybe. Relief that there was still a way, however small, to reach her.

He nodded slowly. “All right. I’ll write.”

“Good,” Luna said, sipping her tea as though the conversation had not carved him raw. “I’ll be waiting.”

Harry returned to his flat late, the silence pressing down on him. He poured himself a drink with shaking hands, barely tasting it as he swallowed. Then he sat at the table, pulling a scrap of parchment towards him. He stared at the blank page for a long time, quill hovering, before finally lowering it. The words came haltingly at first, then spilled faster, driven by guilt and desperation.

Dear Hermione,

I don’t know how to begin this letter. I don’t know if I have the right to write it at all, but I’m doing it because I can’t stay silent any longer.

I owe you an apology. Not just for believing Ron, but for failing you in ways I didn’t even realise until it was too late. I should have asked questions. I should have stood by you. Instead, I chose the easy road, the one that kept the peace, and it cost you. It cost us.

Ron told me things about you, and I let his words drown out yours. I let myself be convinced, even when it didn’t feel right. When he drank what he said was Veritaserum, I thought it proved everything, but now I see how foolish that was. I never even questioned it. I never gave you the same faith.

I’m sorry, Hermione. I am so deeply sorry.

I don’t know where you are, and maybe that’s for the best. You deserve peace, not me barging in demanding answers. But I hope, one day, you’ll be willing to let me explain in person. Until then, I’ll respect the boundaries set.

You were always the best of us, even when we didn’t deserve you. I see that now, clearer than I ever did.

Take care of yourself. Please. That’s all I want.

Harry

Chapter Text

The following morning Hermione stirred long before the cabin filled with light. Sleep had been broken and restless, her mind circling the events of the night before. Every time she closed her eyes she saw Seth’s face, that stricken expression when she had pulled away. Guilt pressed on her chest the moment she woke properly. He had not meant to hurt her, she knew that, but her body had remembered things she did not want to remember and it had been too much. She had panicked, and now he would be carrying the weight of her fear.

Quil was slumped in an armchair, his head tipped back, a blanket sliding down one arm. Emily was curled up on the sofa with her coat pulled over her shoulders, her hair loose around her face. Hermione’s throat tightened at the sight of them both, at the quiet way they had stayed without asking, without pushing her to talk any more once exhaustion had dragged her under.

She slipped quietly into the kitchen. The simple rhythm of making breakfast soothed her, the clink of plates, the soft hiss of the pan. She had always found some comfort in cooking, in being able to make something with her hands that was real and tangible, something that made sense when so much else did not. When Quil stirred at the smell of bacon she was already plating it up, and Emily padded in with a soft smile, hair tied back hastily.

“You didn’t need to do this,” Emily said gently as she sat at the table.

“I wanted to,” Hermione replied, placing a mug of tea in front of her. “It helps me. And… it’s the least I can do after last night.”

Neither Emily nor Quil pushed against that. They simply ate, and Hermione ate with them, the silence companionable rather than heavy. When she finally set down her fork she cleared her throat.

“I should get ready for work,” she said.

“Do you want me to drive you?” Emily offered at once. “It’s no trouble.”

Hermione hesitated but then nodded. “If you’re sure.”

Quil stood, stretching with a groan. “I’ll come too. Make sure you don’t ditch us and run off.” His grin was teasing but there was warmth beneath it, a steady reassurance she hadn’t realised she needed until she smiled back.

The drive into town was short, Emily chatting about nothing in particular, Quil humming along badly to the radio. They stopped outside the shop and Hermione drew in a breath. The little bell above the door jingled as she stepped inside.

The owner, Mae, greeted her warmly and wasted no time in showing her around. The shop was small but charming, shelves lined with books. There was something grounded about the place, something homely.

Hermione slipped easily into the work. She was given simple tasks at first, restocking shelves, tidying displays, sweeping the wooden floor. It should have been dull but instead she found herself grateful for the quiet. The hours passed in the soft rhythm of tasks that did not demand thought, the pleasant murmur of customers drifting in and out.

The owner spoke kindly as they worked side by side, explaining where things came from, who made what, which suppliers were reliable and which always forgot to send invoices. Hermione listened, nodding, grateful for the chance to sink into someone else’s world. Her hands moved automatically, arranging jars, folding bags, polishing the counter until it gleamed.

By midday she felt lighter, her mind blessedly quiet. She caught herself smiling more than once, surprised by it each time. The shop smelled faintly of lavender and old wood, the air calm in a way that reminded her distantly of the Hogwarts library, the kind of place where you could breathe without thinking too hard.

When her shift ended she was reluctant to leave, but she pulled off the apron and thanked the owner sincerely.

“You did well,” the woman said warmly. “You’ve got a knack for this. You’ll settle in just fine.”

Hermione left with a small bag of tea pressed into her hand and the sound of the bell ringing behind her. Emily and Quil were waiting outside, leaning against the car.

“How was it?” Quil asked, straightening.

Hermione’s smile came without her meaning it to. “It was… good. Just what I needed, actually.”

Emily’s eyes softened. “I’m glad.”

They let her climb into the back and she sat quietly as they drove her home, the countryside blurring past the windows. For the first time in days she felt something close to peace. Not a cure, not a fixing of everything that was broken, but a reprieve. And that, she thought, was enough for now.

The cabin was quiet when Hermione returned, the sort of quiet that settled into the bones and made the smallest sound carry. She set her bag of groceries on the counter, humming softly under her breath as she unpacked them. The routine grounded her. Flour, sugar, apples, a loaf of fresh bread. She arranged them neatly, almost absentmindedly, her mind still full of the calming rhythm of the shop and the simple kindness of the people she had met there.

She had just reached for the kettle when the fire in the hearth crackled violently, flaring green. Hermione froze, the mug slipping slightly in her grasp. Her heart jumped into her throat. 

Through the flames stepped Luna, serene as ever, her long hair falling around her shoulders, her wand tucked loosely into the waistband of her skirt. Her wide eyes blinked as though she were stepping out of a dream and into another.

Hermione did not think. She ran to her, wrapping her arms around her tightly. The relief of seeing her friend was overwhelming, sudden tears prickling at her eyes. Luna returned the hug with her usual gentleness, patting Hermione’s back as if she were a child.

“You are glowing,” Luna murmured softly. “The sea air must be doing you good.”

Hermione laughed wetly, pulling back enough to search her friend’s face. “What are you doing here? Is everything all right?”

“Yes,” Luna said, tilting her head in that peculiar way of hers, as though she were listening to something only she could hear. “But I came because Harry saw me.”

The laughter died in Hermione’s throat. Her hands stilled, still resting on Luna’s arms. “Harry?” she echoed, uncertain.

“He came to my house,” Luna said simply. “He asked about you. He wrote you a letter. I read it, and I think you should read it too.” She reached into her satchel and withdrew a folded parchment, offering it out without flourish. Her expression, usually unreadable, was uncharacteristically serious.

Hermione hesitated. The sight of the familiar handwriting on the envelope made her chest constrict. She swallowed, her hand trembling as she took it. She did not open it at once, staring down as though the very act might undo the fragile peace she had been building.

“It is entirely your choice what you do next,” Luna said, her voice steady. She reached out her hand, palm up. “But I think you should not be alone when you read it.”

Hermione nodded faintly and slid her hand into Luna’s. Together they sat on the sofa. Hermione broke the seal with shaking fingers and unfolded the parchment. Her eyes scanned the lines, her breath catching almost immediately. The words blurred more than once and Luna’s hand squeezed hers gently, grounding her.

By the time she reached the end, Hermione’s cheeks were damp. She held the letter close to her chest, unable to speak for a long moment.

“He was sincere,” Luna said at last, her voice quiet but certain. “I can tell.”

Hermione shook her head helplessly, blinking hard. “What do I do? I have been doing so well, Luna. I don’t want him to set me back.”

“Only you can decide that,” Luna replied, squeezing her hand once more before rising to her feet. She smiled, almost mischievously. “Right. To the beach we go.”

Hermione blinked at her. “What?”

“To the beach,” Luna repeated, already tugging her gently up from the sofa. “The sea will help you think.”

Hermione almost argued but stopped. This was Luna. When she spoke with such certainty, it was rarely wrong. So she let herself be led, grabbing her coat on the way. They walked together through the winding path down to the shoreline. The sky was bruised with the soft colours of late afternoon, the air cool and carrying the scent of salt and pine. The sea rolled endlessly before them, waves crashing and retreating in their eternal rhythm.

Luna walked barefoot onto the sand, her shoes dangling from her hand. She turned to Hermione with a faint smile. “Sometimes it helps to shout at the sea. It carries your feelings away.”

Hermione gave her a dubious look. “Shout?”

“Yes,” Luna said, stepping forward until the foam kissed her toes. She cupped her hands around her mouth. “I am tired of people who do not listen to me!” Her voice carried over the waves, startling a few seabirds into flight. She laughed softly, the sound carried by the wind. She turned back. “See? Nothing broke. And I feel lighter.”

Hermione let out a reluctant chuckle. “You’re mad.”

“Perhaps,” Luna said with a shrug, “but it works. Try it.”

Hermione hesitated. She felt self-conscious, standing there with the sea roaring in front of her. But Luna’s gaze was patient, unwavering. So she drew in a deep breath, stepped closer to the water, and let the words spill out.

“I am angry!” she shouted, her voice raw in her own ears. The words were pulled away by the wind, eaten by the waves. She tried again, louder. “I am angry that I let him hurt me! I am angry that I cannot just forget!”

The sound of her own voice broke something loose inside her. She kept going, shouting until her throat felt hoarse. The sea roared back at her, impartial, endless.

When she finally stopped, she was breathing hard, tears streaming freely down her face. Luna stepped close, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “There,” she said softly. “The sea will keep them safe now. You do not have to carry them alone.”

Hermione leaned into her, trembling, but for the first time in a long while she felt lighter. She stared out at the horizon, the waves churning beneath the darkening sky, and let herself breathe.

The fire had long since gone out when Hermione finally sat down at her small table, staring at the half empty cup of tea she had been nursing for the better part of an hour. She had not expected Luna to appear so suddenly, and though her friend’s presence had brought comfort, it had also unsettled her in ways she had not been ready for. Even after the letter, after the tears and the walk down to the beach, she had thought perhaps they might spend the evening in quiet reflection. Instead, Luna had looked at her with those strange clear eyes, as though she had peeled back every layer Hermione had been trying to hide, and asked gently but firmly about Seth.

It had taken Hermione a long while to find the words. The idea of explaining imprinting, something she barely understood herself, had seemed impossible. But Luna had waited, patient as ever, sitting with her knees tucked beneath her chin and her pale hair loose about her shoulders. At last Hermione had spoken. She told her what she knew, what had been explained to her, what she had felt at the bonfire when Seth’s eyes had locked with hers. She confessed to the fear of it, the sense that something vast and unavoidable had settled over her without permission, something she could neither deny nor escape.

Luna had listened without interruption, her expression calm, her gaze thoughtful. Hermione had expected questions, long and searching, but instead when she finished, Luna only tilted her head and said in her soft, lilting voice, “Well, he can be a friend then.”

Hermione had blinked at her in confusion. She opened her mouth to argue, to explain that it was more complicated than that, that the whole concept of imprinting was bound up in expectation and possibility and threads she did not know how to untangle. But the words caught in her throat as Luna’s statement sank in. He can be a friend.

It was so simple, so utterly straightforward, that Hermione froze. The tension she had been carrying seemed to waver for a moment. She whispered the words aloud, as though testing them. “He can be my friend.” She said it again, firmer this time, as though giving herself permission. She had been so caught up in the weight of what it all might mean, in the fear of what others might expect from her, that she had forgotten the choice still belonged to her. Of course. Seth did not have to be anything more than that. He could simply be her friend.

Luna smiled as though she had known Hermione would come to that conclusion all along. The rest of the evening passed more lightly. They spoke of ordinary things, the kind of things Hermione had missed. Luna shared an odd story about a Crumple-Horned Snorkack that had supposedly been spotted in Sweden and Hermione found herself laughing in a way she had not in days. They shared bread and cheese, drank more tea, and let the sound of the waves outside the cabin window wash over their conversation.

When the moon had risen high and silver across the sky, Luna finally stood. She hugged Hermione tightly and said she must return home, but that she would be back soon. There was a firmness in her tone that suggested Hermione should not even think of arguing. With a swirl of green light she was gone, leaving Hermione in the quiet cabin once again.

For a long moment Hermione stood in the stillness. The fire crackled softly, the tide rushed faintly in the distance, and yet her thoughts were louder than both. She knew Luna was right. She could not avoid Seth forever. The imprinting had happened, yes, but that did not mean her world was decided for her. She could choose what to make of it, how to respond, and the first step had to be honesty.

Resolute, she fetched her coat and stepped out into the night. The air was crisp but not unpleasant, and the path to the animal sanctuary was lit by the pale glow of the moon. Her feet carried her steadily, her heart beating a little faster with every step. She did not know exactly what she would say to Seth when she saw him, only that she needed to say something. He deserved to hear the truth from her lips, not silence or avoidance.

When the sanctuary came into view, its fences outlined against the trees and the distant sound of animals rustling in their enclosures, Hermione felt a mixture of nerves and calm settle over her. This was the right thing to do. She could not keep running from what had happened. She would face it, and she would face him, honestly and with courage, as she always tried to do.

Chapter Text

The sanctuary was quiet that evening, filled only with the rustle of hay and the low sounds of the animals settling down for the night. Hermione’s steps crunched softly on the gravel path as she walked towards the pens, her heart drumming a little too quickly. Quil had said Seth would be working tonight, and now that she was here, she was both desperate to see him and terrified of what she might say.

Her eyes found him almost instantly. He was kneeling in the straw, his shoulders bent as he tended to one of the animals. She could not make out exactly what it was from where she stood, but she could see the way he handled it, strong hands moving with surprising gentleness. His voice was a low murmur, soothing and steady, until the creature relaxed against his touch.

Hermione stopped at the gate and simply watched. There was something mesmerising about the way he moved, the care and patience he showed. He looked so entirely in his element that she almost forgot why she had come. She only remembered when he glanced up and caught sight of her.

He froze, eyes widening, and for a moment they both just stood there staring. Hermione managed a small, nervous smile. To her relief, he gave her one in return, warm and shy, and lifted his hand in a quick gesture that told her to wait. She nodded, hugging her arms lightly around herself while he finished.

The minutes felt long as she lingered there, her thoughts twisting themselves into knots. By the time Seth came over, brushing bits of straw from his trousers, her throat felt tight with everything she wanted to say.

“Hi,” he said quietly.

“Hi,” she replied. The word was small, but it was enough to break the silence. She drew a breath, ready to speak, but he beat her to it.

“I’m sorry,” Seth blurted. His voice cracked with it, the words tumbling out quickly. “Hermione, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you, I swear I didn’t. I should’ve let go straight away. I wasn’t thinking, I just— I thought I was steadying you, but it was stupid and I hurt you and I’ll never forgive myself for that.”

Hermione blinked at him, startled by the force of his apology. “Seth—”

“I should’ve known better,” he cut across her again, his hands tightening into fists at his sides. “I don’t know what I was thinking. I saw the panic and I just… I did the worst possible thing. I can’t stop replaying it, over and over. You looked terrified of me, and that’s the last thing I ever wanted. I’m sorry, Hermione. I’m so sorry.”

Her chest ached at the rawness in his voice. He sounded broken with guilt, and it made her feel both guilty herself and strangely protective of him. She reached out, lightly touching his arm.

“Seth,” she said more firmly, “please, stop for a moment. I didn’t come here to blame you. I wanted to apologise to you.”

His eyes widened. “Apologise to me?”

“Yes,” she said softly. “I panicked, and I know it hurt you. I should’ve trusted you. You didn’t deserve what happened either.”

For a moment, Seth only stared at her as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. Then he shook his head fiercely. “No. None of that was your fault. Don’t you dare think it was. If anyone should’ve done better, it’s me.”

Hermione let out a quiet breath. “Maybe we both could’ve handled it better. But what matters is… I don’t want things to stay like that between us.”

Seth swallowed hard, looking like he wanted to apologise all over again. His shoulders were tense, and his eyes kept darting to hers, filled with regret.

“When do you finish here tonight?” Hermione asked gently.

He blinked. “Half an hour, maybe less. Why?”

“Because we need to talk properly,” she said, forcing a small smile. “Not just standing out here while you’re working. There are things I want to say. Things I think you should hear.”

For the first time that evening, a faint light touched Seth’s expression. He nodded quickly. “Alright. I’ll finish up as fast as I can.”

“I’ll wait,” Hermione promised.

She stepped back, giving him space to return to the animals, but her heart felt a little lighter than it had when she arrived. It wasn’t fixed, not yet, but perhaps this was the beginning of something 

The night air was cool, the faint salt of the sea carried inland with the breeze. Hermione and Seth walked side by side, neither of them speaking for a while. Their steps crunched softly on the gravel of the sanctuary path before giving way to the quiet thud of earth as they wandered further away, letting their feet take them wherever they pleased. It felt easier to walk without a destination, easier to avoid the weight of conversation when the silence between them wasn’t forced but simply there.

Hermione kept glancing at him from the corner of her eye, taking in the way his head was bowed slightly, his hands shoved into his pockets, his whole frame taut with uncertainty. He’d apologised so much already, she could almost hear the words forming on his tongue again. She knew if she let him, he’d spend hours torturing himself with guilt. That wasn’t what she wanted. What she wanted—what she needed—was to be honest. For him to know the truth, so that he could understand why she had reacted the way she had.

Her heart thudded hard in her chest. She had not spoken of this in detail to many people. Emily and Quil knew the truth, of course, and Harry had been there for the cracks and the aftermath, but the telling of it… that was something she avoided. Yet as she glanced at Seth’s profile, the earnest way he moved beside her, she felt something uncoil inside her. If she wanted him to understand, she would have to tell him.

“I need to explain,” she said quietly. Her voice was steady but thin, as if any louder and it might splinter.

Seth lifted his head and looked at her with wide, uncertain eyes. He nodded once but didn’t interrupt.

“It was my ex,” Hermione began, her gaze fixed on the path ahead. “Ron. We were together for four years. Before that, we’d been friends for seven years. We practically grew up together. For a long time he was… he was good. He was funny, he was kind, and I trusted him completely. We had a whole history, and when it changed into something more, I thought it was the natural next step.”

She swallowed hard, her throat tightening. The words were difficult, but she forced them out. “But things shifted. He started drinking. At first, it was just mood swings, sharp words, shouting that always seemed to be my fault somehow. Then it was more. He… he hurt me, Seth. Not just once. Often. He broke my bones, he left me bruised, bleeding. He made me believe I wasn’t allowed friends, that I didn’t deserve anyone else. He kept me trapped, and I was too scared to leave for a long time.”

Her voice trembled despite her effort to hold it steady. She still hadn’t looked at him. The darkness around them felt safer than his eyes might, safer than seeing whatever expression was on his face. She needed to say it all before she faltered.

“I finally left him,” she continued, her steps slowing until she stopped altogether. “But it was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. And when you grabbed my wrist the other night…” She drew in a shuddering breath. “It took me back. That’s how he used to pin me down. With his hands on my wrists so I couldn’t move. That’s why I panicked.”

Her words broke into the silence and hung there, heavy and raw. She finally lifted her gaze. Seth was staring at her, his entire body trembling as though holding back an earthquake. His fists clenched, his jaw locked, and his whole frame shook with something between rage and grief.

Hermione didn’t know what to say. The sight of his shaking unnerved her. She reached out almost instinctively, placing her hand against his chest. His heart was hammering beneath her palm, frantic and loud, but the moment her touch settled there, he stilled. His breath came slower, and after a moment, his eyes found hers.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “Hermione, I’m so, so sorry. I can’t believe you went through that. I can’t believe he did that to you. And I’m sorry I brought you back to that. I’d never— I swear I’d never hurt you like that. I didn’t think, and I— I’ll never forgive myself for it.”

She shook her head quickly, though her eyes were wet. “Seth, it wasn’t your fault.”

He started to speak again, but she cut across him gently. “Listen. Emily explained imprinting to me. That it doesn’t have to mean romance. That you can be anything to me that I need. And right now… right now what I need most is a friend. I can’t go straight into another relationship. I need time to figure out who I am without him, without anyone controlling me. I need to focus on healing. So please… would you mind if, for now, you were just my friend?”

She said it carefully, almost braced for disappointment. And she did see it, flickering in his eyes, that flash of sadness. But it was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced with something steadier, gentler. He nodded once, his mouth pressed in a firm line, and then he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her.

“Of course,” he said softly into her hair. “Of course, Hermione. I completely understand. I’ll be whatever you need me to be.”

Hermione closed her eyes and let herself sink into the hug. It wasn’t suffocating. It wasn’t demanding. It was warm, and safe, and steady. For the first time in a very long time, she let herself believe that maybe, just maybe, she could trust someone again.

Hermione stayed in Seth’s arms for a few moments longer than she intended, letting the steady thud of his heart ease the tightness in her chest. His embrace held no pressure. It was simply there, strong and warm, a quiet promise without words.

When she finally drew back he let her go at once. He kept his hands loose at his sides, as if to show her that he would never hold her against her will. The care in that small gesture struck her almost as deeply as the hug itself.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice rough from everything she had shared.

Seth shook his head. “You don’t have to thank me.”

“I do,” Hermione insisted. “For listening. For not… judging.”

“I’d never judge you,” he replied quietly. “You survived something no one should have to face. That isn’t something anyone can judge.”

They began to walk again, the path ahead lit by silver moonlight. The sound of the sea reached them from far off, a constant hush that filled the silence without pressing on it. For a time they walked without speaking, and the quiet between them felt almost like a healing thing.

Seth finally broke it. “You’re the bravest person I’ve ever met.”

Hermione gave a small, almost incredulous laugh. “Brave? I don’t feel it. I stayed far too long.”

“That doesn’t make you less brave,” he said. “You got out. You’re still here. That’s what matters.”

She looked at him then, properly, and saw the sincerity in his dark eyes. He wasn’t saying it to comfort her. He meant it.

“I used to think bravery meant fighting battles,” she said slowly. “Standing in front of danger. But leaving him… it felt nothing like that. It felt small and terrifying and I thought it would break me.”

“Sometimes the hardest fight is the one no one sees,” Seth replied. He gave a small, crooked smile. “I know we don’t share the same kind of battles. But I’ve seen enough to know that what you did took more courage than most people ever have.”

The lump in her throat returned, but it wasn’t the sharp ache of before. It was something gentler. She looked back at the path, letting the quiet stretch again.

A fox darted across the trail ahead of them, its eyes glinting briefly in the moonlight before it vanished into the trees. Hermione followed its movement with her gaze, a faint smile tugging at her mouth.

“Quil once told me foxes are good omens,” Seth said, noticing her glance.

Hermione’s smile deepened. “I have experience with that.”

They walked until the path curved back towards the sanctuary. Lanterns glowed faintly near the pens, casting long shadows across the ground. Hermione stopped and turned to him.

“I meant what I said,” she told him. “I need time to find myself again. I need space to heal. But I’d like us to be friends. I’d like to know you, Seth, without… without all the weight that word imprint carries.”

Seth met her gaze without hesitation. “I’d like that too. Whatever you need, that’s what I’ll be. Friend, brother, someone to walk with when you can’t sleep. Whatever makes you feel safe.”

Something eased inside her at the simplicity of his words. “Thank you,” she said again, quieter now.

He gave a little shrug, but the softness in his expression remained. “You don’t have to thank me for being your friend.”

They lingered a while longer, talking about smaller things: the animals in his care, the way the sea sounded different at dawn, the smell of pine in the air after rain. It was easy conversation, the kind Hermione had almost forgotten she could enjoy.

When at last they returned to the sanctuary gates the night had deepened, the sky heavy with stars. Hermione turned to him, her breath clouding faintly in the cool air.

“I should get back,” she said. “It’s late.”

Seth nodded. “Do you want me to walk you to the cabin?”

She considered, then shook her head with a small smile. “Not tonight. I think I need a little time with my thoughts.”

“Alright,” he said. “But if you ever want company, you know where to find me.”

Hermione nodded, the quiet certainty of his words settling warmly around her. “Goodnight, Seth.”

“Goodnight, Hermione.”

Chapter Text

The morning broke pale and quiet, light mist hanging over the treetops when Hermione woke. The soft patter of rain against the cabin roof filled the silence, and for once, she didn’t wake in panic. Her dreams had been light, untroubled. She lay still for a moment, breathing in the scent of damp pine and the faint trace of tea leaves from last night’s pot. It was peaceful, and that, she thought, was progress.

She dressed quickly and tied her hair back, the movement automatic now. The walk to work felt fresh and alive after the rain. The streets of La Push were half-empty, save for a few locals wrapped in coats and the occasional car humming past. By the time she reached the bookshop, the bell above the door jingling as she pushed it open, she was already smiling.

Mae looked up from behind the counter, glasses perched low on her nose. “Morning, love. You’re early again. Keen to get stuck in?”

Hermione shrugged, setting her bag down. “You know me. I like to make myself useful.”

Mae chuckled and went back to rearranging the display of new arrivals. “You’re a godsend, you are. The place hasn’t been this tidy in years.”

Hermione grinned as she tied on her apron. The rhythm of the day came easily now. She swept the wooden floors, sorted through a stack of second-hand books waiting to be priced, and helped a little boy find a story about dragons. It was simple work, repetitive but comforting. It made sense in a way the rest of her life hadn’t for a long time.

By the afternoon, when the shop had grown quiet and the clock ticked softly above the counter, Hermione found herself thinking about how isolated she’d been since arriving in La Push. She had friends now, yes, but she couldn’t exactly pop round to Emily’s or Quil’s without warning. She needed a way to stay in touch, something ordinary.

“Mae,” she said suddenly, setting down the stack of receipts she’d been sorting, “where can I buy a mobile phone around here?”

Mae looked up, eyebrows raised. “A mobile? You’ve lasted this long without one?”

Hermione laughed. “I suppose I have, but I think it’s time.”

“There’s a little shop by the post office,” Mae said. “Run by an old fella called Jim. He’s a bit scatterbrained but he’ll sort you out. It’s not fancy, mind you.”

“I don’t need fancy,” Hermione said. “Just something that works.”

Mae smiled knowingly. “Then you’ll do just fine.”

Hermione finished her shift, pocketed her wages, and left the shop with a spring in her step. The rain had eased into a faint drizzle by the time she reached the post office. She found the electronics shop just as Mae had described it, tucked between the bakery and the hardware store. The windows were cluttered with old radios, tangled cords and handwritten signs.

The bell chimed softly as she stepped inside. Behind the counter, an older man looked up from a newspaper. “Afternoon. What can I do for you?”

“I’d like to buy a mobile phone, please,” Hermione said. “Something simple.”

He smiled, standing to rummage beneath the counter. “You’re speaking my language. I’ve got a few old models that’ll do you proud.”

He emerged with a small blue phone in his hand. Hermione recognised it instantly. “A Nokia 3310,” he said proudly. “You could drop this off a cliff and it’d still work.”

Hermione laughed, warmth creeping up her chest. “Perfect. I’ll take it.”

It felt good, standing there, handing over a few notes for something so ordinary. Something muggle. When the man slid the phone and a little pay-as-you-go card across the counter, she felt strangely content.

The sun was low when she turned into a narrow alley beside the bakery. She checked the street once, made sure no one was looking, then spun neatly on the spot. The familiar tug of apparition wrapped around her, and when she opened her eyes, she was standing beneath the tall trees near Emily’s house.

The scent of wet earth filled her lungs. The woods were quiet except for the sound of distant birds, and she followed the narrow path until Emily’s porch came into view.

When Hermione knocked, she heard the clatter of something being set down inside, followed by quick footsteps. The door opened, and Emily’s face broke into a wide, surprised smile. “Hermione! What a lovely surprise.”

“Hi,” Hermione said, returning the smile. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

“Not at all. Sam’s out with the others. Come in before you freeze.”

Hermione stepped inside, warmed instantly by the smell of baking bread and cinnamon. Emily’s home always felt like the embodiment of comfort - soft light, warm colours, and a faint hum of life in every corner.

“You’ve caught me in the middle of dinner prep,” Emily said, tying her hair back. “But I could use the company.”

Hermione took a seat at the table, watching her move about the kitchen. “I was nearby and thought I’d stop in. I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”

“Oh?” Emily glanced up from the chopping board, curiosity in her eyes.

Hermione reached into her bag and placed the small phone on the table. “I got one of these today.”

Emily blinked, then burst out laughing. “A phone? Hermione, welcome to civilisation!”

Hermione joined her laughter, shaking her head. “I know, I know. It was long overdue. I was hoping I could have your number. And Quil’s too, if that’s alright.”

“Of course,” Emily said, grabbing a notepad and pen. “Quil’s going to be thrilled. He’s been talking about getting you on the group chat for days.”

Hermione smiled. “He does love to talk.”

“That’s one way to put it,” Emily said, handing over the piece of paper. “Here you go. Just don’t blame me when he starts sending you pictures of his breakfast.”

Hermione laughed, pocketing the note. “I’ll consider myself warned.”

They chatted for a while longer, about nothing and everything; work, cooking, the pack’s latest chaos. Hermione found herself relaxing more with every minute. When she finally set down her empty cup of tea, she glanced at Emily thoughtfully.

“I was wondering… would you like to come to mine tonight? Maybe have a bit of a girls’ night? I could cook something nice.”

Emily’s face lit up immediately. “That sounds perfect! It’s been ages since I’ve had a quiet evening that didn’t involve boys or wolves.”

Hermione grinned. “Good. I’ll make something simple. And maybe open that bottle of wine Mae gave me.”

“Oh, I’m in,” Emily said, already looking excited.

Hermione hesitated a moment, fiddling with her cup. “Would you mind if I invited Quil too? Just to make it a bit more lively?”

Emily chuckled softly. “Honestly, that sounds lovely. He’s very fond of you, you know.”

Hermione flushed a little but smiled. “He’s a good friend.”

“He is,” Emily agreed, her tone warm.

Hermione stood, gathering her things. “I’ll head back and get everything ready then.”

As she reached the door, another thought struck her. She turned back. “Emily… could I have Seth’s number as well?”

Emily paused, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Of course.” She jotted it down on the same notepad and handed it over. “In case you ever need him.”

Hermione took the slip of paper carefully. “Thank you.”

“Anytime,” Emily said. “And don’t you worry about dessert. I’ll bring something sweet.”

Hermione smiled, feeling a gentle warmth in her chest. “Deal.”

She stepped out into the cool air once more, the evening breeze carrying the smell of rain and sea salt. As she walked down the path, the scrap of paper tucked safely in her pocket, she couldn’t help but smile.

Hermione took her time, the path through the woods soft beneath her boots. She hummed quietly to herself, the folded scrap of paper with Emily and Quil’s numbers clutched tightly in her hand. By the time she reached the small clearing, the familiar shape of Hemlock Sanctuary came into view. Its windows glowed gold in the fading light, smoke curling gently from the chimney. It looked warm and safe, as though it had been waiting for her all along.

Inside, the cabin wrapped around her like a blanket. The air smelled faintly of herbs and woodsmoke. She slipped off her coat, unwound her scarf, and set her new little mobile phone down on the kitchen table. For a long moment she simply looked at it, the screen dark and unfamiliar. It was strange how something so small could feel so significant, like an open door to a quieter kind of life.

Eventually, she flicked it on. The cheerful chime made her smile. She began typing in the numbers Emily had given her, pausing when she reached Quil’s. Her thumb hovered for a second before she pressed call.

It rang twice before a familiar, mischievous voice came through. “Who’s calling me from an unknown number? If this is Paul trying to sell me another fishing rod, I’m hanging up.”

Hermione laughed. “It’s me, Quil.”

There was a beat of silence, then a delighted shout. “Hermione! You’ve finally joined civilisation!”

“Apparently so,” she said, smiling. “I wanted to see if you’re free tonight. Emily and I are having a little girls’ night at mine, and I thought you could come too. You know, for balance.”

“For balance,” he repeated with a chuckle. “Right. You just want someone to eat all the leftovers.”

“That too,” she admitted. “So, are you coming?”

“Wouldn’t miss it. Want me to bring anything?”

Hermione thought for a moment. “Maybe a bottle of something, or some crisps?”

“I’ll bring CHIPS and my winning personality,” he said. “See you soon.”

She hung up, still smiling, the warmth of his easy charm lingering. Rolling up her sleeves, she set about making the cabin feel alive again. If they were going to have a proper evening, she wanted it to be comfortable. Familiar.

An hour later, the kitchen smelled divine. Hermione’s idea of a feast was the classic british staple of picky bits — little sandwiches, cubes of cheese, sausage rolls, chopped vegetables, hummus, and crisps she kept stealing handfuls of. She even found a half bottle of red wine Mae from the shop had given her, so she poured a little and set out three mismatched glasses.

When everything was ready, she glanced at the clock. Still half an hour to go. The cabin was quiet, save for the soft pop of the fire. She fiddled with the phone, staring at the list of names. Seth’s number sat there, untouched.

Her chest tightened. That strange flutter she’d been ignoring since their talk returned. She told herself it was just courtesy, nothing more, as she began typing.

Hi, it’s Hermione. I hope you don’t mind, I got your number from Emily.

She stared at it, reread it three times, then pressed send before she could change her mind. The little screen blinked, and it was done.

“Right,” she muttered, cheeks warm. “That’s that.”

Pouring herself a small glass of wine, she sat at the table and nibbled on a slice of cheese while the quiet stretched around her. Then came the crunch of tyres on gravel, followed by a cheerful knock.

“Come in!” she called.

Emily appeared first, her arms full of bags, followed by Quil, who was carrying what looked like half the corner shop.

“Party’s here!” Quil declared with a grin.

Hermione laughed, hurrying to take one of the bags. “You two didn’t need to bring anything.”

Emily beamed. “Don’t be silly. I brought dessert, and Quil brought… well, everything else apparently.”

“I didn’t know what you liked,” he said, dropping the bags onto the counter. “So I just grabbed a bit of everything. Your Chips not crisps, biscuits, fizzy drinks — you name it.”

Hermione shook her head, amused. “That’s certainly one way to prepare.”

Within minutes, they’d settled in the living room. The coffee table was covered in plates of food, glasses half-filled with wine, and Emily had already tucked her legs beneath her on the sofa, looking entirely at home. The fire threw golden light across the walls, and for the first time in months, Hermione’s little cabin felt full of life.

Quil launched into one of his stories, hands moving animatedly as he described Paul’s latest romantic disaster.

“So there he is,” Quil said, leaning forward, “outside the diner, shirt off, in the rain, singing off-key like some tragic film hero.”

Hermione burst into laughter. “You’re joking!”

“I wish I was,” he said with mock solemnity. “He tripped halfway through. Right into a puddle.”

Emily gasped through her laughter. “Please tell me someone filmed that.”

“No one needed to,” Quil said, grinning. “The image is seared into my memory forever.”

The three of them collapsed into another round of laughter, tears running down their faces. Hermione couldn’t remember the last time she’d laughed so hard. Even when the conversation mellowed, turning to small-town gossip and stories of growing up in La Push, the warmth didn’t fade.

At one point, she sat back with her glass in hand and just watched them. Emily’s easy laughter, Quil’s bright grin, the glow of the fire — it was simple and beautiful. She hadn’t realised until that moment how much she’d missed feeling this connected to people.

When Emily stood to fetch dessert, Quil began stacking the plates. Hermione’s phone buzzed quietly on the table, and her stomach flipped.

She reached for it. Seth: Of course I don’t mind. It’s good to hear from you. I hope you’re doing alright.

Her lips curved into a small smile. She typed back quickly before she could talk herself out of it. I am. Thank you. I hope you’re alright too.

She set the phone down, the warmth spreading through her chest.

Quil returned carrying a plate of brownies and a grin that could light the room. “Right,” he said, handing her a spoon, “Emily’s baked again. Prepare yourself.”

Hermione laughed, accepting the spoon. “You two are going to spoil me.”

“That’s the plan,” Emily said, settling back beside them. “We’ve decided it’s our mission to make you feel like part of the family.”

Hermione looked between them, her chest tightening in that soft, almost painful way happiness sometimes did. “You already do.”

Emily smiled, reaching over to squeeze her hand. “Good.”

The fire had burned low by the time they’d finished their brownies, and the soft amber light bathed the cabin in a gentle warmth. Quil was sprawled across the armchair, looking far too comfortable, while Emily had tucked her feet up on the sofa beside Hermione, sipping the last of her wine. Laughter still clung to the air, easy and unhurried.

Quil tipped his head to one side, his grin mischievous. “So, Mia,” he said, his voice full of playful curiosity, “are you ever going to show us some of that magic of yours, or are we all supposed to keep pretending we haven’t been dying to ask?”

Hermione let out a laugh, half amused and half exasperated. “Honestly, you’re worse than a group of first-years.”

Emily perked up immediately, her smile widening. “Oh, please do. Just something small. You can’t mention being a witch and then not show us anything. It’s practically cruel.”

Hermione laughed again, shaking her head. “You’re both impossible.”

“Please?” Quil pressed, folding his hands in mock pleading. “I’ve been holding this in for days. I need to see some magic before I explode.”

Hermione groaned, though the sound was fond. “Fine,” she said, rising from her seat. “But only because you asked nicely. And because you brought crisps.”

Emily clapped her hands together, her eyes bright with excitement. “This is going to be amazing.”

Hermione went to the small table near the hearth where her wand rested, the familiar weight of it grounding her the moment she picked it up. She stood for a moment, turning it in her fingers. The wood was smooth, warm from the firelight. It felt good to hold it again, to feel the faint hum of power beneath her skin.

“What should I do then?” she asked, more to herself than to them. Her mind flickered, unbidden, to her old favourite spell — the one that had once filled her with such pride and hope. The Patronus. But the thought of it twisted something deep in her chest. She hadn’t cast one properly since before the war. She’d tried, a few times in those dark months after, but nothing ever came. The silver light had faded from her, along with so much else Ron had taken.

Her smile faltered for a fraction of a second before she pushed the thought aside. Not tonight. Not when things felt good.

“Alright,” she said, drawing herself up. “Something simple then.”

She pointed her wand at the empty wine bottle on the table. “Wingardium Leviosa.”

The bottle rose smoothly into the air, turning slowly, the light catching its surface in soft glints of red and gold. Quil let out an exaggerated gasp and Emily covered her mouth, eyes wide.

“That’s brilliant,” she said in a half-whisper. “It’s actually floating.”

“It’s hardly the most impressive spell,” Hermione said with a small, pleased smile. She guided the bottle gently through the air, letting it dance in little circles before setting it back on the table with a quiet clink.

“Do another,” Quil urged. “Something else. Something flashy.”

Hermione rolled her eyes affectionately but couldn’t help the grin tugging at her lips. “Alright, something a bit more fun then.”

She flicked her wand towards the bunch of flowers sitting by the window. The petals began to shift and twist, their soft white fading into deep, vibrant blues. Emily gasped, leaning forward as the flowers rearranged themselves into a perfectly symmetrical shape, each one a tiny bluebell.

“They’re beautiful,” Emily said, reaching out but stopping just short of touching.

“They won’t last forever,” Hermione said, lowering her wand. “Transfiguration fades after a while unless you make it permanent. I prefer to let things return to what they were.”

Quil looked at her with a mix of awe and curiosity. “That’s… wow. You can just change things like that? You could change anything?”

Hermione laughed quietly. “Within reason. Magic has limits. It’s not about power so much as control and understanding. There are laws that keep the balance. If you try to defy them, it doesn’t usually end well.”

Emily tilted her head. “You sound like you’ve taught before.”

Hermione smiled faintly. “I suppose I have, in a way. At Hogwarts, we helped the younger students when they were struggling. I used to love explaining how it all worked, why spells behaved the way they did, how certain wand movements mattered more than the words.”

As she spoke, her voice grew more animated. The words came easily, her hands gesturing as she talked. For so long, her magic had been something she’d hidden, something that had brought her pain and fear. But now, as she watched Emily and Quil listening with genuine wonder, it didn’t feel like a burden. It felt like hers again.

“So, what about that one you said earlier?” Quil asked suddenly, brow furrowed. “The one you almost did before you decided on the bottle trick. You got that look, the one people get when they’re thinking about something they’ve lost.”

Hermione blinked, caught off guard. “You’re far too observant.”

“I’m serious,” he said softly. “What was it?”

She hesitated, fingers tracing the handle of her wand. “It’s called a Patronus,” she said at last. “It’s a sort of protective spell. It takes the form of an animal, one that reflects who you are. But it’s not an easy thing to cast. You have to feel pure happiness, and I…” She trailed off, her throat tightening. “I haven’t been able to since before the war.”

Emily reached over and touched her hand gently. “That doesn’t mean you never will again.”

Hermione smiled at her, grateful. “No. It doesn’t.”

Quil’s voice was quiet now, all the playfulness gone. “What was yours? If you don’t mind me asking.”

Hermione’s gaze drifted to the window, to the faint reflection of the firelight. “An Otter,” she said softly. “Curiousity, Intelligence and Loyalty. At least, that’s what my professor said it meant. I used to think it suited me. I still hope it does.”

The room was silent for a moment, only the crackle of the fire filling the space. Then Emily spoke, her tone gentle but certain. “It does suit you.”

Hermione looked at her, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Thank you.”

Quil gave a slow nod, his usual grin tempered by something thoughtful. “You know,” he said, “for someone who claims she’s rusty, you make it look pretty effortless.”

Hermione laughed softly. “Years of practice. And a lot of patience.”

“Well,” Emily said, standing to stretch, “I think that was the best girls’ night I’ve ever had. Magic, wine, and brownies. We’ve peaked.”

Quil yawned loudly in agreement. “You’re welcome.”

Hermione smiled, the warmth in her chest growing. “I’m glad you came. Both of you.”

They stayed a while longer, chatting about nothing in particular until the clock crept past midnight. When they finally stood to leave, Emily pulled Hermione into a hug. “Thank you,” she whispered. “For trusting us.”

Quil gave a mock salute as he followed her out. “Next time, I want to learn a spell. Something simple. Maybe one that helps me win arguments.”

Hermione laughed as she saw them to the door. “Good luck with that one.”

Chapter Text

When they were gone, she stood for a long time in the quiet, her wand still warm in her hand. The flowers on the table glowed faintly blue in the dying firelight. She smiled to herself, a quiet, private smile.

The fire had burned down to glowing embers when Hermione finally noticed her phone buzzing quietly on the arm of the sofa. She blinked down at the screen, smiling faintly when she saw Seth’s name light up.

Hey, what have you been up to tonight?

Hermione felt that same flutter in her chest she’d been trying not to think too hard about. She set her wine glass down, curling her legs beneath her as she typed.

Had a little girls’ night with Emily and Quil. Well, if you can call it that with Quil there.

The reply came almost instantly.

That sounds brilliant. I hope you had a nice time.

Hermione’s smile grew. She glanced at the clock above the fireplace and was surprised to see the hands edging past midnight. She’d lost track of time completely. Maybe it was the wine, maybe the warmth of the evening, or maybe it was simply that soft, bold feeling that sometimes came after laughter. Whatever it was, she found herself typing before she could stop herself.

I did. It was really lovely actually. What about you? Still awake?

Always. Couldn’t sleep.

Hermione hesitated, then bit her lip, a little thrill of nerves running through her.

Do you fancy meeting up? Just for a walk?

The typing dots appeared almost at once.

OMW.

She stared at the screen, blinking in surprise. “Oh, Merlin,” she muttered under her breath, suddenly very aware that she was wearing her oldest jumper and her hair was a mess. She hurried to the kitchen and pulled open a drawer, fingers searching until they found the small vial she was after. A sober-up potion. It wasn’t exactly elegant magic, but it did the job.

“Here goes,” she said, grimacing as she drank it down. The sharp taste hit instantly, clearing the fog from her mind. Her pulse, however, stayed firmly quickened.

A knock sounded at the door not five minutes later.

She opened it to find Seth standing there, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, his breath misting faintly in the cool night air. He smiled when he saw her, that wide, earnest smile that always seemed to make her chest feel too small.

“Hi,” he said softly.

“Hi,” she replied, tugging her cardigan tighter. “You got here quickly.”

“I was already out,” he admitted with a sheepish grin. “Couldn’t sleep, so I went for a walk. Thought you might as well join me.”

Hermione’s lips twitched. “Convenient.”

“Fate,” he said, his tone teasing.

She rolled her eyes, laughing under her breath as she stepped outside. The air was cool and fresh, carrying the distant scent of the sea. “So, where are we going?”

“There’s a spot near the cliffs,” Seth said, gesturing for her to follow. “It’s quiet. You can see the water from there when the moon’s out.”

“That sounds lovely.”

They fell into step easily. The path wound through the trees, silver light spilling through the leaves, the ground soft beneath their feet. For a while, they didn’t talk. The quiet between them felt comfortable, unhurried. Every now and then, Seth glanced at her, like he was making sure she was really there.

After a while, Hermione broke the silence. “Can I ask you something?”

“Anything,” he said, without hesitation.

“Bella,” she said carefully. “I’ve heard her name a few times. She seems… complicated.”

Seth let out a soft sigh, running a hand through his hair. “That’s one way to put it.”

“I didn’t mean to pry,” Hermione said quickly.

“No, it’s fine,” he assured her. “It’s just… hard to explain without making it sound worse than it is.”

“Try me,” she said gently.

Seth smiled faintly, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes this time. “Bella’s… well, she’s always been close to Jacob. They grew up together, and for a long time, he thought there might be more there. She’d spend time with him, then disappear for ages, then come back again when things weren’t working out with someone else. It’s like she doesn’t mean to hurt him, but she does. Every time.”

Hermione frowned, the sympathy in her chest twisting. “And Jacob still lets her?”

“He can’t seem to help it,” Seth said with a small shrug. “He’s loyal. Too loyal sometimes. He’d do anything for her, even when she doesn’t deserve it.”

“That sounds familiar,” Hermione murmured before she could stop herself.

Seth glanced at her, brow raised. “Someone you knew?”

Hermione nodded, smiling sadly. “Someone I trusted too much, for too long. It’s difficult to walk away when you’ve built your life around someone else’s needs. It becomes… habit.”

“Yeah,” Seth said quietly. “That’s exactly what it’s like.”

They walked a little further, the trees thinning as the sound of the ocean grew louder. The moon broke through the clouds, lighting up the path ahead. 

They reached the top of the cliffs, where the world seemed to fall away into silver and shadow. The sea stretched endlessly before them, the moonlight gliding over its surface like silk. The sound of the waves below was soft and rhythmic, steady enough to quiet the noise in Hermione’s mind.

Seth had been right; it was beautiful. The kind of beauty that didn’t need words.

She sat down on the grass, hugging her knees to her chest as the cool breeze brushed against her face. Seth dropped down beside her, close enough that their shoulders almost touched. For a while, neither of them spoke. The air between them was calm, unhurried.

After a few minutes, Seth tilted his head back to look at the sky. “You can see everything up here,” he murmured.

Hermione followed his gaze. Without the dull haze of light from any town nearby, the stars were brighter than she’d ever seen them. They glittered like tiny shards of glass scattered across black velvet, infinite and alive. She smiled softly. “It’s breathtaking.”

“Do you know any of them?” he asked, glancing at her.

A familiar spark flickered to life in her chest. “A few,” she said, lying back on the grass. “Come on, you can’t look at a sky like this and not lie down.”

He hesitated for half a second before doing as she said, settling beside her. The grass was cool and damp beneath them, and when his arm brushed against hers, she tried not to notice how warm he felt.

“That one there,” she said, pointing upwards. “That’s Orion. You can see his belt—three stars in a line.”

Seth followed the direction of her hand, his voice quiet. “You really know your stars.”

Hermione smiled faintly. “I used to come out at night to study them when I was at school. It was calming. It reminded me that no matter how mad life got, there was still order in the universe.”

“That’s very you,” he said, amusement threading through his tone.

She laughed under her breath. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It was one,” he said softly.

The words lingered between them, light as the breeze, and Hermione found she didn’t know what to say in reply. So instead, she pointed again. “That one’s Cassiopeia—shaped like a W. She was supposed to be vain and proud, punished for thinking she was more beautiful than the gods.”

“Was she?” he asked.

Hermione shrugged. “I suppose that depends who you ask.”

Seth chuckled quietly. “You make it sound like you knew her personally.”

“I’ve read a lot,” she said, smiling. “Occupational hazard.”

They fell into silence again, the sound of the sea filling the spaces between their words. The moon hung low and full above them, bathing everything in silver. Hermione turned her head slightly, meaning to glance at him, and found her breath catching instead.

He was lying on his back, his eyes half closed, the light turning his skin to gold and shadow. The soft curve of his jaw, the way the wind tugged gently at his hair, the faint smile playing on his lips, it all caught her off guard. She’d always known he was handsome, but here, under the quiet spell of the stars, there was something different about him. Something unguarded.

She could smell him too, faintly, the earthy scent of woodsmoke and pine mingling with the salt of the sea. It wrapped around her like warmth itself, grounding and comforting. Her chest ached with it, that strange, fluttering feeling she didn’t want to name.

Seth opened his eyes and caught her looking. He didn’t speak, just smiled – a small, gentle curve of his lips that made her stomach twist in a way she hadn’t felt in a long time.

Hermione quickly looked back up at the sky, her cheeks warm. “There’s Sirius,” she said softly, her voice almost swallowed by the wind. “The Dog Star. It’s one of the brightest in the sky.”

The words came out easily, but as soon as she said the name, a familiar ache bloomed in her chest. Sirius. It had been years, but the name still carried weight. Still echoed with loss and laughter, rebellion and warmth. She could still picture his grin, that spark of mischief in his eyes, the way he’d made her feel like she belonged.

She hadn’t thought about him in weeks, not really. But lying there under the stars, his name hanging between her and Seth, the grief came back soft and unexpected, but sharp all the same.

Her smile faltered. She blinked quickly, trying to focus on the constellations again, but her voice caught when she spoke next. “He used to tell me stories about this one,” she murmured. “Sirius. It… it suited him.”

Seth turned his head slightly, watching her. “Someone you knew?” he asked gently.

Hermione nodded, still looking up. “Someone I cared for,” she said quietly. “He was… family, in a way. Not by blood, but by choice. He was brave, reckless, brilliant and so full of life. He’d been through more than anyone should, but he still managed to make everyone else laugh.”

She paused, her throat tightening. “He died during the war. I try not to think about it too much, but sometimes it hits me, out of nowhere. Like now.”

The wind rustled through the grass, carrying the salt of the sea. For a few moments, neither of them spoke. Then Seth shifted slightly, his hand brushing against hers before he hesitated. When she didn’t pull away, he laced their fingers together, his touch steady and warm.

Hermione froze for a second, not because she was uncomfortable, but because of how natural it felt. His hand was large and calloused from work, but gentle, grounding her in the present. She turned her head towards him, surprised by the softness in his expression.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “He sounds like he meant a lot to you.”

“He did,” she admitted, her voice thick. “I was only fifteen when he died. I thought I understood what loss was before that, but I didn’t. It changes you.”

Seth squeezed her hand lightly. “Yeah,” he said. “It does.”

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy this time. It felt shared, like the grief was no longer something she carried alone. Hermione blinked back the sting in her eyes, focusing on the bright point of light above them.

“You know,” she said after a moment, her voice steadier now, “it feels right that his star is always there. Shining, even when the rest of the sky is dark. He’d have liked that.”

Seth’s thumb brushed lightly across the back of her hand. “I think he’d be proud of you,” he said simply.

Hermione looked at him, caught off guard. The sincerity in his voice left her breathless. “You didn’t even know him.”

“I don’t need to,” he said with a faint smile. “I can tell by the way you talk about him.”

Her chest tightened, that strange mix of grief and warmth tangling inside her. She smiled then, small and sad but real. “Thank you.”

They lay there a while longer, their hands still entwined, watching the sky. The sea whispered below, and the stars wheeled slowly overhead. Hermione could feel the steady beat of Seth’s pulse through his palm, the quiet strength of it.

Eventually, she spoke again, her voice barely above a whisper. “It’s funny, isn’t it? How some people leave, and yet they never really do.”

Seth turned his head towards her. “Yeah,” he said softly. “The good ones never do.”

Hermione smiled faintly and looked back up at the heavens, at Sirius shining so bright it hurt to look at for too long. The grief was still there, but gentler now, wrapped in something new. Comfort, maybe. Understanding.

And through it all, Seth’s hand stayed in hers – steady, patient, and warm as the stars turned slowly above them.

Hermione didn’t know how long they’d been lying there, hands still joined as the night stretched endlessly around them. It felt like time had stopped somewhere between the stars and the sound of the sea below. The world had shrunk to the space they shared, to the quiet rhythm of their breathing and the warmth of his hand against hers.

It wasn’t until the horizon began to glow with the faintest hint of gold that she realised the night had slipped away. She blinked, sitting up slowly, the grass damp beneath her palms. “Oh,” she whispered, a small laugh catching in her throat. “The sun’s coming up.”

Seth followed her gaze, his voice soft with surprise. “I didn’t realise it was that late.” He rubbed the back of his neck, looking suddenly sheepish. “I’m sorry, Hermione. I didn’t mean to keep you out all night.”

She turned to him, still watching the pale light spread across the sky. “Don’t apologise,” she said with a smile. “I can’t believe how quickly the time flew.”

Something flickered in his expression then, a quiet warmth that reached his eyes. He smiled, the corners of his mouth curving into something that made her chest tighten. “I’m glad you think so.”

They stood, brushing the dew from their clothes, and began to walk back through the woods. The path was soft underfoot, the world around them slowly waking with the light. A few birds had begun to sing, their calls weaving through the whisper of the wind. The air smelled of salt and pine, and Hermione breathed it in deeply, embracing the earthy scent.

Seth walked beside her in companionable silence, his hands in his pockets, his stride easy. Every so often, his arm brushed hers. It wasn’t intentional, but it sent small sparks of awareness through her all the same. She found herself smiling for no reason at all, her thoughts calm and unhurried.

When they reached the clearing, the first proper rays of sunlight spilled over Hemlock Sanctuary. The cabin looked golden in the dawn, its windows glowing faintly. Hermione slowed her steps, reluctant to reach the end of the walk. Seth stopped beside her, turning to face her fully.

“Well,” he said quietly, his voice rough from the cool air, “you should get some sleep.”

Hermione nodded, though she didn’t move towards the door. “I suppose I should.” She hesitated a moment, then smiled up at him. “Thank you. For tonight. I really enjoyed it.”

“So did I,” he said softly.

For a moment they just looked at one another, the air between them charged with something neither of them quite knew how to name. Then Hermione stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him. He went still for half a second before his arms came around her too, strong and sure.

The warmth that spread through her was overwhelming. It wasn’t just heat, though he was impossibly warm, almost radiating it. It was comfort. Safety. It seeped into her muscles, into her bones, melting away everything tight or anxious inside her. It reminded her of slipping into a hot bath after being out in the cold too long, that feeling of complete surrender as the warmth soaked through every part of her.

She hadn’t planned to hold on for so long, but once she was there, she didn’t want to let go. Neither of them seemed in a hurry. She could hear his heartbeat, steady against her ear, and for a moment she simply let herself breathe him in. The scent of pine and smoke clung to him, grounding and familiar.

When Seth finally pulled back, it was gentle. His hands lingered on her shoulders, his eyes soft but searching. “You need to get some rest,” he murmured.

Hermione nodded, though the thought of stepping away made her chest ache a little. “You’re right. But thank you, Seth. For everything tonight.”

He smiled, the kind of smile that lit up his whole face. The morning light caught his features just right, making his skin glow and his eyes gleam gold. He looked so happy, so alive, that she couldn’t help smiling back.

“I’d like to do it again,” she said before she could think better of it.

His grin widened, bright and genuine. “I’d like that too.”

They stood there for another heartbeat, the quiet of the morning stretching between them. Then Hermione took a small step back, her fingers brushing his arm before falling away.

“Goodnight,” she said softly, even though the world outside was already awash with sunlight.

“Goodnight, Hermione,” he said, his voice low and warm.

She slipped inside and closed the door gently behind her. For a long moment she just stood there, leaning against it, the faintest smile tugging at her lips. The cabin was still and peaceful, the air carrying the lingering scent of salt and smoke.

She could still feel his warmth clinging to her skin, his heartbeat echoing faintly in her mind. A small, quiet laugh escaped her as she pushed off the door and walked further inside. She felt light, almost giddy, and though exhaustion pulled at her limbs, she couldn’t bring herself to mind.

When she finally crawled into bed, the first sunlight spilling across the floorboards, Hermione closed her eyes with a soft sigh.

Chapter Text

The sun was already climbing over the horizon by the time Seth reached home, thin streaks of gold cutting through the soft morning mist. He pushed open the back door quietly, though the house was still and silent. The only sounds were the low hum of the old fridge and the distant cry of gulls down by the water. He kicked off his boots and sat heavily on the edge of the sofa, running a hand through his hair.

He was tired, though not in the usual way. His body could’ve gone another mile, another patrol. It was his thoughts that felt heavy, a slow ache in his chest that refused to fade.

He closed his eyes and saw her straight away.

Hermione, standing in the early light with her hair catching the sun in soft gold strands. The way she’d smiled at him, quiet and uncertain, like she wasn’t used to letting herself be happy. The warmth of her in his arms when she’d hugged him goodbye. He could still feel it even now, the heat of her body and the small sound she’d made when she’d finally relaxed against him. It had taken everything in him not to hold on tighter.

He’d walked home in silence, but his mind hadn’t stopped once.

The imprint was meant to be overwhelming. He’d seen it before in Sam and Jared. It was supposed to take you over, to burn through everything else. But this felt different. It didn’t feel like losing control. It felt like finding it.

With Hermione, everything was quieter. Softer.

He didn’t feel as though the world spun around her; he just felt drawn to her, like his heartbeat had recognised something it had been waiting for. And that, more than anything, was what frightened him.

He didn’t want to hurt her. He didn’t want to make her feel trapped, not after everything she’d been through.

Seth pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes and let out a low sigh. He could still hear her voice from the night at the sanctuary, calm but trembling slightly as she’d told him about Ron. About the years she’d spent walking on eggshells. About the fear that had become part of her everyday life.

He’d kept still while she spoke, but inside he’d been burning. The thought of anyone hurting her like that made something dark and unfamiliar twist in his chest. He wasn’t an angry person by nature, but the image of her bruised or crying made his pulse thunder in his ears.

It took him a long moment to breathe through it, to remind himself that the past couldn’t be undone.

Even so, he couldn’t stop the sorrow that followed.

She deserved better than the things that had been done to her. She deserved laughter and peace, evenings filled with stories and starlight instead of fear. And he couldn’t quite believe that the universe had chosen him, the youngest and most reckless of them all, to be tethered to someone like her.

He thought of the way her face had softened when she’d spoken about the man she’d lost. Sirius. The name echoed in his mind. The grief in her voice had been quiet but deep. She’d lost him when she was still a child, barely old enough to understand what it meant to lose someone like that.

He’d wanted to take that pain from her somehow, even though he knew he couldn’t.

Seth tilted his head back against the sofa and stared at the ceiling. Morning light was spilling slowly across the floorboards, turning the room pale and gold.

She was extraordinary. Not in the loud, obvious way some people were. It was in the way she thought before she spoke, the way her eyes softened when she was listening, the way her laughter always sounded a little surprised, like happiness caught her off guard.

She was fierce too. Strong in a way that didn’t need to prove itself. There was something unshakable about her, as though she’d walked through fire and learned how to stand still in the middle of it.

He wanted to protect her, not because she was fragile, but because she deserved a world that didn’t hurt her again.

She’d said she wanted to be friends, and he’d agreed. It had hurt more than he’d admitted, but he understood. She needed space to breathe, to rebuild. He’d give her that, no matter what it cost him. If friendship was what she needed, then he’d be the kind of friend who never failed her.

He smiled faintly. That was the thing about the imprint. It wasn’t a chain, it was a promise. It didn’t demand. It offered.

He’d offer her everything he had.

He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped loosely. The world outside the window was waking up, the sounds of morning beginning to creep in. But all he could think about was her. Her laughter. The way she’d spoken about the stars. The way she’d said Sirius’ name.

He could still see her lying back on the grass, her face turned towards the sky, the faintest smile playing on her lips as she’d pointed out constellations. He’d watched her the whole time, unable to stop himself. She’d looked like peace itself, the kind of peace you didn’t want to disturb.

Seth let out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding. Maybe he’d never forget that night. And maybe that was alright.

Because for the first time in a long while, he didn’t feel restless or half-empty. He felt whole.

He leaned back, closing his eyes again and letting the quiet fill the room. Somewhere deep inside him, he made a promise he didn’t need to speak aloud. He’d wait. He’d protect. He’d be what she needed for as long as she needed him.

The rain had softened to a mist by late morning, the kind that hung in the air and made the world look almost dreamlike. Outside, the forest shimmered, every branch dripping quietly. Inside, the cabin was warm and still. The fire had long gone out, but the air still smelled faintly of smoke and tea.

Hermione sat by the window wrapped in a blanket, her hair still damp from her shower, a half-empty mug beside her. It was her first proper day off in weeks. No shop to open, no errands to run. Just silence.

On the table lay Harry’s letter. The parchment was soft now, creased at the corners where she’d folded and unfolded it too many times. She hadn’t meant to look at it again, but her fingers had found it almost without thinking.

She didn’t open it straight away. Instead, she traced the edge with her thumb, her mind wandering somewhere far from the quiet cabin.

She thought of Sirius.

She’d dreamt of him the night before, though she could hardly remember the details now. Only the feeling remained — laughter, the smell of smoke, the warmth that used to fill Grimmauld Place when he was in one of his rare good moods. He’d been so full of life, even after everything. Even after twelve years in Azkaban.

Twelve years.

It still made her stomach twist, the thought of him locked away in that place, surrounded by Dementors, his mind dragged constantly through memories of betrayal. And no one had done a thing. No trial. No appeal. Just silence.

No one had tried to save him. Not properly. The Ministry had written him off. The Order hadn’t questioned it. Even Dumbledore, for all his wisdom, had left Sirius to rot because it was easier to believe the lie than to risk being wrong.

Hermione exhaled slowly, her breath fogging the glass.

And yet, when Sirius was finally free, he hadn’t spent his days drowning in bitterness. He’d laughed. He’d fought. He’d loved Harry with everything he had left. He’d been broken, but he’d still given more than anyone she knew.

Forgiveness had come naturally to him.

She’d never understood how. Maybe it was because he’d known what it felt like to be on the other side, to need forgiveness more than anyone.

Hermione smiled faintly at the thought. “You were better at it than I’ll ever be,” she murmured.

She’d forgiven people before. Too many, perhaps. Dumbledore for his secrets. Ron for his cruelty. The wizarding world for its hypocrisy. Each time she’d told herself it was the right thing to do, that forgiveness was freedom. But it never stopped hurting.

Harry was different though.

He’d been her constant, the one person she’d believed would always be there, even when everyone else faltered. And when he hadn’t been, when he’d believed Ron over her, it had felt like the ground had fallen away beneath her feet.

Still, she understood him.

He’d never really had anyone. No parents, no siblings, no home that wasn’t built on someone else’s kindness. The Weasleys had become his family. Ron was his brother in everything but blood. If Ron had stood in front of him and sworn on Veritaserum that Hermione was lying, Harry would’ve believed it.

He always chose loyalty over logic. That was his greatest strength, and his greatest flaw.

She ran a hand through her hair, staring out at the dripping forest. “What were you thinking, Harry?” she whispered softly. “What finally made you see?”

He’d said in his letter that it hadn’t felt right. That something inside him had always known. It must have eaten away at him — the doubt, the guilt, the realisation of what it had cost.

She thought of Sirius again. If he were here, what would he tell her to do?

She could almost hear him, that familiar rough voice, warm but cynical. Don’t waste your life being angry, love. He’s made a mess of things, sure, but he’s yours. You can’t keep punishing him for being human.

Hermione huffed a quiet laugh under her breath. “You’d probably tell me to write to him,” she said. “You’d say I’m being too proud.”

Crookshanks stretched lazily on the chair beside her, blinking up at her with sleepy disinterest before curling back into his fur.

She looked down at the letter again. The ink had faded slightly where her fingers had smudged it before, but it was still neat, still careful. She didn’t need to read it to know what it said.

I owe you an apology. Not just for believing Ron, but for failing you in ways I didn’t even realise until it was too late.

The words hit differently now. She could hear him in them, the boy who’d stood beside her against trolls and Death Eaters alike, who’d always meant well even when he didn’t know how to show it.

He’d meant it. Every word.

She sighed and leaned back in her chair, staring up at the ceiling. Harry didn’t know where she was, and maybe that was for the best. She’d needed the space. To heal. To breathe. To find herself again without being Hermione Granger, war heroine.

And yet she missed him.

She missed the boy who’d been her family when she’d had none. The one who’d made her laugh when she thought she’d forgotten how. The one who’d sat beside her after Dobby’s funeral, silent and steady, because he’d known there was nothing to say.

She wondered what he’d do if he saw her now. Whether he’d smile or apologise all over again. Whether he’d recognise her at all.

The rain had stopped. A pale shaft of sunlight broke through the clouds, catching on the wet leaves outside. Hermione rose and went to the small desk by the wall. Her parchment and quill were there, just where she’d left them weeks ago. She touched the feather lightly, then let her hand fall away.

Was she ready?

Sirius would tell her to stop thinking and just do it. To trust her instincts. He’d say that holding back helped no one, least of all herself.

Maybe he was right.

She took a deep breath and whispered, “What would you do, Sirius?”

Silence answered, but she already knew. He’d tell her to forgive, but not to forget. To let go, not because Harry deserved it, but because she did.

Hermione smiled faintly and picked up the letter one last time. “Maybe it’s time,” she said softly.

The cabin was darkening when she finally sat down at her writing desk. The faint scent of rain still lingered in the air, fresh and earthy, and a thin sliver of sunlight stretched across the wooden surface. She took a slow breath and reached for a clean sheet of parchment. The nib of her quill hovered over it for a moment before she began to write.

At first, the words came hesitantly, as though they had to fight their way through everything she’d buried for too long. But once she began, they didn’t stop.

Dear Harry,

I wasn’t sure I’d ever reply to you. I didn’t know if I could. Your letter has been sitting here for weeks, folded and refolded until the parchment started to crease. I’ve read it more times than I’d like to admit. Every time I thought I’d made peace with it, I realised I hadn’t.

You were always the one person I thought would see through everything. You always did before. You noticed things others didn’t. You saw when I was tired, when I was pretending to be fine, when I was scared. You always noticed. Until you didn’t.

When I left for myself, you didn’t once reach out to me. You listened to his lies, believed them, not once did you consider him here may be another side to the story. You call yourself an Auror however ignored any other evidence, any witnesses. 

You didn’t ask. You didn’t question. You just believed him.

And I can’t tell you how much that hurt.

You said he used Veritaserum. You said he swore he was telling the truth. And you believed it. You never once stopped to think that maybe the potion wasn’t what he claimed, that maybe there was more to it. You trusted him because you loved him. I understand that now. But at the time, it felt like you’d chosen him over me.

You used to tell me I was your family. But when it mattered, I wasn’t.

I won’t pretend I’ve forgiven you yet, because that wouldn’t be true. I’m still angry. I’m angry at how easily you let me go, at how you let his words turn me into a stranger. I’m angry that you never came to find me when it all fell apart. You wrote now, months later, and maybe that’s enough for you. But I’ve lived every day with the weight of it.

You said you don’t know where I am, and that’s how it needs to stay. I’m safe here, somewhere quiet, and I don’t want that peace disturbed. I can’t let my safe place become another battleground.

But I want you to know that I don’t hate you. I never could.

You were my best friend, Harry. You still are, in a way. I think I’ll always care about you, even if things can’t go back to what they were. Maybe one day, when enough time has passed, we’ll be able to sit down and talk properly. Maybe we’ll be able to remember the good things without everything else sitting between us.

Until then, please look after yourself.

Hermione

When she finished, she sat back in her chair and stared at the letter. Her heart was thudding, her fingers faintly smudged with ink. It wasn’t perfect, and it wasn’t kind, but it was honest.

For the first time since she’d received his letter, she felt like she could finally breathe.

She folded the parchment carefully, smoothing the edges before sealing it with a flick of her wand. Burgundy wax melted and set in a slow swirl, shimmering faintly as it cooled. For a moment she hesitated, her fingers resting on the seal, then she stood and crossed the room towards the fireplace.

The floo powder glimmered softly in its glass jar on the mantelpiece. She took a pinch between her fingers and tossed it into the fire. The flames roared to life in a burst of green light, filling the cabin with flickering shadows.

The fire rippled, and a moment later Luna’s serene face appeared among the emerald light. Her hair was loose around her shoulders, her eyes as dreamy and distant as ever.

“Hermione,” Luna said with a faint smile. “You look well.”

“I’m managing,” Hermione said softly. Her voice was calm, but her chest still felt tight. “I have something to ask you.”

“Of course,” Luna replied at once. “You don’t even have to ask.”

Hermione held up the folded letter.. “Could you give this to Harry for me? Please don’t tell him where it came from. Just make sure he gets it.”

Luna’s expression gentled. “He’s missed you, you know.”

Hermione’s throat tightened. “I know.”

For a moment, Luna simply looked at her, her pale eyes full of quiet understanding. Then she nodded slowly. “You’re doing the right thing, Hermione. Sometimes truth is the kindest thing we can give.”

Hermione smiled faintly, her eyes stinging. “Thank you, Luna.”

Luna reached through the flames, her hand steady despite the magic, and took the letter. Her fingers brushed Hermione’s, warm even through the flicker of green light. “He’ll read it tonight,” she said gently. “And he’ll understand.”

Hermione nodded, though her voice caught in her throat.

Luna’s expression softened into something almost proud. “You look lighter,” she said. “Like someone who’s finally stopped carrying too much.”

And then she was gone. The flames turned gold again, quiet and steady.

Hermione stayed kneeling by the hearth for a long time, watching the fire’s glow settle back into calm. The silence of the cabin wrapped around her, soft and grounding.

Outside, the rain had stopped. A single beam of sunlight slipped through the clouds, stretching across the floorboards and catching the dust in the air, turning it into tiny motes of gold.

She sat there until the fire burned down to embers, her eyes tracing the way the light shifted and softened.

Chapter Text

Grimmauld Place was quiet, the sort of quiet that pressed against the walls and made the house feel far too big for one person. The clock on the mantel ticked steadily, the fire crackled low, and Harry sat slouched in one of the armchairs with a mug of tea gone cold beside him.

Ginny had gone out hours ago. She’d said something about meeting friends for a drink, her words light and casual, but she hadn’t looked him in the eye when she said it. She rarely did these days.

He didn’t blame her. Things between them had become muted, like a photograph left too long in the sun. The colour had drained out slowly until there was only the faint outline of what once was. He’d stopped trying to fix it. Neither of them had the energy for another row that ended in silence.

He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. The house creaked, as it always did, like it was alive and remembering too much. Somewhere upstairs, the wind rattled one of the windows, and he told himself he’d get up and close it later.

He might have drifted off, because the next thing he heard was the sharp tap of claws against the windowpane. He blinked, sitting up as an owl peered in through the glass, feathers ruffled from the wind.

Harry frowned, setting aside his mug and crossing to open the latch. The owl swooped in immediately, landing on the table with an indignant hoot. It held out its leg, a single folded letter tied neatly to it.

“Thanks,” Harry murmured, untying it carefully.

The owl gave him a look that seemed oddly knowing before taking off again, disappearing into the night.

Harry stared down at the letter in his hands. No name on the front. No seal he recognised. Just clean parchment, folded neatly once. But something about it made his stomach twist.

He sat back down, turning it over once, twice, before finally breaking the seal.

The handwriting was unmistakable.

His heart stopped for a moment.

Hermione.

He swallowed hard, scanning the first line. Then the next. By the time he reached the middle, his chest ached like someone had reached in and twisted something loose.

She’d written it. She’d actually written.

He read the letter once, then again, slower this time, letting every word sink in.

*You were always the one person I thought would see through everything. You always did before. You saw what others didn’t. You noticed when I was tired, when I was lying about being fine, when I was scared. You always noticed. Until you didn’t.*

His throat tightened. He could hear her voice in every word - steady, honest, utterly unflinching. He could almost see her sitting there, quill in hand, brow furrowed in that familiar way when she was choosing her words carefully.

He closed his eyes, the ache in his chest spreading. She was right. Every word of it.

He’d believed Ron because it had been easier. Because he hadn’t wanted to think that his two best friends could fall apart in front of him. Because loyalty had always been his blind spot.

He’d chosen peace over truth, and it had cost him one of the most important people in his life.

He swallowed hard and looked down again.

*You said you didn’t know where I am, and that’s how it needs to stay. I’m safe here, somewhere quiet, and I don’t want that peace disturbed. I can’t let my safe place become another battleground.*

He wanted to argue, to tell her that he’d never hurt her peace, that he only wanted to see her face again, to tell her in person how sorry he was. But he knew better.

He had forfeited that right long ago.

When he reached the end You were my best friend, Harry. You still are, in a way he had to set the letter down. His hands were shaking.

The fire crackled softly in the silence.

For a long time, he just sat there, staring at the parchment. Every line of her handwriting felt like a reminder of what he’d lost. What he’d destroyed himself.

He thought about her laugh, the way she’d always rolled her eyes at him and Ron during arguments but still patched them both up after. He thought about the nights in the tent, when she’d whispered plans by firelight, her hair wild and her face streaked with dirt but still determined, still fighting for all of them.

And he thought about the night Ron had left.

The silence that had followed. The way Hermione had curled in on herself by the fire, tears falling without sound. He’d held her then, whispered that Ron would come back, that they were still a team. And when Ron had returned, she’d forgiven him. Too quickly, maybe.

He should have seen it then. He should have seen how much she was breaking.

But he hadn’t.

He’d been too caught up in surviving, in pretending that everything was fine. And when Ron had turned on her again later, he’d believed him — because it was easier than facing how wrong everything had become.

Harry dragged a hand through his hair, pressing his palms to his eyes until colours bloomed behind them. “God, Hermione…” he whispered.

He didn’t know how long he sat there before he heard the faintest rustle in the fire.

“Harry?”

He looked up. Luna’s face shimmered faintly in the flames, her expression soft and serene. “You got it then,” she said.

He nodded, his voice rough. “She’s alright?”

Luna tilted her head. “She’s safe,” she said simply. “And healing.”

Harry let out a shaky breath, a small, humourless smile tugging at his mouth. “That sounds like her.”

“She didn’t want you to know where she is,” Luna added gently.

“I know,” he said quietly. “And I won’t try to find her. I promise.”

Luna’s eyes seemed to glow a little brighter. “Good. She needs space. But she also needed to write it. You gave her that.”

Harry looked back down at the letter, his chest tight. “I don’t know if I deserve it.”

“Deserving doesn’t come into it,” Luna said, her tone dreamy but firm. “Sometimes forgiveness isn’t about who’s right or wrong. It’s about who’s ready.”

He gave a small, weary nod. “I’ll wait then.”

Luna smiled faintly. “I think you already have.”

Her face flickered once before fading, leaving only the soft orange glow of the fire.

Harry sat there a while longer, staring into the flames. The letter lay open on the table beside him, the edges curling from the warmth.

He wanted to write back immediately, to pour out everything he hadn’t said, but he didn’t. She’d asked for peace. She’d earned it.

So instead, he picked up the letter once more and pressed his thumb lightly against her signature, the ink still faintly raised.

“I’ll do better, Hermione,” he said quietly. “I’ll be the friend you deserved.”

The words vanished into the crackle of the fire, but he meant them. Every single one.

When the clock struck midnight, the flames flickered low. He stayed there until they died, the room falling once more into silence.

But for the first time in a long while, that silence didn’t feel empty. It felt like something was beginning again.

The fire had burned low, the logs collapsing into soft embers that glowed like dying stars. Harry sat in the same armchair, Hermione’s letter open on the table before him. He’d read it too many times to count. The words were etched into him now, every line a quiet ache.

He reached for a fresh sheet of parchment. His hands trembled slightly as he uncapped the ink bottle. He didn’t know where to start. How do you answer someone you’d hurt so deeply? How do you apologise again without it sounding like another empty promise?

He took a slow breath and began to write.

My Hermione,

I’ve been sitting here for hours trying to find the right words, but nothing feels like enough. I don’t know if you’ll even want to read this, and I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t. Still, I need to try.

Your letter… it meant more to me than I can explain. Not because it was kind, it wasn’t, and it shouldn’t have been - but because it was honest. You told me what I needed to hear, even if it hurt. You always did.

You were right about everything. I didn’t see you when I should have. I didn’t ask questions when I knew something was wrong. I let Ron speak for you when I should have been listening to you. I told myself I was keeping the peace, but really I was just being a coward. I didn’t want to face that the people I loved most could be hurting each other, so I looked away.

I’m not doing that anymore.

I haven’t spoken to Ron since the fight. I can’t. I won’t let him twist things again or poison what’s left of the truth. I don’t even know if we’ll ever make peace, but I can’t keep pretending we’re the same people we used to be.

You said you’re safe, and that’s all I needed to hear. I won’t ask where you are. I won’t try to find you. But I’d like to see you again only if you want that too. Somewhere that feels comfortable for you. You can bring someone if you like, or we can meet somewhere public, or somewhere quiet. You set the terms. I just want to see you, Hermione. I want to make things right, not with words this time, but properly.

I haven’t told anyone about the letters. Not Ginny, not anyone in the family. I needed to keep this between us. It feels too important to be turned into gossip or pity.

Things with Ginny… they’re not the same. She’s out a lot these days. We’ve grown distant. I think we both know we’re trying to hold onto something that’s already gone. Maybe it’s because neither of us wants to admit how much the war changed us, or how tired we both are of pretending everything’s fine.

I miss you.

Not just your advice or your logic or the way you used to keep me from doing something stupid — though Merlin knows I could use that — but you. The way you’d laugh when I said something ridiculous, the way you made things make sense when the world didn’t. I miss having you in my life.

You said in your letter that maybe one day we’ll be able to talk about the good things again. I’d like that. I’d like to earn that.

I hope you’re eating properly. I hope you’re sleeping. I hope wherever you are, you’re happy, or at least getting there. You deserve that more than anyone I know.

Take care of yourself, Hermione. And thank you for writing, for forgiving even a little, for letting me know you’re still out there.

Always,
Harry

When he finished, he stared at the words for a long time. His eyes stung, but he didn’t bother to blink the tears away. There was nothing left to fix in the letter. It wasn’t perfect, but it was true.

He folded the parchment carefully, his fingers lingering over the edges. The wax seal he used was plain and unmarked, nothing that would give him away if someone else happened to see it. He wasn’t ready for questions, not from Ginny, not from anyone.

Crossing to the fireplace, he took a pinch of floo powder and threw it into the flames. The fire flared green, casting light across the room.

“Luna Lovegood,” he said clearly.

The flames shimmered, and Luna’s face appeared, as calm and serene as ever. She was wearing a lilac jumper and a necklace of what looked suspiciously like painted shells.

“Hello, Harry,” she said in that soft, airy tone that always seemed to cut through the noise in his head.

“Hi,” he said, managing a small smile. “I was hoping I’d catch you. I’ve got something for you to deliver again.”

Luna tilted her head. “For Hermione?”

He nodded. “Only if she wants to read it. I don’t want her to feel pressured.”

Luna’s eyes softened. “She’ll read it. She might not know it yet, but she will.”

He stepped closer to the fire, holding the letter carefully. “Tell her there’s no rush. Tell her she doesn’t have to reply if she doesn’t want to. Just… tell her I’m sorry. Again.”

Luna reached through the flames, her hand steady as she took the letter. For a moment, their fingers brushed, and Harry found himself wondering how someone so gentle could seem so unshakably certain all the time.

“She’s doing better,” Luna said after a pause. “You gave her something she needed - the chance to speak. Sometimes that’s all people really want.”

Harry gave a small, tired nod. “And this? What am I giving her now?”

“Hope,” Luna said simply. “The kind that doesn’t demand anything in return.”

Her hand disappeared back into the flames, and she gave him that same serene smile. “I’ll make sure she gets it.”

“Thank you,” Harry said quietly.

“You’re welcome,” she replied. “Try to rest, Harry. Guilt doesn’t go away faster just because you stay awake with it.”

Before he could respond, she was gone.

The fire dimmed back to its ordinary glow, and Harry was left staring into it, the silence pressing close again. But this time it wasn’t quite so heavy.

He sat back down, his gaze drifting to Hermione’s letter lying beside the empty mug. The edges were curled now, the ink beginning to fade slightly from the heat. He reached out and smoothed it flat, his thumb resting on her name.

“Wherever you are,” he murmured, “I hope you know I meant it.”

The flames crackled softly in reply.

And for the first time in months, Harry felt something like calm settle in his chest.

Chapter Text

The morning after the cliffs, Hermione woke to the soft light that slipped through the curtain and laid itself across the floorboards like a friendly cat. For once there was no rush inside her chest. No urgent list waiting to be checked off, no dread standing guard behind her ribs. She stretched beneath the blanket, let out a sigh that sounded more like relief than anything else, and padded to the kitchen to put the kettle on.

That day became the first in a string of days that felt quietly whole.

At the shop Mae had left a handwritten list by the till. Nothing urgent, only the sort of things that make a difference over time.

Hermione shelved paperbacks, reordered the classics table, and wiped a scattering of biscuit crumbs from the counter after an elderly customer stayed to chat about gardening for half an hour. She recommended a gentle fantasy to a teenager who said she did not like reading unless the world felt kinder than this one. 

Evenings brought people and warmth. Emily turned up one night with a basket on her arm and a scolding on her tongue that didn't stick for long.

Hermione set the table and together they assembled a pie that had no right to taste as good as it did. Quil arrived halfway through with a bag of potatoes, peeling them with a loud efficiency. The trio them ate shoulder to shoulder at the little table, and when Hermione brewed tea she caught Emily watching her with an expression that looked very much like pride.

On another evening Leah came by on a pretext that did not stand up to scrutiny. I was passing. There was a storm over the bay. Emily asked me to fetch her dish. Hermione didn't push. She made a pot of mint tea and let the conversation find its own shape. Leah didn't say much, but when she did it came like a smooth blade.

Hermione learned about the way the tide pulled strangely in winter near the black rocks, and how the best place to watch a lightning show was the headland that jutted like a shoulder above the crash of waves. When Leah stood to leave, she hesitated, her thumb worrying the seam of her sleeve. You are alright, she said in a low voice.

It sounded like a statement rather than a question. Hermione nodded. I am getting there. Leah gave the smallest of smiles. Good. She went out into the rain as if she belonged to it.

Nights became something else entirely. The first time Seth knocked on the door after dark it was with the mildest of excuses. Couldn't sleep. Thought you might fancy a walk. His smile did that soft, careful thing it did now, the one that asked without taking.

Hermione pulled on her boots and her thick cardigan and they set off along the path through the trees. They didn't talk much to begin with. There didn't seem to be a need. It was enough to hear the wind move through the needles and the long hush of the sea like a giant creature sleeping.

They found a rhythm in those walks. Sometimes they traced the cliff line until it ended in a scatter of gorse and thin grass that dipped like a curtsey to the rim of the world. Sometimes they wandered without a plan and came out at the Sanctuary where Seth would check a latch or two by touch alone and whisper to an anxious goat until it stopped fretting. Sometimes they sat on a wet log and traded small pieces of themselves.

She learned he preferred the first mouthful of tea to the last, and that he could remember the names of every stray that had passed through the Sanctuary in the last two years. He learned she had once memorised her school library catalogue for comfort. Neither of them said the word imprint. It wasn't necessary. The space between them carried its own language.

A week gathered itself quietly.

The pack folded her further in. Sam began to greet her with a nod that sounded, somehow, like approval. Embry discovered she knew how to win at a particular card game and accused her of cheating with cheerful outrage.

On Sunday the rain came back. It drummed on the roof and turned the path into a slick ribbon. Seth arrived anyway, hair damp, grin sheepish. He had a bag in one hand and a look that said I might have overdone it.

Inside the bag were groceries she didn't need. We are cooking, he declared, with such open honesty that she could not bring herself to argue. He chopped with care and listened to the radio and asked what this herb was and whether he could put it in, and the kitchen filled with steam and a smell that made Hermione think of hearths and winter and the kind of safety you only notice when it is gone.

When they ate, he closed his eyes on the first mouthful and said Oh. Just that. She could not stop the smile that rose for him.

The week slipped past like that, full of small bright things, until it reached the evening that changed the air in the cabin.

It was late. The rain had settled to a patient ticking. Hermione sat cross legged on the rug with a pile of library slips in front of her, more for the pleasure of ordering something than because anyone would ever check them. The fire low but steady.

The flames leapt green without warning.

Hermione’s hand went to her wand before she’d fully registered what she was seeing. The instinct was old and unshakeable. Then the light shifted and Luna’s face came into view, serene and bright, as if she were standing at the window of a carriage on a summer’s day. Hermione’s breath left her in a soft rush.

“Luna,” she said, relief loosening something inside her that she hadn’t realised was tight. “You’re a sight.”

Luna’s smile widened. “You look well,” she said. “Your hair is pleased with the air here.”

Hermione laughed. “Is it?”

“Yes,” Luna said gravely. “It’s much less cross.”

Hermione’s smile trembled and settled. “Is everything alright?”

Luna’s eyes softened. “Everything is as it should be,” she said. “I’ve got something for you.” She held up an envelope, the parchment a familiar pale cream that made Hermione’s heart forget itself and then find its place again. “He asked me to bring it. He said there’s no rush.”

Hermione stared at the letter. Her mouth had gone dry. For a moment she wasn’t in Hemlock Sanctuary at all. She was fifteen and standing in a library and turning a page so carefully the paper barely knew it had moved. She was nineteen and cold to the bone and holding courage like a match cupped against the wind. She was twenty and in a house that ached with ghosts and still managing to believe the world could be mended if she just worked hard enough.

Luna waited. She never pushed. She simply held space like it was the kindest thing anyone could do.

“Thank you,” Hermione said at last, and her voice was steady. She knelt by the hearth, and when Luna extended the letter through the flames Hermione took it carefully. Their fingers brushed. It felt like a blessing.

“He’s trying,” Luna said softly. “And he’ll keep trying.”

“I know,” Hermione said. “I can feel it on the page.”

Luna tilted her head. “You’ve got new light about you,” she observed. “Something quiet that breathes.”

Hermione felt her cheeks warm. “I’m… happier,” she admitted. “Or closer to it than I’ve been in some time.”

“Good,” Luna said. “Keep going towards it.”

“I will.”

“Do you want me to stay while you read?” Luna asked.

Hermione looked at the letter, then at the window where rain made soft silver paths on the glass. She shook her head. “No. Not tonight. I want to sit with it a while first.”

“That makes sense,” Luna said, as if it always had. “I’ll be near, if you need me.”

“I know,” Hermione said. “I always do.”

Luna’s smile was the kind that made the room feel wider. “Goodnight, Hermione.”

“Goodnight, Luna.”

The flames slipped back to their ordinary gold. The cabin grew quiet again, the way it does after the tide goes out.

Hermione stood, the letter in her hands, and crossed to the table. She didn’t open it. Not yet. She placed it beside the small vase of bluebells and found she could breathe around it. She made tea she didn’t really want and sat with her palms flat on the wood, the steam brushing her face like a reminder to stay present.

Outside, the rain thinned to a mist. Somewhere out in the dark a night bird called and another answered. Hermione listened to the sound the way she might once have listened to the first lines of a book. She thought about the week she’d just lived, the walks and the laughter, the quiet work of making a life that held her.

She touched the envelope lightly, then withdrew her hand. There would be time. Tonight belonged to the soft work of letting good things settle.

When the knock came, it was gentle. She knew who it was before she opened the door.

“Hi,” Seth said, hair damp, shoulders dusted with rain, smile already apologetic. “Is it alright if I…?”

“It’s always alright,” Hermione said, and stepped aside to let him in.

His gaze darted to the table, to the pale envelope gleaming faintly in the lamplight, and then back to her face. He didn’t ask. She didn’t explain. He shrugged out of his jacket and the cabin filled with the clean smell of rain and something warm that had already begun to mean home.

“Walk?” he asked, as if the answer didn’t matter.

“Not tonight,” she said. “Tea. Stay.”

He nodded and took the mug she handed him, his fingers brushing hers, heat moving between them as tangible as breath. They sat on the floor by the fire like children hiding from bedtime, and they talked about nothing at all. It was exactly what she needed.

Later, after he left with a soft goodnight and a promise to bring fresh bread in the morning because Mae had said he was hopeless at slicing, Hermione stood in the doorway for a long minute and let the cool air nick her cheeks. The forest hummed. The sky was a darker kind of velvet.

She closed the door, turned off the lamp, and carried the letter to the bedroom. She set it on the table beside her bed and touched her fingers to it once, very lightly, the way you might touch a scar that’s stopped hurting.

Then she crawled beneath the blanket and let sleep find her. The last thing she saw before her eyes closed was the envelope, pale as a small moon in the lamplight. The last thing she felt was the steady echo of Seth’s warmth in the place between her ribs.

The next morning she sat up, tucked her hair behind her ear, and reached for the letter. The parchment was smooth beneath her fingers, faintly scented with the ink she knew too well. Harry’s handwriting met her like a voice she hadn’t heard in months. Familiar and unfamiliar all at once. She drew a breath, then another, and unfolded the page.

Hermione’s eyes blurred before she reached the end. She read it twice, then a third time, tracing the lines with her thumb as if they might shift beneath her touch. It wasn’t perfect, but it was honest. For the first time in years it felt like Harry. The boy who’d stood beside her through every impossible thing. The boy who had looked at her and seen an equal, not a tool.

Pain threaded through the relief, a quiet old ache that hummed in her ribs. Forgiveness was never as simple as words on a page. But she wanted to try.

She placed the letter on the kitchen table and stood looking at it, lost in thought. A meeting. The idea made her pulse quicken. Part of her longed for it, for the chance to look him in the eye and see if the friendship she’d loved so fiercely still lived there. Another part recoiled at the thought of stepping back into that world, the one she’d fled to find peace.

After a long moment, she picked up her wand and whispered, “Lumos.” The soft glow lit the edges, gilding the ink. “Alright,” she murmured. “One more chance.”

That evening, as the sun dropped behind the trees, Hermione walked the path to Emily’s house. The wolves were gathered outside, a handful of them talking easily by the fire pit. Quil spotted her first.

“Hey, Hermione,” he called with a grin. “You’re early for dinner. What’s the occasion?”

“I need a favour,” Hermione said with a faint smile. “A small one.”

Quil tilted his head, curiosity bright in his eyes. “Sounds mysterious. Go on then.”

“Could we talk? Just you and me.”

He raised an eyebrow but nodded. They wandered a little away from the others, towards the edge of the woods where the air smelled of salt and cedar. Hermione hesitated for a heartbeat before speaking.

“I need to go somewhere tomorrow,” she said quietly. “Port Angeles. There’s someone I need to meet.”

Quil’s easy grin softened into something more serious. “Someone from before?”

“Yes,” she said. “Harry. I’d rather not go alone.”

Quil studied her face for a moment. Then he smiled again, smaller this time but just as sincere. “You want me to come with you.”

“If you’re free,” she said. “It’s not far, but it’s important.”

“You don’t even have to ask,” he said. “Of course I’ll come. You’ve got that look, the one that says you’d go whether it’s smart or not.”

Hermione huffed a laugh. “You know me too well.”

“Someone’s got to keep you out of trouble,” he said. “What are we walking into, exactly?”

“A conversation,” she said after a pause. “That’s all. I don’t expect danger, but it’s better to be careful.”

“Alright,” he said. “I’ll bring crisps. Can’t face an emotional crisis on an empty stomach.”

That made her laugh properly. “You’re impossible.”

“I try,” he said with a mock bow.

The next morning dawned bright and crisp, the rain finally spent. Hermione dressed carefully, not for show, but for steadiness. Jeans, boots, the dark jumper she’d always favoured when she needed courage. She slipped Harry’s letter into her pocket and tied her hair back with a ribbon Emily had given her. It made her feel grounded.

Quil turned up right on time, a coffee in each hand and sunglasses pushed up on his head. “Alright, mission time,” he announced cheerfully. “Do I need to wear a disguise? Pretend to be your secret bodyguard?”

“Only if you insist,” Hermione said with a smile, locking the cabin door behind her.

They set off towards Port Angeles in his truck. The road wound along the coast, the ocean flashing silver to their left. Quil kept the talk light, deliberately steering clear of what felt too heavy. He told her about Paul’s latest attempt at cooking, which had nearly poisoned them all, and Emily’s new insistence that the pack learn table manners. Hermione laughed until her stomach hurt, grateful for the distraction.

When they reached the outskirts of the city, she guided him down a narrow side road that seemed to vanish into the trees. The tarmac gave way to cobbles, and a faint shimmer passed through the air like a curtain. Quil blinked. “What was that?”

“Wards,” Hermione said softly. ”

Beyond the shimmer the world shifted. The trees grew taller, their trunks cut with runes. Little shops appeared along a winding street, old fashioned and crooked in the way only wizarding buildings manage. Signs swung overhead for potion ingredients and enchanted trinkets and owl delivery. A hum of magic filled the air, warm and familiar.

“This is incredible,” Quil murmured, taking it all in. “It’s like a secret village.”

“It is,” Hermione said. “Hidden from the Muggle world. I didn’t think there’d be one here, but Luna found it. Wizards have always liked to tuck themselves into corners.”

They parked near a small cafe that overlooked the harbour. It was quiet, the kind of place that smelled of sea salt and cinnamon. Hermione’s heart thudded hard enough to make her fingers tremble as she stepped out.

“Are you sure you’re ready?” Quil asked gently.

She nodded. “No. But I’m going anyway.”

He gave her a small, proud smile. “That’s my girl.”

She smiled back, the words sinking deeper than she’d expected. Together they crossed the street towards the cafe.

Through the window, she saw him before he saw her. Harry, sitting at a corner table, fidgeting with a mug, his hair as untidy as ever. Time had changed him, softened some edges and sharpened others. There were faint lines around his eyes and a weight in his shoulders that hadn’t been there before. But when he looked up and their eyes met through the glass, his expression broke into something familiar and utterly human.

For a heartbeat it felt like being sixteen again. Like standing at the edge of something enormous.

Hermione drew a slow breath, steadying herself, and turned to Quil. “Wish me luck?”

He grinned. “You don’t need it.”

She smiled faintly, pushed open the door, and stepped inside.

The bell above the cafe door chimed softly, and the world seemed to hold its breath.

Chapter Text

The little café smelt of cinnamon and rain, the sea breeze sneaking in through the open window and curling through the air like a living thing. Hermione paused just inside the doorway, her heart hammering so hard she half expected Harry to hear it.

He looked up at her properly then, really looked, and she saw it all at once — the relief, the guilt, the hope that was trying to surface. It hit her square in the chest, and for a moment she forgot how to breathe.

Harry stood up so quickly his chair scraped against the wooden floor. “Hermione,” he said, his voice rough, as though her name had been sitting in his throat for months.

“Harry,” she managed, barely above a whisper.

Neither of them moved. The air between them was full of ghosts.

It was Quil who broke the spell. He stepped up beside Hermione, easy and grounding, the warmth of him anchoring her back to the present. “You must be Harry,” he said with a grin, offering his hand. “I’m Quil. Hermione’s… moral support.”

Harry blinked, caught off guard, then took his hand. “Right. Yeah. Good to meet you.”

Hermione felt a rush of gratitude for Quil’s presence. He was steady, calm, perfectly unbothered the kind of energy she needed to keep from bolting.

“Come sit,” Harry said quickly, gesturing to the table. “I got tea. I didn’t know what you’d want, so… I ordered one of everything.”

Hermione’s lips twitched. “That sounds about right.”

They sat, the three of them, and Quil immediately reached for a scone. “You two talk,” he said easily. “I’ll just keep the pastries safe from harm.”

It broke the tension a little. Harry gave a small, shaky laugh that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Hermione watched him for a moment, trying to reconcile the man in front of her with the boy she’d known so well. He looked older, more worn. Tired. But still, unmistakably, Harry.

He leaned forward, elbows resting on the table, his voice low. “I didn’t think you’d come.”

Hermione wrapped her hands around her mug, letting the warmth steady her. “Neither did I,” she admitted. “But I read your letters. You sounded sincere.”

“I am,” he said at once. “More than I can say. Hermione, I’m so sorry. For everything. For not seeing what was right in front of me. For letting him…” He broke off, swallowing hard. “Ron convinced me of things that never made sense. I knew it even then, but I didn’t stop him. I just went along with it because it was easier than facing what it meant if he was lying.”

Hermione stayed quiet, letting him speak.

“I thought I was protecting our friendship,” Harry went on, his hands twisting together. “Keeping the peace. But I wasn’t. I’ve been choosing him over you every single time, and you never deserved that. You were always there for me, through everything, and I…” His voice cracked. “I failed you.”

Hermione’s throat tightened. She’d rehearsed this moment in her head a hundred times, what she’d say if it ever came. But now that it was here, her anger felt smaller than she remembered. Faded. There was still pain, but underneath it was something else, an old affection that refused to die.

“I don’t hate you,” she said quietly. “I just… stopped trying. I stopped trying to make anyone see me.”

Silence followed, heavy but not cruel. The faint clatter of cups and the quiet murmur of other customers filled the space between them.

Hermione’s fingers twisted together in her lap. She’d already said more than she’d meant to, but Harry’s face; pale, stricken, his eyes full of guilt, made something in her give way.

“I think you deserve to know everything,” she said at last.

Harry looked up quickly. “Hermione, you don’t have to…”

“I do,” she cut in gently. “If we’re ever going to move forward, you need to understand why I left. Why I couldn’t just… come back.”

He swallowed hard but didn’t speak.

“It started long before anyone noticed,” Hermione said quietly. “Back when we were still trying to rebuild after the war. I thought if I loved him enough, if I just stayed, things would get better. But they didn’t.”

Harry went very still.

“He started drinking more,” she continued. “At first it was just sharp words. Arguments that left me feeling small. Then it became shouting, blaming. Every problem we had was my fault. The house, his job, how people looked at us when we went out. And I believed it, Harry. I really did. I stopped seeing people. He didn’t like me spending time with anyone but him. Said people were turning me against him. Even you.”

Harry’s mouth opened, but no sound came out.

“He started seeing other women,” she said, her voice shaking now. “I knew. He didn’t even try to hide it after a while. And when I confronted him, he’d laugh and tell me no one else would ever want me. Said I was too cold, too bookish, too damaged from the war. Said I should be grateful anyone loved me at all.”

Harry’s hand clenched into a fist against the table, knuckles white.

“It got worse after that,” Hermione whispered. “He’d lose his temper. Push me, shove me, often worse. And every time, there’d be flowers, promises, tears. And I’d believe him, because I didn’t know what else to do. Who would believe me, after all? He was the war hero. The funny one. The charming one. And I was the difficult one.Until it stopped. He stopped apologising, offering empty promises, empty platitudes.”

A tear slipped down her cheek, but she didn’t wipe it away. “When I found out I was pregnant, I thought maybe that would change things. That it might soften him. But it didn’t. He got angry. Said it would ruin his life. And one night, after another one of his rants, he…” She trailed off, voice catching.

Harry’s face drained of colour.

“He made me drink a potion,” she said softly. “Threatened me if I didn’t drink it. He never came to St Mungo’s. Said it was for the best. But then told everyone it was my fault.”

Harry looked like the air had been knocked out of him. His eyes filled so quickly it was like the tears had been waiting all this time. He looked at her as though she were bleeding in front of him.

Hermione continued, on a roll. “What do you think happened to Crooshanks?” Harry looked at her in shock, “No…” 

“He always hated him, he would threaten him to make me behave, until one night he went through with the threat…”

“Jesus Christ, Hermione,” he rasped. “I didn’t know. I didn’t…” He broke off, his voice cracking. “How could I not have known?”

“Because I hid it,” she said, barely above a whisper. “Because I was ashamed. Because I didn’t want to make it real by saying it out loud. And because if you’d found out, you’d have gone after him and got yourself hurt. I couldn’t bear to lose you too.”

Harry pressed his hands to his face, his shoulders shaking. “He did all that to you. He…” He stopped, voice trembling with fury. “He killed your baby. He killed Crookshanks?”

Hermione nodded, a single tear slipping free. “Yes.”

Harry’s breathing came harsh and uneven. “I swear to God, Hermione, if I ever see him again…”

“Don’t,” she said softly. “He’s not worth it.”

Harry looked at her, torn apart, shaking his head. “He doesn’t deserve to breathe the same air as you.”

Hermione gave a tired, sad smile whilst Harry stared at her for a long time. He reached across the table and took her hand, squeezing it tightly, and for the first time in years, Hermione didn’t pull away.

They sat like that for a while, two friends who had been broken and rebuilt too many times, the ghosts of the past finally starting to loosen their hold. The tea grew cold between them, the rain pattered against the window, and outside, the world went quietly on.

“You don’t need to punish yourself for not knowing. What matters is that I’m safe now. He doesn’t know where I am, and he never will.”

Harry’s voice cracked. “You’re safe because you ran, aren’t you?”

“I had to,” she said softly. “One night he came home drunk and angry. I don’t even remember what started it, but I knew if I stayed, I wouldn’t make it out next time. So I packed a bag and left. I didn’t even look back.”

Harry nodded, tears spilling down his face. “You shouldn’t have had to go through any of that. Not you.”

Hermione smiled faintly through her tears. “You always say that, as if I’m special. But the truth is, people go through things like this all the time. I just got out.”

Harry reached across the table and took her hand in both of his. His grip trembled. “You didn’t deserve a second of it. And I’m so, so sorry for believing his lies. For letting him twist what I knew about you.”

Hermione squeezed his hand gently. “You can stop apologising, Harry. It’s done. I’ve forgiven you. I just needed you to understand why I can’t go back to that world. Why I had to find somewhere quiet to heal.”

He nodded, breathing unsteadily. “And you’ve found that here? With Quil?”

She smiled softly. “Yes. Him and the others remind me that not everyone wants something from me. That I can still trust people. That I can still laugh.”

Harry wiped his sleeve across his face, his voice small and rough. “He broke something in you, and you still came out of it kind. I don’t know how you do it.”

Hermione looked down at their joined hands. “Because I had to. Because Sirius would’ve told me not to let it ruin me. And because if I didn’t keep going, then he’d have won.”

Quil sat quietly beside her, watching with careful neutrality. He didn’t interrupt, but she could feel the quiet strength of him sitting there, ready to step in if she needed to escape.

Hermione stared down at her tea for a moment. “Why now, Harry?”

He looked up sharply. “Because I can’t keep pretending I’m fine. Because Ginny and I aren’t working, and I think we’ve both known it for years. Because I keep thinking about Sirius, and how much time he lost, how little forgiveness he got. And I thought… if he were here, he’d tell me to fix it before it’s too late.”

Something in her chest cracked open at that. Sirius. The name always felt like a chord being struck, clear and painful.

Harry’s gaze softened. “He loved you, you know. He used to say you were the best of us. Said you reminded him of the people he’d lost.”

Hermione blinked fast, swallowing the lump in her throat. “He was the first person who made me feel like I belonged somewhere.”

“I think he’d say the same,” Harry murmured.

Quil shifted slightly, sensing the weight of the moment but staying quiet. His hand brushed Hermione’s arm lightly under the table, not intruding, just reminding her that she wasn’t alone.

For a while, none of them spoke. The world outside the window carried on as if nothing monumental was happening inside. Seagulls wheeled over the harbour, and the sea shimmered in the pale light.

Eventually Hermione said, very softly, “You’re trying, Harry. That matters.”

He gave a shaky laugh, half relief and half disbelief. “Does that mean… there’s still hope?”

Hermione hesitated, then smiled faintly. “Maybe. Forgiveness isn’t an instant thing. But I’m not shutting the door.”

“That’s more than I deserve,” he said thickly.

“It’s exactly what Sirius would want,” she replied.

Harry’s eyes shone, but there was a small smile there too, uncertain but real. “Thank you.”

Quil cleared his throat lightly. “Well, that’s a bit heavy for breakfast,” he said, breaking the tension just enough. “I vote we get another round of tea before anyone starts crying into the scones.”

Hermione laughed, a soft, genuine sound that felt like the first breath after drowning. Harry gave a quiet chuckle too, swiping at his eyes. “You’re right,” he said. “I think we all need another cup.”

They stayed a while longer, talking about nothing urgent. It wasn’t perfect, but it was normal. It was human.

The rain had started again by the time they left the café, a fine, silvery drizzle that clung to hair and lashes and turned the pavements slick beneath the streetlights. The world outside was washed in soft grey light, the smell of wet stone and salt carried up from the harbour. Hermione pulled her coat tighter around herself as the three of them stepped into the evening air. The sound of waves echoed faintly in the distance, steady and soothing.

For a moment, they stood there without speaking, caught in that awkward pause where goodbyes should go. The street was quiet except for the hiss of rain against the pavement and the hum of the sea. Harry looked different now, hollowed out, but softer somehow. The conversation inside had left its mark on him; his eyes were heavy, but the tension in his shoulders had eased a little. He looked like someone who had finally stopped running from the truth.

“I don’t really know what to say,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “Everything I think of sounds inadequate.”

Hermione gave a small smile. “Then don’t say anything. You were here. You listened. That’s something.”

Harry nodded, though his eyes still shone with unspent emotion. “It’s not, though. I can’t fix what happened, but I can be here now. If you’ll let me.”

She hesitated. Her heart tugged somewhere between the ache of what they’d been and the faint, unfamiliar hope of what they might still be. “Maybe we could meet again,” she said softly. “Not right away, but sometime. Somewhere quiet.”

Harry’s expression brightened just a little, the corner of his mouth lifting. “I’d like that. I’ll let you choose the place. And if you want to bring someone with you next time, I’ll understand.”

Hermione’s lips curved slightly. “I think that’s sensible.”

Behind her, Quil, who had been pretending to study the rain, gave a faint grin. “Don’t worry, mate. I’ll make sure she doesn’t hex you.”

Harry actually laughed, the sound rough but genuine. It seemed to surprise him as much as it did her. “You know,” he said, looking between them, “I’m glad she’s got people looking out for her.”

Quil’s grin softened into something gentler. “So am I.”

Hermione reached out and touched Harry’s arm, her fingers light against his sleeve. “You’re still my friend, Harry. You always will be. But I need time. I need to keep this life mine for a bit longer before I let any of the old one back in.”

Harry swallowed hard, nodding. “I understand. Take all the time you need. I’m not going anywhere.”

For a moment, she saw the boy from the Hogwarts Express, uncertain but full of hope, all awkward elbows and fierce loyalty. It made her chest ache in a way that was strangely gentle.

“Take care of yourself,” she said.

Harry’s eyes glistened. “You too, Hermione.”

They stood there for another moment, the quiet between them full of history. Then Hermione stepped forward and hugged him. He froze for half a second before holding her back, not like he used to, desperate and protective, but carefully, like he finally understood what it meant to let her be strong on her own. When they pulled apart, there were tears in both their eyes, though neither said anything about it.

“Come on,” Quil said quietly, placing a hand on her back. “Let’s get you home before the rain decides to start showing off.”

Hermione gave Harry one last look and nodded. “Goodbye, Harry.”

“Goodbye,” he said softly. “And thank you.”

They parted there on the wet street - Hermione and Quil walking towards the truck while Harry stood and watched them go until they disappeared into the mist.

Their drive back to La Push was quiet. The rain tapped steadily against the windscreen, and the wipers kept their rhythmic sweep as they wound through the forest roads. The headlights cut pale lines through the fog. Hermione leaned her head against the cool glass, watching the blurred outlines of trees slip past. The truth she’d spoken sat heavy in her chest, but it didn’t crush her.

Quil kept his eyes on the road. His usual stream of chatter was gone, replaced by silence that felt more protective than awkward. When he finally spoke, his voice was low. “You alright?”

Hermione smiled faintly. “Tired. But yes. I think I am.”

Quil’s jaw tensed. “If he ever comes near you again—”

“He won’t,” she said gently, cutting him off. “He doesn’t know where I am. And the wards wouldn’t let him get close anyway.”

He exhaled slowly, still frowning. “Good.”

They fell into silence again, the hum of the engine and the rain on the roof the only sounds between them. A few minutes later, Hermione turned her head towards him. “Thank you for coming with me,” she said softly.

Quil glanced at her and gave a small smile. “You don’t need to thank me, Hermione. I’d follow you anywhere if it meant you didn’t have to face that alone.”

Hermione blinked at him, her heart twisting unexpectedly. “You’re a good friend, Quil.”

He smiled, a little rueful. “I try.”

When they reached the edge of the forest, the rain eased into a light drizzle, and the sky had begun to pale faintly with dawn. Quil slowed the truck near Hemlock Sanctuary, the cabin’s soft golden light glowing through the mist.

“You sure you’re alright?” he asked again.

Hermione nodded. “I will be.” She looked out at the cabin, its chimney still curling with smoke. “It’s strange… for the first time in years, I don’t feel haunted. I just feel… still.”

Quil smiled softly. “That’s good. You deserve still.”

She turned to him, touched by his sincerity. “You know,” she said, “you’re a lot wiser than you pretend to be.”

He laughed quietly. “Don’t tell anyone. I’ve worked hard on my reputation.”

Hermione smiled, undoing her seatbelt. “Goodnight, Quil.”

“Night, Hermione.”

She stepped out into the damp air, the smell of pine and sea wrapping around her. As she made her way to the door, she could feel his gaze following her, making sure she was safe. When she reached the porch, she turned and gave him a small wave. He lifted his hand in return before driving off, the truck’s headlights fading into the mist.

Inside, the cabin was warm and quiet. The faint scent of lavender and woodsmoke hung in the air. Hermione kicked off her shoes and set her coat on the hook by the door. For a moment she just stood there, listening to the rain whisper against the windows.

Then, without really meaning to, she pressed a hand to her chest, to the place where Seth’s warmth had lingered that morning on the cliffs.

Chapter Text

Rain beat steadily against the roof of the Burrow, the sound echoing through the empty kitchen. The old house creaked and sighed under the weight of the storm, wind pressing against the windows like a restless spirit. Ron sat alone at the scarred wooden table, a half-empty glass of firewhisky resting in front of him. He stared at it as though it held some kind of answer.

The Weasley clock ticked lazily on the wall, its crooked hands pointing to the small golden nameplates that showed where each family member was. Only two rested at “home.” His and Ginny’s. Everyone else had gone on with their lives. Bill with Fleur and their children, George with the shop, Percy at the Ministry, Charlie in Romania.

And Hermione.

He swallowed hard, cutting the thought off before it could settle.

The door creaked open behind him, and a gust of rain and cold air swept through. Ginny stepped inside, soaked through, her coat plastered to her, her hair clinging damply to her face. Her expression was tight, guarded, the kind of look that meant she was carrying something she didn’t want to say.

“Alright,” Ron muttered, swirling his drink without looking at her. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Close,” she said, shutting the door behind her and brushing the rain from her sleeves. “I need to talk to you.”

Ron raised an eyebrow but didn’t move. “Go on then.”

Ginny hesitated. Her teeth caught on her bottom lip. “Harry got a letter.”

He frowned. “And you came running home to tell me that because?”

Her voice softened, careful but edged with something like dread. “It was from Hermione.”

The glass hit the table with a sharp clink. Ron froze, staring at her. For a heartbeat, he didn’t breathe. “What?”

“She’s alive,” Ginny said quickly. “She’s alright. Said she’s safe, but she didn’t say where.”

Ron’s mouth opened, then closed again. His heartbeat thudded in his ears. “She wrote to him?”

“She trusts him,” Ginny said. “They were close. You know that.”

He gave a bitter laugh, humourless and sharp. “Right. Trusts him. Not the bloke she lived with, not the one who stuck around after everyone else buggered off, no, it’s Harry she trusts. Because I’m the villain now, isn’t that it?”

“Ron, that’s not what I said,” she replied quietly.

“You don’t have to,” he snapped, pushing away from the table. The chair legs scraped across the floor. “I can hear it in your voice.”

He began to pace, firewhisky still burning in his throat. “She’s probably told him a load of rubbish. Made out I was some monster. That I hurt her or something. You know what she’s like, Gin. Always twisting things to make herself look like the hero.”

Ginny’s eyes hardened. “That’s not fair.”

“Fair?” He turned on her, anger flaring. “Do you think any of this has been fair? She left me, beat me up and left me for dead Gin. No explanation, no letter, nothing. Just gone. And now everyone looks at me like I’m some sort of monster.”

She didn’t speak, and her silence only seemed to make him angrier.

“You know what?” he said, his voice rising. “I bet she’s out there telling people I was cruel to her. That I ruined her life. That’s what she does. Always been bloody brilliant with words, hasn’t she?”

“Ron,” she said, her voice trembling now, “you’re scaring me.”

He turned away sharply, pacing faster, his breathing uneven. The rain outside filled the silence that followed.

Finally, Ginny spoke again, quietly. “They’re meeting, you know. Her and Harry. Somewhere near Port Angeles in America. He didn’t tell anyone, but I found the letter discussing where to meet.”

Ron froze. His hands clenched at his sides. “When?”

“I don’t know,” she said, too quickly. “ But it’s At some Muggle café near the harbour. She said it was neutral ground.”

He turned back to her slowly. “And you’re telling me this because?”

“Because I thought maybe you could see her,” Ginny said softly. “Make peace. Apologise.”

Ron laughed under his breath, the sound bitter. “You think she wants that?”

“I think she needs closure,” Ginny said. “And maybe you do too.”

“Closure,” he repeated, his tone mocking. “Right. You know what she needs? To stop lying about me. To stop pretending she’s the one who got hurt.”

Ginny’s face paled. “Ron.”

“I’m not the villain here,” he said, his voice low but shaking. “Everyone’s so quick to believe her, but no one’s ever asked what she did to me. How she’d look at me like I was nothing. How she’d make me feel like I wasn’t enough. She broke me, Gin. She broke me. And then she walked away like I was dirt.”

His eyes were bright now, full of something dark and desperate. “She doesn’t get to do that. Not after everything. Not after what she’s said about me.”

“Ron, please,” Ginny whispered. “I changed my mind. Don’t go after her. Don’t make this worse.”

He grabbed his coat from the back of the chair. “I just want the truth. That’s all.”

“Ron, I mean it,” she said, stepping in front of him. “She’s been through enough.”

He stared down at her, jaw set. “So have I.”

Then he pushed past her and walked out into the rain.

Ginny stood there for a moment, staring at the door as it slammed hard enough to shake the old clock on the wall. The sound echoed through the kitchen, then faded, leaving only the storm outside.

The smell of firewhisky hung in the air. She stayed where she was, her hand still half-raised, the word “stop” caught somewhere in her throat. Her heart was beating too fast.

She could still hear his voice.

She broke me.
She’s made me the villain.
No one knows what she did.

Ginny pressed her hands against the edge of the table and tried to steady her breathing. She knew Ron’s temper. She had grown up with it, lived through his sulks and shouting matches and slammed doors, but tonight had been different. There had been something hollow behind it, something unravelling.

Not just anger. Pain.

And the worst part was, she still felt sorry for him.

Merlin help her, part of her even believed him.

Because Hermione had left without a word. No letter, no message, no sign she was alive until now. It had gutted Harry, confused the whole family, and pushed Ron into something darker. 

“What if he’s right?” she whispered into the empty kitchen. “What if there’s more to it?”

She moved to the window and pulled the curtain aside. Through the rain-streaked glass, she saw Ron at the end of the lane, shoulders hunched, vanishing into the mist. For all his shouting, he looked small. Lost.

Her throat tightened.

When Hermione had gone, Ginny had been furious at first. Furious that she’d left them all behind, that she’d hurt Ron, that she’d left Harry to carry the guilt. But over time, the fury had dulled into confusion, and now it was creeping back, sharper than ever.

Harry had told her almost nothing about Hermione’s letter. He had kept it hidden, like something fragile. She’d caught a glimpse once, parchment creased from being unfolded too many times.

I’m safe. Please don’t look for me.

That line had stayed with her. Safe from what?

She’d thought she was being dramatic. But now, with Ron’s words echoing in her mind, she wasn’t sure.

She poured herself a cup of tea she didn’t want, the cup rattling slightly in her hands. The kettle wheezed as it cooled, filling the silence.

She’d seen Ron angry before, but this had been different. Beneath all the rage, she’d glimpsed fear, the kind that comes from losing control of a story you’ve been telling yourself for too long.

And still, Hermione had gone. Left him to face the whispers, the pity, the judgement.

Ginny sat down at the table, staring into her untouched tea. “You shouldn’t have told him,” she muttered. “You should’ve kept your mouth shut.”

But deep down, she knew why she’d done it. She wanted to believe him. She wanted to believe her brother wasn’t the villain Harry was beginning to believe he was.. She wanted to believe Hermione’s disappearance wasn’t just what it seemed, that there were reasons, even if they were ugly ones.

She still loved Hermione like a sister. But somewhere under that love, resentment had taken root. Hermione had always been the clever one, the strong one, the one who fixed things. Maybe Ginny had always been standing just behind her, in her shadow. Maybe that was why hearing Ron’s pain had stirred something she didn’t want to name.

She pushed the thought away, guilt heavy in her chest.

Outside, the rain softened to a drizzle. Ron was gone, swallowed by the night.

Ginny stayed there until the clock crept past midnight, her tea gone cold. She told herself she’d done the right thing, that maybe if Ron saw Hermione again, they could talk, clear the air, finally end whatever was festering between them.

But as she blew out the candle and went upstairs, one thought followed her up the creaking steps, whispering through her mind like the rain against the roof.

What if I’ve just made it worse?

The rain had followed him across the ocean. It drummed against the glass of the Floo Port terminal, grey light spilling through the high windows while travellers hurried past in damp coats and cloaks. The air smelled faintly of salt and ash, threaded through with the quiet hum of magic that hung about the place.

Ron stepped out from the emerald glow of the fireplace and straightened his collar, brushing soot from his sleeve. His body still felt wrong from the jump across continents. He had always hated international travel by Floo. Too many stops. Too much time to think.

But he was here now.

He took in the bustling hall. This was not the American Ministry, only a smaller transport hub tucked behind a Muggle bookshop on the outskirts of Seattle. He had got the address from an old contact at the Auror Office, a man who still owed him a favour and had known better than to ask why. Good. Ron did not have patience for questions anymore.

He followed the directions scrawled on the back of a receipt, took another connection, and arrived in a small magical settlement a few miles from Port Angeles. Dew Point Crossing, a harmless sounding name, though the street was full of low level witches and traders and those who preferred to live just out of sight of Muggle and Ministry fuss. It was a good place for someone to disappear.

The main road was narrow, lined with weathered brick buildings whose windows glowed even in the daytime drizzle. Enchanted lanterns swung gently in the wind, their light beating a soft rhythm on the puddles below. A small pub sat at the far end, its sign creaking above the door. The Gilded Thistle.

Warmth hit him the moment he stepped inside. The room smelled of wet wood, ale and a whisper of cloves. The crowd was the right sort, locals mostly, a few merchants with travel worn faces. The kind who saw plenty and asked very little.

He went straight to the bar. The woman behind it was older, dark curls streaked with grey, eyes clever and quick as they took him in.

“What will it be?” she asked, polishing a glass.

“Butterbeer,” Ron said, sliding onto a stool. His accent lifted one of her brows, though she held her tongue.

When she set the tankard down he gave her a small easy smile. “I am looking for someone. British girl, about my age, brown hair, clever as they come. She might have passed through here.”

“You a friend of hers?” the woman asked, weighing him up without being rude.

“Yeah,” Ron lied, smooth as ever. “Old friend. We lost touch and I heard she might have been travelling this way.”

The woman hummed and glanced towards the door as if replaying faces. “We do not get many from your side of the pond. Now you mention it, there was a lass, polite, quiet, calm in an odd sort of way. Like nothing surprised her.”

Ron’s chest tightened. “Did she say where she was going?”

“She met a man here,” the woman said. “They only had tea and talked for a long while. He had that look, haunted round the eyes. I have seen it in veterans. The two of them looked like they were sharing ghosts.”

Ron’s fingers tightened round the glass. “And after that?”

“They left together,” she said. “They walked back towards the coast. She mentioned Forks.. Sounds local. Pretty though.”

He kept his face pleasant, but something cold and bright lit behind his eyes. “Did she say if she was staying there?”

“She did not,” the woman replied. “But the way she spoke, it sounded like she had found a place that felt like home.”

He smiled as if that were merely nice to hear, dropped a few coins on the bar, and finished his drink in one swallow. The woman watched him with quiet curiosity. She had seen the shift in him, the flash of something hard that did not match the charm, but it was none of her business.

Outside, the rain had settled into a fine mist. The world looked sharper and colder for it. Ron shoved his hands into his pockets and walked down the street past glowing windows and swaying lanterns, the name ringing in his head like a curse.

La Push.

He had found her trail. She could run across an ocean and bury herself in whatever life she thought she deserved, but she could not hide forever. Not from him.

A grim smile tugged at his mouth as he reached the edge of town. Forest rolled away to the horizon and the sea shone like dull silver in the distance. Somewhere out there she was playing house, pretending she had escaped the damage she had done.

“Well,” he muttered, voice low and rough, “let us see how long that lasts.”

He turned on the spot and Disapparated, the crack swallowed by the mist.

Forks was smaller than he had expected. The sky hung low and constant, a heavy lid of cloud that made noon look like evening. The air smelled of wet earth and pine, the sort of damp that seeped into bones and sat there. It felt like a town that had learned to speak softly.

Ron walked the main street with his collar up and his eyes busy. Strangers did not stand out much here, but his accent earned a few curious glances and a longer look from a man hosing down a pavement. He started with the café at the corner, the kind of place that served everything with too much sugar and called it comfort. He leaned on the counter and tried a smile that had opened more than one door in his life.

“Morning,” he said to the woman pouring coffee. “Any chance you have seen a British girl round here? Brown hair, bright, keeps herself to herself.”

“Can’t say I have, love,” she said, not unkindly. “Not many foreign visitors.”

He laughed as if it were a joke on him, thanked her, and moved on. The next shop gave him nothing either. Nor the one after that. Polite talk, blank faces, no luck. Irritation crawled up his spine and sat there.

He went back onto the pavement and lit a cigarette, ignoring the looks. Traffic hissed past, tyres cutting the wet road into gleaming stripes. He was starting to wonder if he had misread the clue when movement across the street caught his eye.

Three women stepped out of a bookshop. Two of them were striking in a way that made the street seem drabber at once. One blonde, tall, immaculate in how she carried herself. One small and slight with a pixie cut, her movements neat and certain. Between them walked a girl with mousy hair and a pinched expression, the sort who watched everything and hoped to be noticed.

Ron’s smile grew slow and confident. Beautiful women often made information come easily.

He crossed the street and pitched his tone somewhere between friendly and helpless. “Excuse me. You look like locals. I am trying to find someone.”

The mousy girl looked at him first, her frown immediate. The blonde did not bother to smile, though she regarded him without blinking. The pixie like one inclined her head, polite and cool.

“That depends on who you are looking for,” she said in a light voice that hid nothing of her caution.

“British girl,” Ron said. “My age more or less, brown hair, sharp as a tack. She would stand out.”

The pixie’s head tilted. “You’re not from here either,” she said, almost amused.

He chuckled. “No. Came all this way to find her. An old friend.”

The blonde folded her arms, gaze steady. “And she does not want to be found.”

He met her eyes, unruffled. “She needs reminding who is on her side.”

The blonde’s stare cooled another degree. The pixie’s mouth drew thin. The mousy girl, though, leaned forward as if she had been waiting for a chance to speak.

“British, brown hair,” the mousy one said. “Do you mean Hermione?”

The name hung in the air like a drawn breath.

The blonde turned to her sharply. “Bella.”

Bella ignored her and stepped closer to Ron, voice lowering as if she were sharing something generous. “She has been near the coast,” she said. “Out by the reservation. She spends time with friends there. She is close with them.”

Ron blinked once. “Friends.”

“Locals,” Bella said quickly. “A big group, very close knit.” She gave a thin little smile that did not reach her eyes. “She has been with them a lot. They have that effect on people.”

The blonde’s jaw tightened. “That is enough,” she said in a tone that would have frozen a river.

Bella shot her a look. “He asked.”

The pixie kept her gaze on Ron, dark eyes impossible to read. “You should leave her be,” she said, soft but plain. “If she wanted you to find her, she would have made it easy.”

Ron offered her a pleasant smile that did not touch his eyes. “I appreciate the concern. Some things do not end until they are set right.”

Something flickered across the blonde’s face, a brief spark of disgust or memory. She stepped half a pace forward so he had to tip his chin to meet her stare. “I don’t know who you are,” she said coldly, “but whatever you think you are going to do, do not.”

Her voice was quiet and it carried. For the first time his grin slipped. Only for a heartbeat.

He gave a small laugh, light as ash. “I will keep that in mind.”

He turned to Bella and softened his tone again. “Thank you. You have been very kind.”

Bella seemed almost pleased. “Good luck,” she said. “You will find her.”

“Oh, I plan to,” Ron replied, and walked away into the rain.

Behind him the three women stood in a silence that had weight. The blonde watched until he vanished round the corner, her jaw set and her hands very still.

“That man,” she said at last, voice low, “there is something wrong with him.”

The pixie nodded, her gaze distant as if she were listening to a sound only she could hear. “He is dangerous,” she murmured. “Not like us. Not like them. But dangerous all the same.”

Bella folded her arms and stared after Ron, defensive without cause. “He only wants to talk to her.”

The blonde turned her head and pinned Bella with a look. “You don’t believe that.”

Bella did not answer. Her mouth pressed into a hard line and she looked away.

The rain began to fall harder, tapping its steady rhythm along the gutters and pooling in the ruts of the road. Miles away, the wards around Hemlock Sanctuary stirred, a faint ripple through old magic, as if the house itself had pricked up its ears and scented a storm on the way.

Chapter Text

Rosalie could not stop thinking about him.

The memory of the red haired man sat in her mind like a splinter she could not tease out. His eyes had not matched his smile. The charm had been thin, brittle, a skin stretched over something harder. Under it she had felt possession, the need to control. She had seen that look before, on a different face in a different century. Her husband’s face.

By the time evening fell she had already made up her mind. She didn't tell Emmett where she was going. She didn't tell Alice either. She simply left, following the long road through the forest until the trees began to thin and the air grew thick with earth and salt. The border.

Fog pressed low between the trunks and the distant sea spoke in a steady crash against the cliffs. Rosalie stopped at the edge of the treaty line and waited.

It didn't take long.

A shadow moved through the trees, low and fast. Then another. The first shape broke from the undergrowth, massive and dark furred, eyes burning gold in the half light. It stopped a few feet from her with its shoulders bunched and its lips peeled back from elegant knives.

Rosalie lifted her chin and held her ground. “I need to speak with one of you,” she said, steady despite the growl that shook the air. “It is about Hermione.”

The wolf’s warning deepened, a rumble like thunder rolling just under the skin of the world. The fur along its spine stood up.

She refused to flinch. For a sick heartbeat that gaze pulled her somewhere else entirely, into a dim corridor and a hand clamping round her wrist, that same gleam of cruelty pretending to be power. Her chest tightened. Not again. Never again.

She fixed her voice and spoke through her teeth. “Listen to me. I am not here to fight. I am here to warn you.”

The wolf paced closer, muscles tight as wire. A second shape burst through the brush, lighter in colour but no less fierce. They stood shoulder to shoulder, suspicion bright in both sets of eyes.

“Oh for heaven’s sake,” Rosalie snapped, the taut string of her nerves twanging into irritation. “One of you shift. I am not standing here making small talk with a pair of dogs.”

The lighter one snarled. The darker one huffed a sharp warning and then bounded back into the trees. Branches snapped. Leaves shook. Moments later a tall man stepped out of the shadows. His skin was dark, his expression unreadable, and there was a stillness to him that spoke of command. Rosalie recognised the weight of it at once. The alpha.

He stopped just beyond the line, folded his arms, and met her gaze without blinking. “You have thirty seconds,” he said. “Make them count.”

Rosalie did not look away. “There is a man in Forks asking after Hermione. Red hair. British. He said they were friends.”

The man’s brow drew in. “And.”

“And he is not looking for a reunion,” she said, cold and clear. “I know men like him. I knew one once. They smile while they twist the knife. They think love is ownership.” Her voice shook once and then steadied. “Bella told him she had been seen near your people. He walked away with that knowledge like a gift.”

The alpha went very still. Behind him the remaining wolf gave a low growl that raked the air.

Rosalie raised a hand to keep the moment clean. “I don't want trouble. I don't even know her. But I saw what sat in his eyes. He means her harm. Be ready.”

Something moved in the man’s face. Not softness, never that, but calculation, concern, a swift tallying of risk. “Why tell us,” he asked. “You owe her nothing.”

Rosalie’s throat tightened as if a hand had pressed there. For a moment speech would not come. When it did she kept it quiet. “Once, someone saw the same look in a man’s eyes when he looked at me,” she said. “They did nothing. I will not make that mistake again.”

The forest listened. The only sounds were the distant sea and the slow restless breath of the wolf.

After a long pause the alpha gave one crisp nod. “If what you say is true, we'll find him before he finds her.”

“It is true,” Rosalie said. “And he's close.”

He studied her for another breath, then whistled once, sharp and sure. The wolf spun and vanished into the trees, heavy paws taking the ground in long strides. The alpha glanced back at Rosalie.

“If he crosses onto our land, it will not end well for him,” he said.

“Good,” she replied, jaw set.

He nodded once more and turned, fading into the dark where the undergrowth swallowed the line of his shoulders.

Rosalie stood a moment longer as the wind tugged at her hair and the first fine drops of rain began to fall. For the first time in decades she felt the thin echo of fear, not for herself, but for someone she barely knew. She let it pass through her and leave her stronger.

She turned back towards the forest, her thoughts heavy and certain. If that man came for Hermione, he wouldn't get far. 

Morning filtered through the trees, turning the mist gold where it hung between the branches. Hermione woke to the sound of birds outside and the soft creak of the roof as it warmed in the light.

She stretched beneath the blankets, rolling out of bed. Padding barefoot across the wooden floor, she filled the kettle and set it to boil. It was a quiet morning, soft and ordinary, the kind of peace she had once thought she would never have again.

After breakfast, she spent the morning tidying the little cabin, humming under her breath as she worked. The radio crackled in the corner, playing something gentle and old. Her washing-up charmed itself dry on the counter while she sat at the table with a small stack of books Mae had set aside for her. Every so often she glanced at her phone, smiling faintly at the last message Seth had sent before bed.

He had asked if she wanted to go for another walk that evening. She had said yes.
The thought of it warmed her, even though she tried to pretend it didn’t.

By midday, she had made a pot of soup and carried it out onto the porch. The air was cool and still, the forest hushed except for the far off sound of waves. She had grown to love that sound, the steady rhythm of it, the way it never stopped moving. It reminded her of resilience, of life carrying on no matter what had come before.

When she finished eating, she brought out her broom and started sweeping the steps. It was a little ridiculous really, a witch using her hands for housework, but she liked it. The repetition, the quiet, the focus. It grounded her in a way magic never could.

By the afternoon, she decided to walk into town. Mae had promised to set aside a few more books for her, and Hermione enjoyed the excuse to stretch her legs. The path wound through the forest, sunlight flickering through the leaves. She found herself smiling at the small things: the way the moss glowed bright green after the rain, the scatter of white flowers at the path’s edge, the lazy hum of bees drifting in the air.

When she reached the bookshop, Mae looked up from behind the counter with her usual grin. “Afternoon, love. I’ve been keeping these aside for you.”

She held up a neat stack, a few rare magical theory texts disguised as Muggle classics, smuggled in by travellers who had passed through years ago. Hermione’s heart swelled at the sight. “You’re a treasure, Mae.”

“I know,” Mae said cheerfully. “How’s life up at that cabin of yours? Still keeping you busy?”

“It’s peaceful,” Hermione said, smiling. “I like it there.”

Mae gave her a knowing look. “And you’ve been keeping good company, I hear.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “Meaning?”

“Oh, don’t look at me like that. Emily was in yesterday. Said you and Seth have been going on walks.”

Hermione laughed softly, though warmth rose in her cheeks. “We have, yes. It’s just nice to get out of the house.”

Mae chuckled. “That’s what they all say.”

Hermione rolled her eyes good-naturedly and paid for her books. By the time she stepped back out, a fine drizzle had begun to fall, soft as breath. She pulled her scarf tighter and began the walk home, the forest stretching wide and green ahead of her.

When she reached Hemlock, Seth was already there, leaning against one of the tall pines at the edge of the clearing. He looked up as she appeared, a familiar easy smile spreading across his face.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey yourself,” she replied, setting her bag inside before joining him. “You’re early.”

“I got bored,” he admitted. “Figured if I came early, you couldn’t say no to the walk.”

Hermione laughed. “You’re terrible.”

He grinned. “Admit it, I’m efficient.”

“Fine. Efficient,” she said, shaking her head. “You win.”

They set off together, following the narrow trail that wound through the trees and down towards the cliffs. The air smelled of rain and salt, and the sky had turned that familiar grey-blue that always hung over La Push before evening.

Their talk started light, Mae’s teasing, Quil’s failed attempt to cook for everyone the night before, Emily’s latest project painting the kitchen, but as the walk went on, the laughter softened into something quieter.

Seth asked about her day, about her reading, and she told him about the shop, about Mae and the books. He listened easily, smiling now and then. “I like that you’ve got people here,” he said after a moment. “Feels like you’re settled in.”

“I think I am,” she said softly. “It’s strange, but it feels like home.”

He smiled at her, eyes warm. “Good. You deserve that.”

They reached the cliffs just as the sun began to sink. The sea was calm, small waves rolling under a pale wash of colour. They stood side by side for a long time, saying nothing, the silence between them comfortable and full.

Hermione tilted her head back, breathing in the salt air. She didn’t notice the faint shimmer of light at the edge of Hemlock’s wards, a brief flicker of magic testing itself. She didn’t see the shadow moving beyond the trees, too distant to hear but close enough to matter.

All she felt was the peace of the moment, the warmth of Seth beside her, and the fragile, steady hope that maybe life was starting to make sense again.

When she looked out across the endless stretch of sea, she smiled, completely unaware that somewhere beyond the horizon, the past was already on its way.

The following morning, Hermione had settled on the sofa, absorbing the text of her latest book, Seth had left the night before for his patrols.

Then came the knock.

It wasn’t loud, but it was hurried. Urgent.

Hermione sat up, her heart giving a small, uncertain flutter. She glanced at the clock. It was too early for visitors. Pulling her dressing gown around her shoulders, she crossed the small living space and opened the door.

Quil stood there.

He was out of breath, hair damp with morning mist, and his expression was far too serious for someone who usually greeted the world with a grin. The sight of him like that made Hermione’s stomach twist.

“Quil?” she asked quietly. “What’s wrong?”

He swallowed, glancing over his shoulder before stepping closer. “You need to know something,” he said, his voice low. “One of the Cullens came to see Sam last night. The blonde one. She said a man’s in Forks looking for you.”

The air seemed to drain out of the room.

Hermione’s fingers tightened on the edge of the doorframe. “What?”

Quil nodded grimly. “She said he’s British. Red hair. Asking about a girl called Hermione.”

For a moment, Hermione couldn’t move. The words didn’t quite reach her, as if her mind refused to let them in. But then they did, and her blood ran cold.

“Ron,” she whispered.

Quil’s eyes softened with concern. “Sam’s already called a meeting. The pack’s on alert. They won’t let him near you, I swear.”

Hermione backed away a step, her pulse hammering in her throat. The edges of her vision blurred and the cabin spun slightly around her. She caught the table to steady herself. “He can’t be here. He doesn’t know where I live. He can’t…”

“He’s in the area,” Quil said gently. “Rosalie said he spoke to Bella. That’s how he found out.”

Hermione shut her eyes, the weight of those words hitting like a blow. Bella. Of course.

When she opened them again, something had changed. The fear was still there, simmering in her chest, but it was no longer paralysing. It had hardened into something sharper, steadier, threaded with anger.

She took a slow breath, straightened her shoulders, and met Quil’s gaze. “I won’t hide.”

Quil frowned. “Hermione…”

“No.” Her voice was steady now, firm in a way that left no room for argument. “He’s taken enough from me already. I won’t give him the satisfaction of thinking he still can.”

Quil hesitated, then nodded slowly. “Alright. But you’re not facing him alone.”

“I know,” she said softly, though her heart still raced. “Thank you.”

He stepped further into the cabin, running a hand through his hair. “Sam’s putting the word out. No one gets close to you without us knowing. We’ll keep watch, but just in case, stay here today. Keep the wards up.”

Hermione nodded, moving to the fireplace. The wards around Hemlock pulsed faintly in response to her magic, shimmering through the air before settling again. “They’ll hold,” she murmured. “He won’t be able to cross them if his intent is harm.”

Quil watched her with quiet admiration. “You really are something else, you know that?”

She gave a faint, humourless smile. “I’ve had enough practice surviving.”

For a while, neither of them spoke. The fire crackled softly, the only sound in the cabin besides the faint rustle of leaves outside. Hermione stared into the flames, her mind racing despite the calm in her voice. Ron was here. In La Push. After all this time, after everything, he’d somehow found her again.

Quil broke the silence gently. “We’ll find him before he finds you. Sam’s good at that.”

Hermione nodded, her jaw tight. “I don’t doubt it.” She looked up at him then, her eyes fierce despite the fear. “But if he does find me… I’ll handle it.”

Quil met her gaze for a long moment before nodding once, as if realising there was no point trying to talk her out of it. “Alright,” he said quietly. “But I’m staying close.”

Hermione managed a small smile. “I’d expect nothing less.”

He gave her shoulder a light squeeze, the warmth of his touch grounding her, before heading for the door. “I’ll check in later. Just stay alert, okay?”

“I will.”

When the door shut behind him, the cabin fell silent again. Hermione stood there for a long time, listening to the wind outside, the faint creak of the trees, the thrum of her own heartbeat.

Her hands were trembling slightly. She clenched them into fists.

The fear was there. It always would be. But beneath it burned something stronger. Determination.

She turned towards the window, watching the sunlight flicker through the pines. Somewhere out there, he was moving closer. She had run from him once. She wouldn’t do it again.

Chapter Text

The moment Quil left, the quiet returned. It was heavy and pressing. The fire crackled, throwing gold light across the walls, but it wasn’t enough to stop the chill creeping through her veins. Hermione stood there for a long time, listening to the sound of her own heartbeat, the rush of blood in her ears.

Ron was in Forks. The thought looped in her mind again and again until she wanted to scream.

She had faced him before. She had survived him. But the idea of him finding this place, of him coming near people who didn’t know what he was capable of, turned her blood to ice. The wolves were strong, yes, but they weren’t prepared for magic. They didn’t even know it existed.

She sank onto the sofa, hands trembling slightly as she ran her fingers through her hair. It wasn’t just fear for herself now. It was fear for them. For Seth. For Quil. For Emily, who had shown her nothing but kindness.

She knew he was one wizard, Likely alone. But he was strong. Powerful. His Auror training had honed his reflexes and power, and that was with him regularly drinking.

If Ron attacked, they would fight him like any other human. And they would lose.

The thought made her stomach twist. She couldn’t let that happen.

Her eyes flicked to the fire, where the flames danced lazily, orange fading to blue at the edges. The decision settled in her chest like a stone. It terrified her, but it was right.

She reached for her phone.

“Hey,” Seth’s voice came through on the second ring. He sounded breathless, like he had been pacing. “You alright?”

Hermione hesitated. “I will be,” she said softly. “Listen, I need to ask you something.”

“Anything.”

“Could you get the pack together? Here. At my cabin. Tonight if possible.”

There was a pause. “All of us?”

“Yes.” She kept her tone calm, though her heart was racing. “There’s something I need to tell you all. Something important about Ron.”

He was quiet for a moment, then said, “Alright. I’ll speak to Sam. We’ll come as soon as everyone’s free.”

“Thank you,” she said, meaning it. “And Seth… tell them they’ll be safe here. They can come through the woods, the wards won’t stop them.”

“The what?”

“Never mind,” she said quickly. “Just trust me.”

Another pause. “Always do,” he said, and hung up.

Hermione let out a shaky breath and dropped the phone onto the table. Her pulse thudded hard against her ribs. It was done. There was no taking it back now.

The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur of quiet preparation. She tidied the cabin, though it hardly needed it, and lit a few candles to soften the shadows. She wasn’t sure why, maybe because she didn’t want the place to look like a battlefield when she told them the truth.

By the time the sun had sunk low, a faint hum of nerves had settled deep in her stomach. She poured herself a cup of tea and tried to steady her hands, focusing on the familiar rhythm of her breathing.

The first knock came just after dusk.

Quil’s voice called softly through the door, “It’s us.”

She opened it to find him and Emily standing there. Relief hit her instantly. Emily smiled, gentle and grounding, while Quil gave her a look of quiet understanding.

“We heard,” Emily said softly, stepping forward to give her a brief hug. “You’re doing the right thing.”

“I don’t know about that,” Hermione murmured. “But it’s the only thing I can do.”

Quil looked around the cabin as they stepped inside. “You sure about this, Hermione? They’re going to have questions. Sam especially.”

“I know,” Hermione said, forcing a small smile. “But they deserve the truth. Ron’s not someone they can fight without understanding what he is.”

Emily reached out, touching her arm. “We’ll be here with you. You don’t have to do it alone.”

“Thank you,” Hermione whispered.

A few minutes later, the faint sound of footsteps came through the trees. Heavy, purposeful, growing closer. The atmosphere shifted as the front door opened again and Seth stepped in, followed by Sam, Leah, Embry and Jared. Their presence filled the room instantly, all heat and quiet power.

Hermione’s pulse jumped.

Seth gave her a reassuring look before glancing around the room. “Everyone’s here,” he said simply. “You said there’s something we need to know.”

Hermione nodded, clasping her hands together to keep them from trembling. “Yes. Thank you all for coming.”

The room fell silent, expectant. She could feel the weight of their attention pressing on her. For a heartbeat, she almost lost her nerve. Then she looked at Emily, who nodded once, steady and sure, and it was enough.

“I know you’ve all heard that someone’s come to Forks looking for me,” she began. “His name is Ron Weasley. We used to be… involved.” She swallowed hard, forcing the word out. “He’s dangerous. Not in the way you might think, though. He’s not just violent. He’s powerful.”

Leah frowned, arms folded. “What do you mean by powerful?”

Hermione’s chest tightened. “Because he’s like me,” she said quietly. “He’s a wizard.”

The silence that followed was absolute.

Seth blinked. “A what?”

Hermione took a slow breath. “Magic is real,” she said. “Not tricks, not illusions, real. Different from your magic. I was born with it. I can cast spells, move things, protect myself. Ron can too, but he uses his magic to hurt. And if he finds me, he’ll use it again.”

Embry’s mouth opened slightly, his brow furrowed in confusion. Jared exchanged a look with Leah, but none of them spoke. Sam stood very still, his expression unreadable.

Seth’s voice broke the silence, low and careful. “You’re serious?”

Hermione met his eyes. “Completely.”

No one moved for a moment. Then Quil, grinning faintly, said, “Told you she wasn’t ordinary.”

Emily shot him a look, but Hermione couldn’t help the small, nervous laugh that escaped her.

Sam finally spoke. “So this man, Weasley, he can do what you just did?”

Hermione’s smile vanished. “Yes. And he’s capable of doing worse. Much worse.”

The room grew quiet again, the weight of her words settling like a storm cloud.

Seth took a step forward, his eyes dark. “Then he won’t get near you. Not here.”

Hermione’s throat tightened. “That’s why I had to tell you. I couldn’t let you face him without knowing what he’s capable of. He’s dangerous, but he’s also predictable. I’ll show you how to recognise his magic, what to look out for, what not to do.”

Sam gave a single nod. “Good. We’ll listen.”

For the first time in years, Hermione didn’t feel like she was hiding. She stood in front of them, a witch among wolves, and saw only trust reflected back.

For a long, heavy moment, nobody spoke. The only sound was the soft crackle of the fire and the distant rush of rain against the roof. Hermione could feel her pulse in her throat, every heartbeat loud in the silence.

Leah was the first to break it. “You’re saying you can actually do magic?” Her tone wasn’t mocking, but it was sharp with disbelief. “Like spells and wands and all that?”

Hermione met her gaze. “Yes. Exactly that.”

Embry frowned slightly. “You said that bloke could use it to hurt people?”

“Yes.” Her voice was calm and steady, even though her hands had started to tremble. “He’s used it before. On me. On others. That’s why I needed you to know.”

Jared leaned forward a little, resting his elbows on his knees. “Can you show us? Not to be rude, but… this is a lot to take in.”

Hermione hesitated. It wasn’t suspicion in his voice, more confusion, maybe even concern, but the question still made her chest tighten. She had spent so long keeping her magic hidden from this world. Using it here, in front of them, felt almost like tearing off a mask she had worn for too long.

Quil spoke quietly from where he leaned against the wall. “It’s alright, Hermione. You can show them. They need to see.”

Emily nodded beside him, her expression gentle. “They won’t understand until they do.”

Hermione swallowed hard and rose to her feet. “Alright,” she said softly. “But promise me something first. Don’t panic. It’s not dangerous. I’d never do anything that could harm you.”

Sam gave a single, firm nod. “You have my word.”

Hermione reached into her pocket and drew out her wand. The movement was fluid and natural, something that had always felt like an extension of herself. She held it loosely in her hand, feeling the familiar warmth pulse through the wood.

“This,” she said quietly, “is my wand. It channels my magic. Without it, I can still do some things, but not with as much control. Everything we learn, everything we use, is about focus and intention.”

Seth was watching her carefully, his eyes flicking between her and the wand. “So… what can you actually do?”

Hermione gave a faint, almost nervous smile. “You’re about to find out.”

She took a small step back, breathing in slowly to calm her nerves. The fire behind her flared slightly as she focused.

“Lumos,” she murmured.

The tip of her wand flared to life with a bright white light, filling the cabin with a warm glow that washed over their faces. The wolves blinked, eyes widening slightly. Seth leaned forward unconsciously, his mouth parting in quiet amazement.

Hermione flicked her wrist lightly, and the light drifted from the wand, floating into the air. It hung there for a moment, suspended like a tiny glowing orb, before splitting into two, then four, drifting lazily above their heads.

Emily smiled faintly, her eyes bright. Quil grinned outright, muttering, “Still never gets old.”

The rest of the room was silent. Leah’s disbelief had softened into awe, and even Sam, who rarely showed anything, looked quietly struck.

Hermione moved her wand again, whispering another spell under her breath. The little motes of light began to shift and twist, forming shapes - outlines of birds that fluttered gently across the room, their wings scattering flecks of silver light.

Seth’s voice came softly, like he didn’t want to break the spell. “That’s… beautiful.”

Hermione let the lights fade slowly until the cabin returned to its normal warmth. She lowered her wand, feeling her heart thud heavily in her chest. “That was the first spell I ever created,” she said quietly. “It’s simple, harmless. But it’s proof.”

For a long moment, nobody moved. Then Sam nodded once, slow and deliberate. “Alright,” he said. “I believe you.”

Hermione exhaled, relief washing through her.

Leah spoke next, still looking faintly dazed. “So that’s real magic. And you said he can use it too?”

Hermione nodded. “Yes. But not like that. Ron uses magic the way some people use anger, as a weapon. He won’t hesitate to attack if he feels cornered, and if he comes here, he’ll use spells meant to disable or control.”

Seth frowned, his voice steady but cold. “Then he’ll have to get through us first.”

Hermione gave him a small, grateful smile. “He’ll try. But I don’t want anyone hurt because of me.”

Embry looked thoughtful. “Can you teach us to defend against it?”

“Not completely,” she said. “Magic doesn’t work the same way for everyone. But I can teach you enough to recognise when it’s happening, and how to move out of range. That could save your lives.”

Sam crossed his arms, his tone thoughtful. “Then that’s what we’ll do. We’ll learn.”

The tension in the room began to ease, replaced by something quieter. Respect.

Hermione let out a long, slow breath and sank back into her chair, the adrenaline finally ebbing. “Thank you,” she said softly. “For trusting me.”

Seth smiled faintly, his eyes warm. “You trusted us first.”

The words made her chest tighten, and for the first time in days, she felt safe again, not because of her wards or her magic, but because she wasn’t facing the danger alone.

The silence that followed was different now. It wasn’t heavy or uncertain, but full of quiet resolve. The pack had seen the truth with their own eyes, and the weight of it hung between them like a silent promise.

Sam broke the silence first. He rose from his seat, his broad shoulders casting a long shadow across the flickering firelight. “Alright,” he said, his voice steady and firm. “If this man’s as dangerous as you say, then we’ll take no chances. You’ll have round-the-clock protection until he’s found and dealt with.”

Hermione blinked, caught off guard. “That’s not necessary, Sam. I don’t want to disrupt your lives.”

He lifted a hand, cutting her off before she could say more. “It’s not up for debate. You’re one of us now. That means you’re protected. Simple as that.”

Her chest tightened, and for a moment she didn’t trust herself to speak. She’d fought so hard to keep her independence, to stand on her own. But there was something in Sam’s tone, something absolute and certain, that made her realise how much she’d missed being cared for. Not controlled. Cared for.

Quil leaned forward, flashing her a grin. “Well, if it’s protection duty we’re talking about, I volunteer. I’m the obvious choice. Fun, charming, excellent company. No one can out-talk me into submission.”

Emily groaned, rolling her eyes. “That last bit’s true, at least.”

Hermione laughed softly, the sound tired but real. Then, before she could overthink it, she turned her gaze towards Seth. He was sitting quietly beside the hearth, his arms resting on his knees, watching her with that calm, steady focus that always seemed to undo her a little.

She smiled, a touch sheepish, a touch brave. “Actually,” she said, glancing back at Sam, “if it’s all the same to you, could I have Seth?”

Every head turned towards her at once. Quil’s mouth fell open slightly, his expression one of mock offence. “What? No! I was pitching myself so well.”

Leah snorted. “You never stood a chance, Quil.”

Hermione tried to keep a straight face, but the corners of her mouth betrayed her. She looked at Seth again, trying to sound casual. “We’ve already spent some time together. I feel comfortable with him. It makes sense.”

Seth hadn’t moved, but she saw the small flicker of surprise in his face, followed by something softer, warmer. His eyes met hers, and for a moment it felt like the rest of the room fell away. There was pride in his expression, yes, but something else too. Something quieter that made her heart skip a beat.

Sam followed her gaze, then gave a slow nod. “Alright. Seth it is. You’ll handle the day watch. We’ll rotate the others for night shifts.”

Seth straightened a little, the faintest smile tugging at his mouth. “I can do that,” he said quietly.

Quil sighed dramatically, slumping back in his chair. “I’m wounded. Rejected in front of everyone.”

“Don’t worry, Quil,” Leah said dryly. “She picked the one who actually listens.”

That earned a round of laughter, and the tension that had lingered in the room finally began to ease. Hermione laughed too, shaking her head, though her cheeks were still warm.

“Thank you,” she said softly once the noise settled. “All of you. I know this isn’t your fight, but it means more than I can say.”

Sam gave her a steady look. “It’s our fight now. Get some rest tonight. Seth, you’ll start tomorrow morning.”

“Got it,” Seth said.

When the others began filing out, Quil lingered long enough to nudge Hermione’s shoulder playfully. “You owe me a drink for this betrayal.”

“I’ll add it to the list,” she teased, smiling as he and Emily slipped out into the night.

When the door closed behind them, the cabin fell quiet again. Only Seth remained, still sitting by the fire, the glow painting his face in warm amber tones.

Hermione turned to him, her voice gentle. “You don’t have to stay tonight. Sam said tomorrow.”

He stood slowly, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I know,” he said, a faint grin crossing his face. “But I think I’ll keep watch anyway. Just in case.”

Her smile faltered, replaced by something softer, deeper. “Thank you.”

Chapter Text

Back at Grimmauld Place, the house was quieter than usual. Rain streaked the windows, tracing thin, silver lines down the glass. Harry paced the sitting room with restless energy, his footsteps uneven and sharp against the floorboards. The table was littered with papers and half-empty mugs of tea, and Hedwig’s empty perch stood near the window like an accusation.

“Luna,” he called through the floo, his voice tight, “I can’t find it.”

Luna looked up from her armchair in the corner, where she’d been reading in silence. Her expression was calm as ever, but her eyes lifted to meet his with a flicker of quiet awareness. “Can’t find what?”

“The letter,” Harry said, running a hand through his already-messy hair. “Hermione’s letter. It’s gone.”

Luna tilted her head slightly. Her pale eyes remained serene, though something sharper moved beneath the surface. “Gone where?”

“I don’t know!” He gestured helplessly. “It was right here a few days ago. I put it there after reading it. Now it’s just… gone. I’ve checked everywhere.”

“Have you asked Ginny?” Luna’s voice was soft, but there was purpose in it.

Harry froze. “Ginny?”

She closed her book gently and set it on the arm of her chair. “Yes, the only other person you live with?”

Harry frowned, unease tightening in his chest. “She has been acting strange lately. Always out, never saying where she’s going. I thought maybe she was just...” He stopped himself, shaking his head. “No one’s seen Ron either. Not at The Burrow, not at work. Nothing.”

Luna’s eyes sharpened, the usual dreaminess fading away, replaced by something focused and clear. “How long?”

“A few days,” Harry said quietly. “Something’s not right, Luna. I can feel it.”

For a moment, she didn’t reply. Then she rose from her chair and crossed the room, her bare feet silent on the worn floorboards. The air seemed to shift with her movement, the calm that always followed her presence wrapping itself around the tension in the room.

“Do you think he’s found her?” she asked softly.

Harry looked at her sharply. “No. He couldn’t have. I never told anyone where she was. I wouldn’t risk it.”

Luna’s gaze didn’t waver. “But you wrote it, didn’t you?”

The silence that followed was heavy enough to make the clock on the mantel sound too loud.

Harry swore under his breath. “Merlin, Luna, I didn’t even think… Ginny could’ve seen it. If she’s told him—”

Luna nodded once, already reaching for her wand. “Then there’s no time to waste.”

“Wait, what are you...”

But she was already stepping into the fireplace. “Going to tell her,” she said simply, ending the call before tossing a pinch of Floo powder back the flames. The emerald light flared to life, painting her face in shifting green.

The flames in Hermione’s hearth burst into life without warning, throwing green light across the cabin walls. Before she could reach for her wand, Luna stepped out of the fire, brushing ash from her sleeves. Her hair caught the light, gleaming like pale silk, and her wand was already in her hand.

Hermione shot to her feet, startled. “Luna! What on earth...”

“He’s coming,” Luna said simply. Her tone was calm, but her eyes told another story.

Seth, who had been sitting at the kitchen table with a mug in his hands, pushed his chair back so quickly it scraped the floor. “Who’s coming?”

Luna turned her head towards him, studying him for a brief moment before her gaze flicked back to Hermione. “Ron.”

Hermione went still. The colour drained from her face. “I know. How did he find out?” she whispered.

“Ginny told him,” Luna said. “Harry’s only just realised the letter’s missing. He doesn’t know how much she said, but Ron’s been gone for days. He’s angry, Hermione. I think he means to find you.”

Seth stepped closer, his hand hovering near her arm. “Remember what I said. He won’t touch you,” he said quietly, his voice edged with steel.

Luna watched them both, something gentle flickering across her expression. “I see,” she murmured, a faint smile tugging at her lips.

Hermione blinked at her. “What?”

“I can’t wait till I get mine,” Luna said dreamily, as if the words had escaped before she’d meant to speak them.

Hermione frowned, half confused, half exasperated. “Get your what?”

Luna just smiled - that secret, knowing smile that never quite reached her eyes but always felt full of meaning. “You’ll see.”

Seth blinked. “Is she always like this?”

Hermione let out a small laugh despite herself, the tension in her shoulders easing just a little. “Always.”

But when her gaze found Luna’s again, the humour faded. “He’s already in Forks. It won’t be long before he finds La Push. I thought it best to warn you first.”

Hermione swallowed, her fingers tightening around the back of a chair. “We're already ready.”

Seth’s hand brushed hers lightly. “He won’t get near you. Not while we’re here.”

Luna’s eyes softened. She looked between them - Hermione pale but resolute, Seth standing solid beside her, something fragile and fierce binding the space between them. A small, knowing smile touched her lips. “He doesn’t stand a chance,” she said softly.

The cabin was quiet after Luna’s warning faded into the crackling of the fire. Hermione stood by the window, her gaze fixed on the dark line of trees beyond the glass. Her fingers twitched at her sides, restless for something to do, but she forced herself to stay still. Acting out of fear would only play into Ron’s hands.

Seth lingered by the hearth, his shoulders tense. He hadn’t said much since Luna arrived, but the look on his face said enough. The easy calm she’d grown used to was gone, replaced by something fiercely protective.

Hermione's mind raged, because she knew Ron - his temper, his pride, the way he convinced himself he was right. If he’d found her here, halfway across the world, then he’d already broken through worse protections than the ones guarding Hemlock. As time went on, she was resenting the idea of the pack fighting her battle. And when he came, the others would get hurt. Something she wouldn’t let that happen.

Luna stood by the mantle, her gaze flicking between the two of them. Her face was calm, but Hermione could see the thoughtfulness in her eyes. Luna always saw more than she said.

“I’ll stay the night,” Luna said suddenly, as if she’d read Hermione’s thoughts.

Seth looked up. “That might be best,” he agreed. “Just in case.”

Hermione met Luna’s gaze and caught the faint curve of a knowing smile. “Good idea,” she said softly. “There’s plenty of room.”

Seth nodded, satisfied. “I’ll tell Sam you’re not alone. He’ll send someone to patrol nearby. Probably Jared or Paul. You’ll have someone watching until morning.”

“Thank you,” Hermione murmured.

He hesitated, eyes lingering on her face as though memorising it. Then, quietly, “I’ll be back first thing.”

She smiled again, steady this time. “I know.”

She watched him go, his tall figure vanishing into the mist beyond the trees. Only when he disappeared from view did she let her mask slip. Her breath came out shaky, her hand gripping the edge of the table for balance.

Luna hadn’t moved. She was tracing lazy patterns in the ash with her wand. “You’re thinking about leaving,” she said softly.

Hermione looked over, startled despite knowing she shouldn’t be. “You always did have an inconvenient sense for these things.”

Luna smiled faintly. “It’s not inconvenient. Just timely.”

Hermione sank onto the sofa, her shoulders heavy. “I can’t let them get caught in this. If Ron comes here, he’ll hurt anyone who stands in his way. They’ll fight back, and it’ll turn into chaos.”

“And you’re planning to stop it before it starts,” Luna said, her voice calm and certain.

“Yes,” Hermione said. “I have to.”

Neither of them spoke for a while. The fire crackled softly, shadows dancing across Luna’s pale hair.

“You’re not going to tell them, are you?”

Hermione shook her head. “No. Seth’s done enough already. If he knew, he’d insist on coming with me. I can’t let that happen. This isn’t his fight.”

Luna tilted her head, her gaze far away. “He wouldn’t see it that way.”

Hermione smiled sadly. “I know.”

Luna didn’t argue. She only watched her, that steady, knowing gaze seeing right through her resolve.

“You won’t stop me, will you?” Hermione asked quietly.

Luna’s lips curved in a soft smile. “Why would I stop you? You’ve already decided.”

Hermione exhaled, the sound shaky but relieved. “Thank you.”

“I didn’t say I approved,” Luna said lightly. “Only that I trust you to do what you think is right.”

Hermione looked at her, emotion catching in her throat. “You always did.”

Luna’s expression gentled. “Just promise you’ll come back. I think Seth would look rather lost without you.”

Hermione managed a quiet laugh, though it trembled slightly. “I’ll do my best.”

“Good,” Luna said simply. She glanced towards the window. “Wait until the moon’s higher. The forest will be darker then, and whoever’s on patrol won’t notice you slipping away.”

Hermione blinked. “You really aren’t going to stop me.”

Luna gave a small, amused smile. “I once followed a Crumple-Horned Snorkack across three borders. Do you really think I could stop you?”

Hermione laughed under her breath, nerves and affection tangled together.

Outside, the night deepened. A wolf’s low call echoed somewhere in the forest, carried through the mist like a warning. Hermione rose and went to the chest by the hearth. She opened it slowly, pulling out her wand and her cloak. The familiar weight of them felt grounding, like old armour.

Luna watched in silence, her expression unreadable but kind. When Hermione fastened her cloak and turned towards her, Luna gave a single, solemn nod.

“Good luck,” she said quietly. “And Hermione?”

“Yes?”

“When you find him… don’t forget you’re not that frightened girl anymore.”

Hermione’s throat tightened. “I won’t.”

She went to the door and opened it just enough to let the cool night air brush her face. The forest was waiting, silent and dark. She looked back once, meeting Luna’s steady gaze.

Luna smiled, dreamy and certain. “Give him hell.”

Hermione’s lips curved, fierce and sure. “Oh, I intend to.”

And with that, she stepped into the dark.

The night was deep and silver when Hermione stepped out into it. The air cool and sharp in her lungs, carrying the taste of rain and salt. She closed the door of Hemlock Sanctuary with quiet care, the latch clicking softly into place behind her. Through the window she caught the last flicker of firelight, a fragile piece of warmth before the darkness took her completely.

She drew a slow breath and centred herself. Her magic hummed low beneath her skin, alive and waiting. It was not fear that filled her now, but something steadier. Focus. Purpose.

The forest stretched out around her, endless and still, rich with the smell of moss and damp earth. Somewhere far off a wolf’s howl rolled through the trees, low and mournful, and her chest tightened. She listened carefully. The sound was distant, coming from the southern border. Good. She had time.

Hermione moved deeper into the woods until the faint glow of the cabin disappeared behind her. The shadows thickened, folding around her like a cloak. She closed her eyes for a moment, breathed out, and whispered the words that had become second nature.

The change came easily.

Her bones shifted like breath. Skin melted into fur. Muscles tightened and realigned with quiet precision. The world snapped into sharper focus, every scent and sound blooming with clarity. The forest was no longer dark to her. It was alive, filled with motion and pulse and meaning.

She stretched once, fluid and silent, her tail brushing through the ferns. The leopard’s body felt natural now, as if she had always carried it beneath her skin. Sleek. Strong. Silent. The ground was cool beneath her paws, soft with rain and fallen leaves.

Then she moved.

She kept low, gliding between the trees, every step soundless on the damp earth. Her senses sharpened with purpose, her mind both instinct and calculation. She knew Ron. She knew how he thought, how he acted when anger drove him. He would be impatient, reckless, too sure of himself.

He would not have Apparated straight into La Push. He did not know the place well enough. That meant he had started from Forks, following rumours and fragments, chasing the story of a British witch who did not belong. He would have bullied, threatened or demanded directions until he found a path.

So she ran east.

Branches swept past, the scent of pine thick in the air. Her paws barely disturbed the leaves as she wove between the trunks. The forest whispered around her, wind shifting, rain settling, the faint heartbeat of small creatures hiding in the undergrowth. Every trace mattered. Every sound.

She ran until the moon had climbed high and pale above the trees. Once, far to the west, she heard another wolf’s call and veered away, keeping downwind. She could not risk being seen, not until she had found him.

Time lost meaning in the rhythm of her movement. The world was reduced to scent and sound and instinct. Then, at last, near the thinning edge of the forest, something changed.

A scent that did not belong.

Magic.

It was faint, stretched thin by the damp air, but it was there, sharp and acrid, unmistakable. The scent of spellwork, of a wizard’s trail. Of him.

Hermione slowed, her muscles coiling tight. She lowered herself to the ground, every sense focused forward. The trail grew stronger with each step, threaded through with the familiar tang of parchment and something darker, the residue of anger and worn magic.

She crept until the trees opened into a small clearing. Beyond it, the shimmer of the treaty line glowed between the trunks, wild and ancient, where wizarding and shapeshifter magics met and refused to blend.

And there, at the very edge of it, stood Ron.

He looked nothing like the boy she had once known. His robes were torn and filthy, his hair longer, his face drawn tight with fury. The anger rolling off him seemed to hum in the air, thick enough to taste. He was muttering under his breath, wand drawn, eyes scanning the trees with sharp, feverish movements.

Hermione froze among the shadows, the leopard’s body perfectly still. She could hear his breathing, ragged and uneven, the faint scrape of his boots against the wet soil.

So it was true.

He had come.

Her muscles tensed, every nerve alive. The animal in her wanted to leap, to end it here and now, but the witch in her, the mind that had survived wars and monsters and betrayal, held her still. Not yet.

She watched him quietly, patient and calculating. This was the man who had taken so much from her. The one who had convinced himself she was his to punish.

The moon slipped free of the clouds above, spilling silver light across the clearing. It touched his face, and she saw him clearly for the first time in years. There was no regret there. No sorrow. Only a cold, consuming rage.

Hermione’s tail flicked once, a single, deliberate movement. She crouched lower, eyes fixed on him, every muscle poised.

The time for running was over.

Chapter Text

The clearing was silent except for the wind sighing through the trees. Hermione crouched at the edge, the leopard still alive beneath her skin, every sense sharpened and ready. The air was thick with the scent of pine and anger.

Ron stood in the centre of the clearing, muttering to himself, wand drawn. She could smell him before he saw her, the acrid stench of magic clinging to his skin, mixed with something sourer, something like fear.

She stepped forward, slow and deliberate, her paws sinking into the damp soil. The movement drew his attention. He turned sharply, wand raised, his eyes scanning the darkness until they found her.

For a moment he went still. Then his face twisted.

"That thing," he said, his voice thick with disgust. "You still turn into that filthy beast?"

Hermione’s muscles tensed, but she did not move. She stood tall and silent in her animal form, golden eyes fixed on him. The leopard’s stillness was its own kind of power, something ancient and unyielding.

Ron’s grip on his wand tightened. "You used to disgust me," he hissed. "Crawling around like some freak. Do you like it? Is this what you ran away to be?"

Hermione let out a low growl, deep and resonant, the sound vibrating through the clearing. It was not a threat. It was a warning.

"Come on then," he taunted, sneering. "Show me what you really are."

He flicked his wand and sent a flash of red light slicing through the air. Hermione leapt aside, quick and fluid, landing silently in the grass. Another spell followed, then another, wild and uncontrolled. She moved through them easily, slipping between the beams of light as if the forest itself bent to her will.

Every nerve in her body hummed. Her heart was steady. She was not afraid of him any more.

When she finally stopped, the moonlight fell across her sleek fur, glinting in her eyes like fire. She stared at him, unblinking, and for the first time he hesitated.

"Stop looking at me like that," he snapped, his voice cracking. "You think you’re better than me? You think you can hide behind that monster?"

Hermione tilted her head, slow and deliberate. Then, without breaking eye contact, she stepped closer. One paw, then another, until she was almost within reach. She could see his pulse hammering in his throat.

He took a step back. "Stay away from me."

Hermione’s eyes glowed in the moonlight. Her fur rippled and the air around her shimmered. Slowly, gracefully, she began to change.

The shift was seamless, the magic soft and radiant as her limbs reshaped and fur gave way to skin. When the light faded, she stood before him, wand in hand, her breath misting in the cool air.

Ron stared at her, something close to horror flickering across his face. "You still do it," he said, voice trembling with disbelief. "You still turn into that thing."

His mouth curled. "You always thought you were special, didn’t you? You ruined my life. You humiliated me and ran like a coward."

"I wasn’t hiding," Hermione said, her voice low but steady. "I was healing."

He laughed, harsh and ugly. "Healing? Don’t make me laugh. You made me hit you, Hermione. You made me angry."

The words landed like blows, cruel and familiar. But they did not pierce her this time. Not any more.

"You made your own choices," she said quietly. "And I’m done carrying them."

His eyes narrowed, burning with fury. "You don’t get to talk to me like that. Not after everything I did for you."

"Everything you did to me," she corrected, her voice sharp as glass.

He flinched, just slightly, and the sight fuelled something fierce inside her.

"Don’t you dare," he started, but she was already shouting.

"Don’t I dare?" Her voice broke through the clearing like thunder. "You destroyed everything I was. You hit me, you belittled me, and you made me believe I deserved it. But I don’t. Not any more."

Her words rang through the night, fierce and trembling with truth. "I found people who showed me what love really is. What friendship feels like. Luna, George, Harry and Seth."

The second his name left her lips, Ron’s expression twisted into something monstrous. "Oh, of course. You’ve moved on already, haven’t you? Couldn’t wait to spread your legs for the next one. You’ve always been a slut, Hermione. Always will be."

The words burned, but not with shame. Not this time. They burned with fury.

She raised her wand. "That’s enough."

The air around them shimmered as a circle of light burst from the tip, sealing the clearing in a wall of energy. The barrier crackled once, anchoring itself into the earth.

"You won’t hurt anyone else," she said. "Not ever again."

Ron sneered, raising his wand. "You really think you can beat me? I’m an Auror, Hermione. You’re just a pathetic little know-it-all who forgot how to fight."

He struck first. Red light tore through the air. She blocked it easily, her shield charm instinctive. Another curse came, darker this time, grazing her arm as she twisted aside.

The duel erupted into chaos. Spells collided mid-air, sparks hissing as they struck the ground. Ron moved with rage, each curse heavy and wild. Hermione moved with precision, every motion deliberate and exact, her magic drawn from the same well of discipline that had once saved the world.

A curse caught her shoulder, burning through her jumper. She hissed in pain but did not falter.

"You can’t win, Ron," she shouted, deflecting another blast of green light. "You’ve already lost everything that mattered."

He snarled, his voice breaking. "I’ll kill you before I let anyone else have you."

He lunged, firing another curse. She met it head on, their spells colliding in a blinding flash. The impact sent shockwaves through the clearing. Her arms shook with the force, but she pushed back harder, her magic burning bright and pure.

Then, from somewhere beyond the trees, came the sound of a howl.

The pack had arrived.

Shapes burst through the shadows, fur bristling, eyes gleaming in the flicker of their spells. They circled the barrier, growling and pacing, power rolling off them in waves. Hermione recognised them, Sam, Paul, Embry, each ready to strike.

But one of them wasn’t growling. He was slamming himself against the barrier, frantic.

Seth.

In a flash of movement and heat, he shifted, skin replacing fur, breath ragged in the cold night air. "Hermione," he shouted, voice breaking. "Drop the barrier. Please."

She did not turn. Her wand stayed fixed on Ron, who was circling like a wounded predator.

Seth pounded on the barrier again, shouting her name. "Let me in. You don’t have to do this alone."

Her heart ached at the sound of him, but she could not look away. Not yet.

"I do," she whispered. "I have to."

Ron followed her gaze, and when he saw Seth his face contorted with fury. "Oh, that’s him, is it? The next fool you’re stringing along?"

Hermione’s voice was quiet, warning. "Don’t."

He ignored her. "You just can’t help yourself, can you? Always needing someone else to make you feel worth something. You’re nothing but a slag. Either I have you or noone else does. AVADA…"

"Expulso."

Her spell cut through the air before he could finish. It hit his shield, shattered it, and threw him backwards into the dirt. The ground shook beneath them. Hermione’s eyes blazed.

"You will never speak to me like that again."

Ron staggered up, his hair plastered to his forehead, his breath coming fast. "You don’t get to win," he spat.

Hermione was already moving. Her wand flashed, meeting his next curse and driving it back. She moved like fire, not wild, but purposeful. Each spell landed with precision, born of clarity rather than anger.

He lunged, roaring another incantation, but she was faster. She turned, raised her wand, and released a burst of white light that hit him square in the chest.

Ron screamed as the force flung him backwards. His wand flew from his hand and vanished into the undergrowth. He hit the ground hard, the air leaving his lungs in a broken gasp.

Hermione stood over him, chest heaving, her wand steady. Her hair clung to her face, her jumper scorched and torn, blood streaked along her arm. But her eyes were unbreakable.

"It’s over," she said.

He looked up at her, his expression trembling between fear and fury. "You wouldn’t," he hissed. "You’ve always been too soft."

Hermione lifted her chin. "No. I’m strong."

Her wand moved, and a burst of light struck him squarely. He fell still, unconscious.

Silence swallowed the clearing.

Hermione let the barrier fall, and the magic dissolved into the night. Seth was through it in an instant, running to her. He caught her by the shoulders, his hands warm and shaking.

"Hermione," he said, breathless. "Are you hurt?"

She looked at him and let out a shaky breath. "I’m fine."

He searched her face, eyes raw with worry. Then he pulled her into his arms, holding her as if letting go would undo everything.

Hermione sank against him, breathing him in. Earth, pine, warmth. Safety.

It was over.

At last, it was over.

The forest was quiet again, eerily so. The only sound was the soft rustle of leaves and Hermione’s uneven breathing. The acrid scent of spent magic still hung in the air, sharp as metal on her tongue.

Seth held her tightly, one hand pressed to the back of her head, his heartbeat fast and unsteady against her cheek. Around them, the wolves circled the clearing, low growls still rumbling in their chests. Ron lay motionless where he had fallen, his wand half-buried in the dirt, his face ghostly pale in the moonlight.

It was over. Properly over.

Hermione’s body trembled, all the adrenaline draining out of her at once. Her wand slipped from her fingers and fell softly into the grass. She didn’t reach for it. She simply clung to Seth, the warmth of him seeping into her bones, anchoring her. He murmured something against her hair, his voice quiet and steady, though she couldn’t make out the words. They washed over her like comfort, like safety.

Then, a sound broke the stillness. Branches snapping, light footsteps moving swiftly through the trees. Seth stiffened at once, his arm shifting to shield her.

Luna stepped out from between the trees as though the forest had been waiting for her. Her pale hair caught the moonlight, and her calm eyes swept over the clearing taking in the wolves, the scorched ground and the body on the floor.

“It’s done then,” she said simply, her tone soft but sure. “Harry’s coming through the Floo at the cabin. He’s bringing Aurors. They’ll take care of what’s left.”

Hermione heard the words as though from a distance. All she could feel was the solid warmth of Seth’s chest beneath her hands, the slow rise and fall of his breathing. The weight of his arms around her was the only thing keeping her upright.

She hadn’t even realised she was crying until he brushed his thumb across her cheek. “Hey,” he murmured, gentle and rough at once. “It’s alright now. I’ve got you.”

She shook her head faintly, unable to speak. She had imagined this moment a thousand times, the moment she would finally be free. She had thought it would feel like victory. Or relief. But it didn’t. It felt still. Quiet.

No more fear. No more running. No more pretending.

She pressed her forehead to Seth’s chest, her fingers gripping his shirt as the tears came properly, unrestrained and shaking.

He held her tighter, his warmth wrapping around her until the world began to steady again. The smell of pine and rain filled her lungs, grounding her in the now.

Behind them, the clearing was beginning to stir with movement. Sam was already kneeling near Ron, checking his pulse, his expression grim. Quil stood a few steps away, his hands clenched into fists, his face alight with fury and guilt.

And through it all came the sound of Luna’s soft humming that strange, lilting tune that seemed to hold the forest still, just for a little while longer.

Luna started to look around as if looking for something or someone in particular. Her gaze drifted across the group, moving slowly from wolf to man to witch. She studied them all with quiet curiosity, her eyes bright but unreadable. Then, with complete composure, she asked, “Which one of you is the angry wolf?”

The clearing went completely still. No one spoke. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath. For a long, surreal moment, everyone simply stared at her. Sam looked momentarily lost for words, his jaw tightening as if unsure how to respond.

Hermione, still pressed against Seth’s chest, blinked in confusion. Her body was too tired, too heavy to process what she had just heard. Then one by one, the wolves began to turn. Slowly, every gaze in the clearing settled on Paul.

Luna followed the direction of their eyes, her expression lighting with recognition. “Ah,” she said softly, taking a small step forward. “Hello there.”

Paul’s fur bristled, a flicker of confusion in his golden eyes. The other wolves and men shifted uneasily, caught between amusement and disbelief. Luna didn’t appear to notice their discomfort. Her calm smile didn’t waver as she tilted her head, studying him with the same gentle focus one might give a rare constellation.

“I look forward to getting to know you,” she said in that same soft, thoughtful tone.

The words seemed to hang in the air. Paul froze, every muscle in his body going still. The energy around them shifted, something unseen snapping into place with quiet finality. The pull was immediate, instinctive, and everyone felt it.

The imprint had taken hold.

For a heartbeat, no one moved. Then the clearing erupted into a stunned kind of silence, disbelief rippling through the wolves.

Hermione let out a small, unsteady laugh that cracked through the tension. Her voice was hoarse but laced with warmth. “Oh, Merlin,” she said, shaking her head faintly. “Only you, Luna.”

Luna’s smile brightened, entirely unfazed by the chaos around her. Paul, now in his human form, stood motionless and wide-eyed, his expression torn between awe and confusion. Luna stepped closer to him as if they were meeting at a garden party rather than a battle site. She reached up, brushed a stray lock of hair behind his ear and said kindly, “You’ve got very gentle eyes. I think I’ll make you a flower crown to celebrate.”

Paul opened his mouth, but no sound came out. Behind him, Jacob muttered something that sounded suspiciously like a prayer for strength, earning a low snort from Embry.

Hermione shook her head, another quiet laugh escaping her. “I can’t,” she murmured weakly, pressing a hand to her forehead. “I really can’t deal with this right now.”

Seth looked down at her, concern softening his face. “Let’s get you home,” he said quietly.

She nodded without a word. Her limbs felt heavy, her body aching from the fight and the rush of adrenaline that had finally ebbed away. Seth didn’t hesitate. He bent and lifted her into his arms, cradling her carefully against his chest. She didn’t protest. She simply let herself rest against him, her head falling against his shoulder.

As he turned, the others instinctively moved aside, clearing a path. Hermione kept her gaze fixed on the trees ahead, refusing to look back at what lay behind. She couldn’t bear to see Ron lying there or the tangled wreck of what had just happened. Her world had shrunk to the steady rhythm of Seth’s heartbeat and the sound of his breathing, slow and strong beside her ear.

They had barely gone a few hundred feet when the faint crack of Apparition split the quiet. Seth stopped at once, holding Hermione a little tighter.

Harry appeared on the path ahead, his wand drawn, his eyes scanning the shadows until they found her. The grim tension in his face softened instantly with relief, though anger flickered just beneath it when he glanced past her and saw the clearing behind.

He stepped forward quickly, stopping just short of them. “Hermione,” he said, his voice rough with emotion. “Are you alright?”

She managed a weak nod. “I’m fine,” she whispered, though the word felt fragile on her tongue.

Harry’s expression tightened, a dozen questions written in the lines of his face. But he didn’t ask any of them. Instead, he took a slow breath and said, “We’ll talk later. For now, I’ll handle him.” His voice dropped to a softer tone. “I’ll need statements, and maybe memories, when you’re ready. Not tonight.”

Hermione nodded again, her head heavy against Seth’s shoulder. She didn’t have the strength for more than that.

Harry’s eyes shifted to Seth, and a flicker of gratitude passed through his expression. “Thank you,” he said simply.

Seth nodded once, tightening his hold on her slightly, then moved past without a word.

The path wound between the trees, soft earth muffling his footsteps. Hermione didn’t look back. She didn’t want to see the clearing, or the faces of the others, or the broken remnants of what had been. The only thing that mattered was the warmth holding her steady, the safety of knowing she wasn’t alone.

The forest grew quieter as they went. The moon had slipped behind the clouds, dimming the world to a softer silver-grey. Somewhere behind them, Luna’s voice floated faintly through the trees, light and content.

“Don’t worry,” she was saying to Paul. “I know exactly where to find the best daisies.”

Hermione let out a tired, breathless laugh against Seth’s shoulder, the sound caught somewhere between exhaustion and peace. Her eyes fluttered closed as they left the clearing behind.

Chapter Text

The cabin was quiet when they returned. Seth didn’t say a word as he carried her inside, his arms firm and steady around her. The door clicked shut behind them, shutting out the world beyond the trees.

Hermione felt the exhaustion settle deep into her bones. The rush of adrenaline had gone, leaving behind nothing but the ache of magic and memory. Seth set her down gently on the edge of the bed, crouching so he could meet her eyes.

“Do you need anything?” he asked softly.

She shook her head. “Just... stay,” she whispered.

He hesitated, uncertain he’d heard her right. “Stay?”

“Please.”

Something in her voice broke the last of his restraint. He nodded silently and kicked off his shoes. Every movement was careful, as though he was afraid of startling her. He climbed onto the bed beside her, both of them lying on top of the covers, facing each other. The faint glow of the dying fire painted the room in soft amber light.

For a long time, neither of them spoke. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable, just heavy with everything that had happened and everything that hadn’t been said.

It was Seth who spoke first, his voice barely more than a whisper. “How are you feeling?”

Hermione drew a long breath, her fingers curling into the sheets. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “I feel sad, mostly. For what’s gone. For what used to be.” Her voice wavered. “He was my best friend once. I loved him, in a way. But I think I’ve been mourning him for years. Tonight was just the end.”

Seth’s gaze softened. He didn’t interrupt, didn’t try to make it better. He simply listened. When she fell silent again, he reached out and brushed a strand of hair from her face, his fingers trembling slightly.

“I was scared,” he said quietly. “When I saw you fighting him. I’ve never felt anything like it. It was like...” He stopped and swallowed hard. “Like my chest was being crushed. I thought I was going to lose you.”

Hermione’s throat tightened. “I couldn’t let anyone else get hurt,” she murmured. “He would’ve killed me if he could. I needed to end it, once and for all.”

“I know,” Seth said, his voice rough. “But you didn’t have to do it alone.”

She gave him a tired, watery smile. “I think I did. At least this once.”

He didn’t argue. Instead, he reached for her hand, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. They stayed like that for a while, the silence softening, becoming something gentler. She could feel his warmth seeping through her, his steady breathing grounding her.

When she looked up again, his eyes were on her. There was something there she hadn’t seen before, not just tenderness, but something deeper. Something that made her heart stumble.

Neither of them seemed to decide who moved first. One moment they were just looking at each other, the next his lips were on hers, hesitant at first, then full of unguarded need. It wasn’t graceful or practiced; it was wet and messy and real.

Hermione froze for a heartbeat, startled, before she felt herself melt into it. Her fingers clutched lightly at his shirt as though to anchor herself. His hand slid to the back of her neck, gentle but sure. The kiss deepened, and she felt something spark inside her, something she hadn’t realised she’d been missing for far too long.

When they finally pulled apart, breathless and wide-eyed, Hermione blinked and then, to Seth’s complete confusion, she started to laugh.

He drew back a little, his face flushed. “What? Did I do something wrong?”

She shook her head quickly, still laughing softly, tears pricking her eyes. “No, you didn’t. It’s just...” She bit her lip, struggling to stop smiling. “Harry once told me his first kiss with a girl was very wet. I thought he was exaggerating.”

Seth stared at her for a moment, then let out a disbelieving laugh. “That’s what you’re laughing at?”

Hermione nodded, laughter bubbling through her exhaustion. “I’m sorry, I can’t help it.”

He grinned, the tension easing from his shoulders. “Well, glad I could give you an accurate demonstration.”

“You really committed to the realism,” she teased.

He laughed again, the sound warm and low. Then he reached out, brushing his thumb along her jaw. “I’ll work on it,” he murmured.

Hermione smiled, her chest aching in the best possible way. “Don’t,” she said softly. “It was perfect.”

They lay there for a long while, faces close, breaths mingling in the quiet. 

Outside, the first light of dawn began to touch the trees. Inside, everything was still, the pair let exhaustion take over, wrapped in one another arms.

Morning came slowly.

The world felt gentle again, washed clean by sleep. For a moment, she didn’t move. Her body was warm and heavy beneath the quilt, her cheek pressed against something solid and comforting.

It took her a few seconds to realise that something was breathing beneath her.

Seth.

His arm was draped around her waist, his chest rising and falling against her back in a steady rhythm that matched the hush of the forest outside. The weight of him was grounding, real in a way that made her chest ache. She could feel the warmth of his skin even through the fabric of her jumper, the soft brush of his breath against her hair.

She lay there, watching the sunlight shift across the wooden floorboards as the morning grew brighter. The fire had long since gone out, but the room still smelled faintly of smoke and pine. Crookshanks was curled at the foot of the bed, purring softly.

It felt strange, this calm, unfamiliar but welcome.

Hermione turned slightly, just enough to see Seth’s face. His curls were a mess, falling across his forehead, his mouth soft in sleep. He looked younger like this, peaceful in a way that made something deep inside her twist. As she moved, his hand tightened slightly at her waist, as if some part of him already knew she was awake.

She smiled faintly and brushed his hair back from his face. His skin was warm beneath her fingertips.

His eyes opened a moment later, still heavy with sleep. For a heartbeat, he looked disoriented, then his gaze found hers. He smiled, slow, gentle, and so full of warmth it nearly undid her.

“Morning,” he murmured, his voice rough with sleep.

“Morning,” she whispered back.

They stayed like that for a while, neither in a hurry to break the quiet. Eventually, Seth shifted, propping himself up on one elbow so he could see her better. His thumb brushed small circles along her arm, tracing over the fabric of her sleeve.

“How are you feeling?” he asked softly.

Hermione exhaled, letting the question settle between them. “Tired,” she said honestly. “And a little sore. But... lighter. It’s strange. I thought I’d feel worse.”

He nodded, his gaze steady on hers. “You did something incredibly hard. You faced him, after everything. It’s alright to feel more than one thing at once.”

She smiled faintly. “You sound like Luna.”

He chuckled. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Hermione looked down, twisting the edge of the blanket between her fingers. “I feel sad,” she said quietly. “For what’s gone. For the boy he used to be. But there’s relief too. I think I’ve finally let go.”

Seth’s expression softened. “You deserve to.”

Her throat tightened, and before she could stop herself, she whispered, “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“You’d have found a way,” he said, shaking his head gently. “You always do.”

She smiled at that, though her eyes stung a little. “Maybe. But I’m glad I didn’t have to.”

He hesitated, then reached up to tuck a loose curl behind her ear. “I meant what I said last night,” he murmured. “I was terrified. Seeing you out there, fighting him alone... I thought I’d lose you before I ever really had the chance to...” He stopped, his jaw tightening.

Hermione’s heart fluttered at the unspoken words. She took his hand, her fingers small against his. “You didn’t,” she said softly. “I’m here.”

His eyes met hers, full of emotion he couldn’t seem to put into words. Slowly, he leaned forward and pressed his forehead to hers.

They stayed like that for a long time, their breaths mingling, the air between them warm and still. Hermione felt her heartbeat slow, steadying itself against his.

When he finally drew back, there was a faint smile on his lips. “You’re safe now,” he said quietly, more to himself than to her.

“I am,” she whispered. And for once, she truly believed it.

He lay back down beside her, and she shifted closer, resting her head on his chest. His arm came around her without thought, his hand settling at her back. She could hear the slow rhythm of his breathing, steady and sure.

The sun had long since set over La Push by the time Hermione found herself on Emily’s sofa, a cup of tea warming her hands. The house was full. Low voices drifted through the room and the occasional clatter came from the kitchen. She had not meant to become the centre of attention again, yet after the last two days the pack had questions. Dozens of them.

Seth sat close enough that their shoulders almost touched. His presence was steadying. Luna had perched on the arm of the chair beside Hermione, serene as ever, silver eyes flicking from one wolf to another with mild curiosity.

Emily had done her best to prepare everyone. She had given the basics, that Hermione was a witch, that the man who had come after her had been dangerous, that she had fought to protect herself and the people she cared for. It was not nearly enough for the pack.

“So,” Embry said at last, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “You went to a magic school?”

Hermione nodded, a faint smile tugging at her mouth. “Yes. Hogwarts. It is in Scotland, though you would never find it unless you knew where to look. There are layers of enchantments.”

“Right,” Paul said, eyes wide. “And you were, what, eleven when you started?”

“Exactly.”

“That is mad,” Embry said with a low whistle. “What did they teach you?”

Hermione opened her mouth, but Luna spoke first in her soft, dreamy voice. “It was very dramatic,” she said brightly. “There was a basilisk in our second year. An enormous one. Hermione was petrified for months.”

The room fell silent.

Hermione stared at her. “Luna.”

Luna kept smiling serenely. “And there was the evil wizard who kept dying and coming back. Very inconvenient. She also travelled in time for a while, freed a convict everyone thought was guilty, fought dark wizards when she was still a teenager, and then camped for a year while searching for pieces of the same evil wizard’s soul.”

Quil blinked. “Pieces of his soul?”

“Oh yes,” Luna went on as if discussing the weather. “There was a great deal of duelling and very many near misses. Most importantly,” she finished, suddenly solemn, “she was the brightest witch in centuries.”

Silence followed. Every wolf stared at Hermione. Even Sam looked a little stunned.

Hermione groaned and set down her tea. “Thank you, Luna,” she said dryly. “Very subtle.”

“You are welcome,” Luna said with perfect sincerity.

Quil let out a long whistle and settled back. “Right, make yourselves comfortable,” he said, grinning at the others. “We are in for a long night.”

Laughter rolled through the room and the tension loosened. Even Sam’s mouth twitched.

Hermione sighed, half amused and half resigned. “Alright,” she said, shaking her head. “But I am leaving out the more traumatic parts. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” Emily said warmly, pressing a fresh cup of tea into her hands.

So Hermione began to talk.

She told them about arriving at Hogwarts with wide eyes and awkward elbows, a girl who knew more about textbooks than friendship. She told them about meeting Harry and Ron on the train, about the troll and the enchanted chess board, about staircases that moved just when you needed them to stay put. She spoke about late nights with books open and ink-stained fingers, and the way the castle seemed to breathe.

They listened as if the fire itself had grown still. Quil interrupted every few minutes with an incredulous question. Embry laughed at the absolute wrong bits. Paul kept muttering that there was no way any of this could be true, only to fall silent when she added another impossible detail.

When she spoke about Buckbeak the hippogriff, Seth’s grin went so wide it made her laugh. When she described teaching others to defend themselves, Emily beamed as if Hermione were her own.

There were things she did not say. She did not describe the screams or the cold nights that still opened like a trap in her dreams. She did not speak Bellatrix’s name aloud. She kept those parts where they belonged, locked behind softer memories.

Instead, she gave them warmth. Laughter in the common room. The Weasley fireworks turning a corridor into a river of sparks. The smell of parchment and dust and polish in the library stacks. Crookshanks sunning himself in a square of light. Hagrid’s hopeless menagerie. Quidditch, exams, friendship that saved her again and again.

By the time she stopped, the fire had burned to a low orange bed and most of the pack were still sitting forward without noticing.

Sam spoke first. “You lived through a war,” he said quietly, his expression unreadable.

Hermione hesitated, then nodded. “Yes. But so did you, in your way.”

He inclined his head, accepting that without argument.

Seth looked at her with something she could not quite name. Pride, awe, both at once. “You are incredible,” he said softly.

Hermione flushed and shook her head. “I am just me.”

Luna smiled. “That is what makes you extraordinary.”

The room settled into a gentle hush. Outside, the wind moved through the trees. The air felt lighter, as if something had loosened its grip. The wolves understood now, not only what she was, but why.

She was not a mystery to them anymore. She was Hermione. The witch who had survived a war, who had laughed and lost and still found a way to stand in the light.

The night grew quiet as people began to drift away. The fire in Emily’s living room sank to a soft glow and the waves outside were a low whisper. Luna fell asleep in an armchair with her head tipped back and her mouth slightly open. Quil and Paul were still arguing in gentle voices about whether they could have taken on the Basilik.

Hermione stayed where she was with her legs tucked beneath her. She felt oddly light. For once she had told her story by choice, not duty. There had been laughter and wonder and no judgement. It had felt good.

Seth offered to walk her home and she said yes without a second thought. The night air was cool and the rising moon silvered the edges of the trees. They walked without speaking. Gravel crunched. The sea murmured in the distance.

At the edge of the woods near her cabin, Seth stopped. His brow furrowed. He looked as if he was not sure how to begin. “Are you alright?” he asked at last.

Hermione smiled. “I’m fine.”

He frowned gently. “You just told a room full of people about a war and everything you went through, and you’re fine?”

A small laugh escaped her, tired more than amused. “I’ve had a lot of practice pretending to be.”

He rubbed the back of his neck and looked away for a moment. “I don’t know what to say,” he admitted. “I don’t know how to help. You’ve lived through more things I could ever imagine. I feel like anything I say will sound small.”

Warmth moved through her chest at the honesty in his voice. She touched his arm. “You don’t need to fix anything. You being here helps. I’ve dealt with most of it mentally anyway”

He nodded, still worried. “You’ve dealt with most of it. What do you mean by most?”

She hesitated. Her fingers curled at her sides. “I mean there are things I am not ready to talk about yet. It’s not because I don’t trust you,” she added quickly. “I have just not worked out how to say them aloud.”

He did not push. He only nodded, as patient as the tide. “Did you lose many people?” he asked, voice low.

Hermione blinked. Few people ever asked that. In her world no one wanted to linger on the war. Silence had become a habit. Seth’s question held no pity, only care.

“Yes,” she said softly. “I did.”

He held her gaze. “Who?”

She drew a long breath. The cold air steadied her. “A lot of them you wouldn’t know. Some I didn’t know well either. They still mattered.”

She looked up at the stars. It was easier to speak to the sky. “There was Dobby. He was a house elf. Brave and kind. He saved my life. I don’t think anyone who did not meet him could understand what that means. He was extraordinary.”

Seth listened without a word.

“There were others,” she said, quieter now. “Remus Lupin and Nymphadora Tonks. They fought to the end. They died in the final battle. They had a baby. I still think about that sometimes, Teddy growing up without them. They died for something that mattered, but still…” Her voice trailed away.

Seth found her hand and his thumb moved over her knuckles. He did not speak. The steadiness of him spoke for him.

“There was Lavender,” Hermione went on. “She was in my dorm. We weren’t close. She didn’t deserve what happened to her. She was attacked during the battle. I saw it.” Her voice shook and she forced it level again. “And Colin Creevey. He was so young. He wasn’t supposed to be there. He came back to fight.”

Seth’s fingers tightened around hers, a quiet promise.

She hesitated before the next name. “And Fred Weasley.” Her voice thinned to something fragile. “He was my first love. It was not serious then. We were young and thought we had all the time in the world. He was brilliant. He was reckless and kind and he made everyone laugh even when everything was terrible.” A small, sad smile touched her mouth. “He died in the battle as well.”

She looked up at Seth, braced for a flicker of jealousy or discomfort. There was none. His expression was steady, his eyes full of understanding.

“He sounds like a good man,” Seth said quietly.

“He was,” she whispered. “One of the best.”

They walked a few steps in silence.

“What about your parents?” he asked.

The question landed like a stone. She stopped. The breath went out of her. “My parents,” she repeated, as if testing the shape of the words.

He turned to her at once. “You don’t have to answer.”

“I should,” she said quickly. Her voice trembled. “I have never said it out loud like this.”

She looked down at her hands and twisted them together. “They were Muggles. Non magical. Ordinary and kind. They didn’t belong in the world I was fighting for. I knew it would kill them if anyone found out. So I wiped their memories.”

Seth’s eyes widened but he said nothing.

“I sent them to Australia,” she said, and her voice cracked. “I made them believe they didn’t have a daughter. I made them think they were someone else. I told myself it was the only way to keep them safe.” She drew a shaking breath. “After the war, when I went to find them, they were gone. A car crash. They never remembered me.”

Tears rose hot and fast.

Seth did not speak. He stepped in and pulled her into his arms without a pause. There was no hesitation, only warmth and steadiness.

Hermione pressed her face into his chest and his shirt grew damp. Years of holding herself together unspooled quietly. Grief that had settled in her bones came loose.

His arms tightened. One hand moved slowly through her hair. The other was firm at her back. He did not tell her to stop or offer empty comfort. He held her while she grieved at last.

When the tears eased, she drew a breath that hitched. Her voice was small against him. “I didn’t even go to their funeral. I couldn’t. I thought I had broken something inside me. I thought I didn’t deserve to.”

Seth’s reply was low and even. “You did what you had to do to protect them. That doesn’t make you a bad person. It makes you brave.”

She closed her eyes and let the words rest on her like balm.

They stood for a long time as two dark shapes in a quiet wood. The sea breathed below. The trees whispered above. Her tears dried. Seth did not loosen his hold until her breathing steadied.

When she looked up, his eyes were soft. There was no pity in them. There was respect.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

He brushed his thumb along her cheek and caught a tear she had missed. “You never have to thank me for caring about you,” he said.

Chapter Text

The soft buzz of Hermione’s phone broke the quiet of the cabin. She glanced at the screen and frowned at the unknown number. Only a handful of people had her contact information, and most of them were either asleep or within walking distance.

She hesitated, her thumb hovering, then pressed accept. “Hello?”

There was a brief pause, then a voice she had not heard properly in weeks came through, uncertain but warm. “Hermione? It’s me.”

She stilled. “Harry?”

“Yeah,” he said, relief running through his words. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I got your number from one of the wolves. They didn’t tell me which one, probably on purpose.”

Hermione’s mouth curved in spite of herself. “That sounds about right.”

“I wasn’t sure if I should call,” Harry went on, a little rush of nerves in his tone. “But I didn’t want to wait any longer. I’ve been thinking a lot since… everything.”

Hermione felt her chest tighten at the quiet weight of that. “It’s alright, Harry. Really. I’m glad you called.”

“Could we talk properly?” he asked. “I know we saw each other when… well, when it all happened, but that wasn’t the time. I just need to see you. If that’s alright.”

Hermione looked towards the fireplace. The familiar green shimmer of floo powder caught the faint light. She thought about the months of silence, the pain, the slow healing that had followed. Then she nodded, even though he could not see her.

“Come by the floo,” she said gently. “Hemlock Sanctuary, same adress Luna told you.”

There was a pause and a quiet breath of relief. “Thank you, Hermione.”

When the call ended, Hermione found Seth watching her from the other side of the room. He did not ask, but the question was clear in his eyes.

“Harry,” she said.

He nodded. “Do you want me to give you space?”

She offered a small smile. “Please. Just for a bit.”

He crossed the room, brushed his thumb across her knuckles and left. The door closed softly behind him.

A few moments later the flames flared green. Harry stepped through and brushed soot from his sleeve. He looked a little lost standing there, tired, but with that same steady light in his eyes she had always admired.

“Hi,” he said, offering a small smile.

“Hi,” she replied, moving to meet him.

They stood in a shared quiet, the kind only old friends can hold, full of things neither quite knew how to start saying.

At last Harry gave a small laugh. “You’ve done well for yourself. This place…” He looked around the cabin, at the neat stack of books by the window, the soft glow of candles. “It feels like you.”

Hermione smiled. “It’s peaceful. It’s home.”

“I’m glad,” he said, the words sincere.

He hesitated, then spoke more quietly. “I ended things with Ginny.”

Hermione blinked. “Oh, Harry…”

He shook his head quickly. “Don’t. It was overdue. We’d both been pretending things were fine for a long time. I think she’s angry with me, but it’s for the best. I can’t forgive her for helping Ron. She knew the risk she was putting you in. It was the final nail in the already beaten coffin.”

Hermione sank into the armchair by the fire and gestured for him to sit. “You deserve to be happy, Harry. You both do.”

He sat, elbows on his knees, eyes on the flames. “Maybe one day. Right now I’m trying to make sense of everything. Especially with Ron.”

Hermione’s shoulders tightened at the name, though she kept her gaze on the fire.

Harry sighed. “He’s at St Mungo’s. The Mind Healer at the ministry said he wasn’t suitable to be held at the ministry.”

Hermione felt her heart sink. “That hurts I won’t lie. He tried to hurt me, again, but instead he gets the comfort of St Mungos.”

Harry nodded. “Arthur’s trying to manage things quietly. Molly refuses to accept it all. She’s furious and still defending him. Arthur knows, though. George sends his love, but he says he can’t face all of it yet. He’s focusing on his family.”

Hermione’s smile was faint and grateful. “Tell him I said thank you.”

“I will, The Prophet found out though. I’m not on the case but apparently there are numerous women coming forward about his behaviour towards them over the years.” Harry informed her.

Hermione wasn’t sure what to say, so instead silence settled. The fire crackled and filled the gaps that words could not reach.

“Luna says you’ve found peace here,” Harry said after a moment. “And someone.”

Hermione let out a small laugh. “I should’ve known she’d tell you.”

“She didn’t say much,” he replied, smiling. “Only that he’s kind. I’m glad. You deserve someone kind.”

Hermione hesitated, then nodded. “His name’s Seth. He’s different. Gentle, patient, grounded. I didn’t realise how much I needed that until him. He makes things feel simple.”

Warmth softened Harry’s eyes. “You sound happy, Hermione.”

“I am,” she said. “For the first time in a long time, I really am.”

“Good,” he said, the word almost a sigh. “That’s all I ever wanted for you.”

She looked at him then, properly looked, at the same boy she had stood beside for so many battles, older now and a little worn, but steadier. He looked tired, yet there was a hint of peace too.

“What about you?” she asked. “What happens now?”

Harry gave a small, uncertain shrug. “I’m not sure. I think I’ll stay with Luna for a bit and clear my head. Maybe start over.”

“You’ll figure it out,” she said, her smile soft. “You always do.”

He met her eyes and, for a heartbeat, the years seemed to fold away. “Thank you,” he said simply. “For still being you. For not shutting me out.”

Hermione’s throat tightened. “You were my family, Harry. You still are. I couldn’t hate you, it will take time for us to rebuild though.”

Harry nodded in understanding before he pulled her into a hug. It was warm and familiar, the kind of embrace that carried years of shared history and a thousand unspoken apologies.

When they stepped apart, Hermione felt lighter. “Will you come by again?” she asked.

Harry smiled. “If I’m invited.”

“Always.”

He moved back towards the hearth, floo powder in hand. “Take care of yourself, Hermione. And tell Seth he’s a lucky man.”

“I will.”

The flames flared green, then he was gone.

Hermione stood for a while and watched the quiet hearth. Her heart felt heavy and full at once. The past and the present had finally met and, instead of clashing, settled into something like understanding.

The door opened behind her and Seth’s familiar warmth filled the room again. He did not ask what had been said. He simply smiled and wrapped his arms around her.

Hermione leaned into him and breathed him in, pine and warmth and safety. “It went well,” she murmured.

“I’m glad,” he said.

So was she, and this time she felt it all the way through.

It was late afternoon when Quil mentioned it, so casually that Hermione almost missed it.

They were sitting around the kitchen table, sorting through paperwork for the animal sanctuary, when he said, “You know, we never did properly thank that leech for warning us about Weasley.”

Hermione’s head snapped up, the memory coming back to her. “Which leech?”

Quil blinked, realising his mistake. “Er, Rosalie. The blonde one from the Cullens. She’s the one who told Sam what was happening, I think I mentioned it to you. Bella apparently spilled everything.” Quil continued, a slight frown creasing his brow. “She came right up to the border and waited till someone passed by. Bit mad, really, but she was serious. Said he had the kind of look in his eyes she didn’t trust. She didn’t have to do that. Could’ve ignored it. Most of them would’ve.”

Hermione stared into the tea she’d stopped drinking and let the words settle. The thought that Rosalie, a vampire, had gone out of her way to warn them stirred something complicated in her chest. Gratitude, mostly, but curiosity too.

“Is there a way to contact her?” she asked at last.

Quil scratched the back of his neck. “Not really. The Cullens keep to themselves these days. No one’s seen them since everything went down with Bella.”

Hermione nodded slowly and then her expression shifted. Resolve sparked in her eyes. “Maybe not your way. But I have mine.”

That night, after everyone had gone home and the cabin was quiet, Hermione sat at her small writing desk. She dipped her quill and began to write.

Dear Rosalie Cullen,

I was told that you warned the wolves about Ron Weasley. I wanted to thank you properly. I owe my life to that warning, and I’d like the chance to express my gratitude in person. I understand if you’d prefer not to meet, but if you’re willing, please send word. Anywhere neutral would suit.

With thanks,
Hermione Granger

She sealed the letter with a soft flick of her wand and tied it to Athene’s leg.

“Find Rosalie Cullen,” she whispered. “You’ll know her when you see her.”

Athene gave a soft hoot and glided into the night.

Hermione didn’t expect an answer. Vampires weren’t exactly known for corresponding by owl, and the letter might be ignored or returned. So when the morning woke her with the tap of a beak at the window, she sat up in disbelief.

Athene was back, a small piece of folded parchment tied neatly to her leg.

Hermione untied it with careful fingers, her stomach twisting with anticipation. The handwriting was elegant and precise.

Hermione,

I was surprised to receive your owl. I don’t usually correspond by post, but I imagine you’re not easily deterred. If you wish to meet, there’s a café in Forks, just off Main Street. Tomorrow at noon. It will be quiet, and neutral.

Rosalie Hale

Hermione read it twice before setting it down. A quiet smile tugged at her mouth. Of course Rosalie would write like that, direct and poised, with a hint of amusement folded under the formality.

She smoothed the parchment and set it aside. For the rest of the morning, she couldn’t shake the feeling that this meeting meant more than simple gratitude. It felt like two women who’d stood on opposite sides of an old line, each carrying her own scars, finally choosing to step into the same space.

She stood at the window and watched the forest sway in the light, and she whispered, mostly to herself, “Tomorrow then.”

The rain returned by morning, soft and steady, a mist that wrapped Forks in quiet. Hermione parked by the kerb and listened to the hollow patter on the windscreen. She sat for a moment and gathered herself.

It wasn’t fear. It was a careful kind of wariness. Vampires had always unsettled her, even after meeting them. The war had taught her that some monsters were human, and some humans could be monstrous. Habit still tugged at her, and the sight of pale faces could call up memories she’d rather keep sleeping.

Still, Rosalie had helped save her life. That was reason enough to step past the unease.

Hermione slipped out of the car with her umbrella and crossed the wet street to the café. The bell chimed as she stepped inside. She shook the rain from her coat and looked around.

She spotted Rosalie at once.

She sat in the far corner with her back straight, golden hair gleaming even in the dim light. She looked as if she belonged to another time, immaculate and composed. When she saw Hermione, something in her posture softened by the smallest degree.

“Rosalie,” Hermione said, with a tentative smile.

“Thank you for coming,” Rosalie replied, her voice low and melodic. “You found the place easily?”

“I did.” Hermione took the seat opposite and folded her umbrella beside the table. “I appreciate you agreeing to meet. I wasn’t sure you would.”

Rosalie tilted her head and studied her for a moment. “I was curious,” she said. “People don’t usually send owls.”

Hermione’s laugh was soft. “No. I suppose not.”

Silence hovered while Hermione pulled off her gloves. She was conscious of Rosalie’s stillness, the kind that belonged to statues and hunters. There wasn’t any threat in it. Only watchfulness.

“I wanted to thank you,” Hermione said at last. Her voice was quiet, steady. “You warned the wolves. You didn’t have to. You saved lives.”

Rosalie’s expression hardly changed, but something flickered in her eyes. “I did what seemed right,” she said. “When I saw him, I recognised the look in his eyes.”

“You knew,” Hermione said.

“Yes.” Rosalie’s gaze turned distant. “A long time ago I was engaged to someone like that. He thought he owned me. He destroyed whatever he couldn’t control. When I looked at your friend, Ron, I saw the same sickness. The same hunger.”

Hermione’s breath caught. Understanding moved through her, quiet and clear. She didn’t interrupt.

“I couldn’t walk away and pretend it wasn’t happening again,” Rosalie said. “Not to someone else.”

“Thank you,” Hermione said, and she meant it. “I wish I could tell you you were wrong about him. You weren’t.”

“You don’t need to explain,” Rosalie said, her voice softer. “I know what that kind of pain looks like.”

The rain whispered at the windows. A waitress came, and Hermione ordered tea. Rosalie declined with a polite shake of her head.

“You’re not frightened,” Rosalie said after a moment. She sounded almost surprised.

Hermione smiled. “I’ve faced worse things than vampires.”

A small hum of amusement left Rosalie. “So I’ve heard.”

Hermione coloured. “That’s not concerning.”

Rosalie looked at her properly. “You’re stronger than you look, Hermione.”

Hermione met her gaze. “So are you.”

Rosalie let out a soft laugh that sounded real and unguarded.

“I should apologise,” she said after a pause. “For Bella. For the things she said and did.”

“You don’t owe me an apology for her choices,” Hermione replied, with a slight frown.

“No, but I want to say it all the same,” Rosalie said. “She betrayed you. She betrayed the peace we had with the pack. Edward was disgusted when he found out. He ended things with her. We agreed it was time to leave Forks. We’re not planning to return.”

Hermione let out a slow breath she hadn’t noticed she was holding. “That’s good to know. The wolves will be relieved.”

“Please tell them,” Rosalie said. The words were steady, and sincere. “They deserve to live without waiting for us to interfere. We want a clean slate. All of us. A chance to exist without chaos.”

“You sound like you’re ready for peace too,” Hermione said.

Rosalie’s gaze softened. “Maybe I am. You can spend a century trying to outrun pain and only later realise you have to name it before you can move on.”

“You’re not alone in that,” Hermione said.

Rosalie studied her, something almost wistful in her face. “I didn’t expect to like you.”

Hermione laughed under her breath. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It is,” Rosalie said, smiling more openly now. “You fought your way through hell and came out stronger. That’s rare. It’s comforting, in a way. Knowing someone else understands.”

Hermione’s throat tightened. “I think we both understand more than most.”

For the first time Rosalie reached across the table and let her hand brush Hermione’s. Cool skin met warm. “You’re not what I expected,” she said softly. “You’re a reminder that strength doesn’t always have to roar.”

Hermione blinked, touched to the core. “And you’re a reminder that beauty doesn’t mean fragility.”

Rosalie’s quiet laugh drew a matching smile from Hermione. The rain slowed to a fine mist while they spoke of smaller things, the sort of details that make strangers into people.

When they rose to leave, the world outside was grey and peaceful.

Rosalie didn’t seem to notice the damp at all, her posture still perfectly poised. Hermione kept fussing with her scarf, trying to stop it from sticking to her neck.

They lingered by the kerb, neither of them quite ready to end the conversation.

“I’ll let the pack know you’re leaving Forks,” Hermione said gently. “It’ll mean a lot to them to have that reassurance.”

Rosalie nodded. “Thank you.” Her voice softened. “It feels strange to say goodbye to this place. But it’s time. We’ve been standing still for too long.”

Hermione nodded in understanding, in a way that didn’t need words.

For a while they stood in companionable silence while the mist curled around them. Then Hermione spoke again, quieter than before. “Since everything came out about Ron and what he did to me, the story reached home. The wizarding press were quick to pick it up. And since then…”

She paused, glanced down at the wet pavement, then met Rosalie’s eyes. “Other witches have started to come forward. Wives, partners, women who thought they were alone. It’s heartbreaking. But it made me realise something.”

Rosalie tilted her head, curiosity flickering behind her eyes. “What did it make you realise?”

“In the Muggle world there are places where victims can go,” Hermione said. “Charities, support groups, even safe houses. In the wizarding world there’s nothing. No one speaks about it. They whisper, they hide it, and the women vanish into the silence.”

Rosalie’s expression changed. The sharpness eased into something thoughtful, dangerous in a different way. “That’s wrong,” she said. “It shouldn’t be like that.”

“No, it shouldn’t.” Hermione’s voice gathered strength. “I’ve been thinking about it. What if we could change that? What if we built something that helps them? A safe place where they’ll be believed.”

Rosalie looked out towards the street, her eyes distant. “When I was human,” she said slowly, “no one would’ve believed me if I’d lived. I was the pretty girl who got everything she wanted. No one wanted to hear what he did. People like that thrive because others look away.”

“Exactly,” Hermione said. “That’s why it has to change.”

Rosalie looked back at her, and for the first time there was something fierce in her face, not anger but resolve. “Maybe we could do something about it,” she said. “You and me. A sanctuary, or a network. Something that offers protection and power. If anyone can make it happen, it’s you.”

Hermione blinked at the intensity of her tone, then smiled. “If we do this, it’ll be us. Not just me.”

Rosalie’s mouth curved into a small, wry smile. “You really mean that, don’t you?”

“Completely,” Hermione said softly. “No one knows better than we do what it’s like to be silenced and still survive. If we can give others even a fraction of what we’ve found, it’s worth it.”

Rosalie didn’t answer at once. Then she slipped a slim phone from her coat pocket and held it between her fingers. “Do you have one of these?”

Hermione laughed quietly. “I do. Only recently. I’m still learning how to use it.”

“Give me your number,” Rosalie said with a faint smile. “If I come up with something, I’ll contact you. We’ll make it happen.”

Hermione read it out and Rosalie typed with elegant precision, then handed over her own phone in turn. Hermione entered the number with careful attention, her fingers trembling a little under the weight of what this small exchange meant.

“Thank you,” Hermione said, slipping the phone back into her pocket.

“No,” Rosalie replied. “Thank you. You reminded me that we can still change things, even after everything.”

They stood there for a few moments longer, two women who’d clawed their way back from ruin, now joined by more than gratitude, joined by purpose.

As Rosalie turned to leave, Hermione called after her. “Rosalie?”

The vampire paused and looked back.

“Whatever you build,” Hermione said, “tell me how I can help.”

Rosalie’s expression softened into something almost fond. “I will,” she promised.

Then, with the quiet grace that seemed to belong only to her, she moved away and vanished into the mist, leaving Hermione on the pavement with rain in her hair and a steady light in her chest.

By the time Hermione reached La Push, the world felt muted and calm. The drive through the forest gave her room to think. Rosalie lingered in her thoughts, not as an enemy, not even as an uneasy ally, but as a woman who understood. That new flicker in her chest wasn’t just gratitude. It was purpose.

She parked outside Emily’s house. The lights glowed through the curtains. She knocked once and stepped inside. Warm air and the smell of fresh bread wrapped around her. Emily stood at the counter with her sleeves rolled and flour across her hands. She looked up and smiled.

“Hermione,” she said. “I wasn’t expecting you tonight. Is everything alright?”

“Better than alright,” Hermione said, shrugging off her coat and hanging it by the door. “I’ve just come from Forks.”

Emily frowned. “Forks? That’s unusual for you. Is everything okay there?”

Hermione sat at the kitchen table. “It was enlightening. I met someone. Rosalie Hale.”

Emily froze halfway through kneading and stared. “Rosalie? One of them?”

“Yes,” Hermione said with a faint smile at Emily’s tone. “Don’t worry. It wasn’t dangerous. We met somewhere neutral. I wanted to thank her properly. Quil said she warned Sam about Ron.”

Emily wiped her hands and came to sit opposite. “I didn’t know she came to you.”

“She didn’t,” Hermione said. “I sent her an owl. I meant only to say thank you, but it became more than that.”

Emily leaned forward, curiosity overcoming her wariness. “What happened?”

“They’re leaving,” Hermione said softly. “All of them. Edward ended things with Bella. They’re moving on for good. They want peace as much as we do.”

Emily blinked. “Are you sure?”

“I am,” Hermione said. “She asked me to pass it on to the tribe. They mean no harm. They want a fresh start.”

Relief softened Emily’s shoulders. “That’s good to hear. Sam will be glad, even if he doesn’t admit it right away.”

“There’s more,” Hermione said, and her smile warmed. “We spoke about what’s come out in the wizarding world. Other women have started to come forward, women who went through what I did. I told Rosalie, and she wants to help. So do I.”

Emily tilted her head. “Help how?”

“By building something,” Hermione said. “A safe space for witches and other creatures who’ve suffered abuse. There’s nothing for them. No system. No refuge. We’re going to change that.”

Emily stared, then pride spread across her face. “You’re incredible.”

Hermione laughed, a little shy. “I just want to do something that matters.”

“You already have,” Emily said, taking her hand. “But this could help so many.”

“I can’t do it alone,” Hermione said quietly. “It’ll take time and help from both worlds.”

“You’ll have mine,” Emily said at once. “Whatever you need. Organising, outreach, a shoulder to lean on. I’m in.”

Hermione’s throat tightened. “Thank you. That means more than I can say.”

The front door opened and heavy steps sounded down the hall. Sam came into the kitchen, still damp from patrol, his expression alert.

“What’s this?” he asked, looking between them.

Emily gave him a small, careful smile. “Hermione’s been to Forks. She met Rosalie Hale.”

Sam’s shoulders tensed. “A leech?” His voice held wariness rather than anger. “You met one?”

“Yes,” Hermione said, keeping her voice calm. “We met on neutral ground. I wanted to thank her for warning you about Ron.”

Sam frowned. “What did she want in return?”

“Nothing,” Hermione said. “She told me the Cullens are leaving Forks for good. They’ve broken with Bella and want peace. She asked me to pass that on.”

Sam worked his jaw, then let out a slow breath, as if letting go of a fight he didn’t need. “If they’re really leaving, that’s something.”

“They are,” Hermione said. “She wouldn’t have told me that otherwise.”

Emily touched his arm. “She’s also offered to help Hermione with something important. Listen to this.”

Sam folded his arms and waited.

Hermione told him about the women who’d come forward and about the plan for a sanctuary. She spoke about Rosalie’s resolve. Emily’s eyes shone with pride while Sam listened, thoughtful and silent.

When she finished, he rubbed his hand across his jaw. “You want to work with a vampire?”

“I want to work with a survivor,” Hermione said.

That pulled him up short. He looked at Emily, then at Hermione, and nodded at last. “If this helps people, and if the Cullens are gone, I won’t stand in the way. Just… be careful.”

“I always am,” Hermione said with a small smile.

Sam turned to Emily. “You’re getting involved?”

“Yes,” Emily said, squeezing his arm. “Because it matters.”

Something softened in his face. He bent and kissed the top of her head. “Then I won’t argue.”

Warmth settled in Hermione’s chest as she watched them.

They spent the evening at the kitchen table with mugs of tea and a notepad between them. They talked about what could be built and who they needed to speak to. Names and ideas filled the page - safe rooms, discreet healers, legal guidance, a warded network that could bridge both worlds.

Seth found her later that night at Hemlock Sanctuary.

The rain had eased to a light drizzle, mist curling low across the clearing, the scent of wet pine thick in the air. The cabin lights glowed warm against the grey evening, and when Hermione opened the door she was smiling in that quiet, distracted way that meant she’d been lost in thought.

“Hey,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Emily said you were back.”

“I am,” Hermione replied, stepping aside so he could come in. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to vanish for most of the day. I just needed to do something important.”

Seth stepped inside and closed the door gently behind him. “No need to apologise. You’ve had more than enough to deal with lately.”

Hermione smiled faintly and set the kettle to boil. “Tea?”

He grinned. “Always.”

They moved easily round each other in the small kitchen, Hermione fetching mugs while Seth leaned against the counter and watched her. She looked tired, though not in the way she had before. She wasn’t drained or hollow. She seemed thoughtful, grounded, like someone who had put a heavy book back on the shelf and finally stepped away.

“You went to Forks?” he asked.

She nodded. “I did. I met Rosalie Hale.”

That caught him off guard. “The vampire?”

“Yes,” she said, amused by his expression. “She’s not what I expected. She’s complicated. But kind. She’s leaving Forks with the rest of them. They won’t be back.”

“That’s good,” he said, relaxing a little. “Less trouble for all of us.”

Hermione poured the tea and handed him a mug. Their fingers brushed and, for a reason he couldn’t name, that small contact tugged at something tight in his chest.

“I also think I made a friend,” Hermione added, quiet and a touch shy.

Seth raised a brow. “A vampire friend? That’s new.”

Hermione laughed softly, her eyes crinkling. “It surprised me too. We talked about everything. What we’ve both been through. Turns out we’ve got more in common than you’d think.”

He nodded and sipped his tea, watching her over the rim. “You’re good at that.”

“At what?”

“Finding the good in people,” he said simply. “Even when the rest of us can’t see it.”

Hermione looked down at her tea, a faint colour rising in her cheeks. “I think I just know what it’s like to be misunderstood.”

They sat at the table and let a soft, easy quiet settle. Crookshanks hopped onto the counter with a lazy flick of his tail, and Hermione reached over to stroke him without looking, her fingers finding the familiar place behind his ear.

Seth found himself studying her. The way her hair fell loose round her shoulders. The faint smudge of ink on her fingers from writing earlier. She looked more alive than she had in days, as if a knot inside her had finally loosened.

“What?” she asked, catching his gaze.

He shook his head, suddenly self-conscious. “Nothing. Just… you look lighter.”

Hermione tilted her head and smiled. “Do I?”

“Yeah,” he said, and then, with quiet sincerity, “I like seeing you like this.”

That made her laugh, soft and a little unsure, but genuine. “I like feeling like this,” she admitted. “It’s been a while.”

They stayed like that for a while longer, talking about small things. The wolves. How Emily had somehow managed to burn a loaf of bread despite never burning anything. How Crookshanks had taken to sleeping in Seth’s hoodie when he’d left it on the chair one afternoon.

It was easy with him. Easier than she’d expected it to be.

At some point Hermione stood to clear the mugs. As she lifted one, her elbow clipped the other and sent it tumbling. It hit the floor and shattered, tea splashing across the boards.

She froze at the sound.

It wasn’t just surprise. It was instinct, sharp and breathless. Panic clutched at her chest before she could stop it. For a heartbeat she braced for the shout, for anger, for the kind of reaction she’d learnt to expect.

None came.

Seth was already kneeling beside her, his face open with concern. “Hey, are you alright?”

Hermione blinked. Her hands were trembling. “I… yes, I just…”

“Did you cut yourself?” he asked, voice low and focused. He took her hand gently and checked her fingers for shards. When he found none, he let out a slow breath. “Thank God. Don’t move, I’ll clean it up.”

Before she could protest he’d fetched a towel and crouched to soak up the tea, picking up the broken pieces with careful, steady hands. When he stood, he wore a sheepish look. “You know, I always hated that mug anyway.”

Hermione stared at him, thrown by the lightness in his tone. “You… hated it?”

He nodded with solemn drama. “Ugly colour. I’ve been hoping for an excuse to break it for weeks.”

A startled laugh escaped her. The tightness in her chest melted all at once. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Maybe,” he said, grinning, “but it worked, didn’t it?”

Hermione looked at him, really looked, and realised how safe she felt with him. No fear. No second-guessing. Just warmth and steadiness.

“Thank you,” she said quietly.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “For what? Cleaning up?”

“For not being angry,” she said.

His expression softened and something raw flickered in his eyes. “Hermione, I could never be angry at you for something like that.”

Her throat tightened. “You’d be surprised how many people would.”

He hesitated, then reached out and brushed his fingers across hers. “Then they didn’t deserve you.”

The words settled between them, fragile and honest.

Hermione swallowed and found her voice. “You’re very good at saying the right thing.”

He smiled. “That’s only because I mean it.”

Chapter Text

The morning air at Hemlock Sanctuary was cool and still. Sunlight streamed through the kitchen window, turning the steam from her tea into soft golden ribbons.  Hermione had just sat down when a soft tapping came from the window. An owl, sleek and grey, perched there with two letters tied neatly to its leg, each sealed with dark red wax.

Her stomach turned, that old reflex she still hadn’t managed to shake. There was something about parchment and wax seals that could still make her hands tremble, no matter how many years had passed. She opened the window, took the letters carefully, and slipped the owl a small treat. It gave a low hoot before flying off into the brightening sky.

The first envelope bore Bill’s careful, slanted handwriting. The second was Charlie’s.

Hermione stared at them for a long moment before breaking the first seal.

Dear Hermione,

I don’t know how to begin this. I’ve written and rewritten it more times than I can count. I should’ve reached out years ago. I should’ve asked questions. I should’ve seen what was happening.

I can’t imagine the strength it took to survive what you went through, and it hurts to know that while you were fighting to hold yourself together, we, my family, were part of what broke you. I believed the wrong person. I looked away when you needed someone to look closer. And for that, I’m so deeply sorry.

You didn’t deserve any of it. You never did. If you can’t forgive me, I’ll understand completely, but I need you to know that I’m proud of you, even from afar.

Bill

By the time she reached the end, Hermione’s eyes were wet. She pressed her fingers to her lips and breathed deeply before opening the second letter.

Hermione,

I’ve been trying to write this for months. I don’t have many words, so I’ll just say what I mean. I’m sorry. I believed lies. I should’ve known better. I should’ve known you better.

Mum won’t hear a word against him. Bill’s been carrying most of it. I just wanted you to know that I see it now. All of it. You didn’t deserve any of it. I hope you’ve found peace where you are.

You were always the brave one, Hermione. I’m sorry it took me so long to remember that.

Charlie

Hermione sat there for a long while after she finished reading. The letters lay open on the table, the ink still sharp and dark against the cream parchment. The words were kind - painful, but kind and she could feel the honesty in every line. They meant well. They truly did.

But as much as her heart ached for the time lost, she couldn’t bring herself to reopen those doors. The past had already taken more than enough from her.

She reached for her quill and parchment and began to write, her hand steady this time.

Dear Bill, dear Charlie,

Thank you for your letters. I read them both more than once, and I can’t tell you how much it means to hear from you, to know that you see things clearly now.

I forgive you. Truly. I think we all did what we thought was best with the information we had at the time. I’m not angry anymore.

That said, I think it’s best if I keep some distance. I’ve built a life where I am, and for the first time in years, I’m at peace. Please give my love to your families. I wish you both every happiness.

Take care,
Hermione

She signed it neatly, folded the parchment, and sealed it with a simple charm before sending it off with the same owl that had brought them. When the bird disappeared into the trees, she let out a long, quiet breath that seemed to take years with it.

For a while, she sat in the stillness, the morning light spilling across the table and catching the rim of her mug. She didn’t feel angry. She didn’t even feel sad. Just calm.

The past would always be a part of her, a shadow that lingered behind every triumph and scar, but she didn’t need to live inside it anymore.

A knock came at the door a few minutes later.

“Morning,” Seth said softly when she turned. He leaned against the frame, his hair still damp from the mist outside. “Everything alright?”

Hermione smiled, the warmth in it quiet but sure. “It is,” she said, and she meant it. “It really is.”

A week after the storm had passed, the quiet around Hemlock Sanctuary felt different. It wasn’t heavy or tense anymore. It was peaceful. The forest hummed again, the wind whispering through the pines, and the air carried the faint salt of the sea. For the first time in what felt like forever, Hermione could breathe.

It was early afternoon when the flames in the hearth flickered green. Hermione looked up from her book just in time to see Luna step gracefully out of the Floo, her wand tucked behind one ear and a small trunk floating obediently behind her.

“Hello, Hermione,” she said serenely. “Do you mind if I stay for a while?”

Hermione blinked, setting her book aside. “Of course not. Is everything alright?”

Luna smiled dreamily, brushing a bit of soot from her sleeve. “Perfectly. I just thought I should spend some time here. Paul says I distract him too much when I’m in La Push, but he likes it when i’m near”

Hermione bit back a laugh. “I can imagine. You two seem… well, very close.”

“Oh, we are,” Luna said, nodding as if she were commenting on the weather. “He’s learning to meditate. He’s not very good at it, but it’s sweet when he tries. I told him that if he can manage an hour of silence without growling, I’ll make him a flower crown of self-restraint.”

Hermione couldn’t help laughing outright. “You’re going to be the death of him, Luna.”

“Maybe,” Luna said cheerfully, setting her trunk down by the stairs. “But he seems rather pleased about it.”

Hermione grinned and shook her head. “You can have the guest room, as always. You know you never have to ask.”

“I know,” Luna said, smiling softly. “But it’s polite to ask until moving in with my wolf.”

Hermione nearly choked on her tea. “Your what?”

“My wolf,” Luna repeated calmly. “Paul. He’s terribly possessive, but in a charming way. I think it’s an imprint thing. You wouldn’t believe how calm he is now. Emily calls him the mellow wolf.”

Hermione laughed again, covering her mouth. “That’s perfect.”

“It is rather fitting,” Luna said, her eyes twinkling. “He’s still very loud, but now it’s in a content sort of way. Like a big, happy thunderstorm.”

Hermione smiled, warmth tugging at her chest. “I’m happy for you, Luna. Truly.”

“Thank you,” Luna said softly. Before Hermione could reply, there was a knock at the door. Hermione opened it to find Seth standing there, grinning in that easy, familiar way.

“Hey, Luna,” he said. “Paul’s been pacing like a lost puppy. He’s pretending he’s not waiting for you, but it’s not very convincing.”

Luna’s face lit up. “How lovely. I’ll go put him out of his misery.”

She swept past them both, her trunk floating along behind her. When she was gone, Seth chuckled and ran a hand through his hair. “Paul’s doomed,” he said with a grin.

“Hopelessly,” Hermione agreed. “But in the best way.”

“Yeah.” Seth leaned against the doorframe, watching the spot where Luna had disappeared. “You know, it’s strange. She’s changed him. He used to be all heat and temper, ready to bite someone’s head off if they looked at him wrong. Now…”

Hermione tilted her head. “Now?”

“Now he smiles,” Seth said simply. “He laughs. He’s… content.”

Hermione smiled faintly. “It’s funny how love can do that.”

Seth glanced at her then, a quiet, private smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah,” he murmured. “It really is.”

They stood there for a moment in the doorway, the late afternoon sun spilling across the porch, and the sound of laughter drifting faintly from the woods - Paul’s unmistakable voice followed by Luna’s light, melodic laugh.

Hermione leaned against the doorframe, her expression soft. “I feel a bit sorry for him,” she said teasingly. “He doesn’t stand a chance against her.”

Seth chuckled. “He doesn’t need one. I think she’s the best thing that ever happened to him.”

Hermione looked at him then, really looked, and something warm and steady curled in her chest.

“I think we all needed a bit of light after everything,” she said quietly.

Seth nodded. “Yeah,” he said softly, meeting her gaze. “We really did.”

Soon the forest began to turn, the first hints of spring creeping through the evergreens. Crocuses pushed up through the damp earth outside Hemlock Sanctuary, their purple petals small but stubborn. Hermione liked that about them, that quiet defiance against something as inevitable as winter.

Life had settled into a rhythm she hadn’t realised she’d needed. Her mornings were spent at the bookshop, her afternoons helping at the sanctuary or reading in the sunlit nook of her kitchen with the cat she’d adopted, a stubborn little creature called Pip who had decided her lap was the best place in the world. Her evenings, more often than not, belonged to Seth.

It was slow, gentle and steady. The kind of peace she’d never believed she’d be allowed.

That morning, she was at the bookshop. Mae sat behind the counter with her glasses perched low on her nose, humming along to an old song on the radio. The faint scent of coffee and old paper filled the air, the sort of smell that made the place feel like home. Hermione was sorting through a delivery of second-hand books, lost in the familiar comfort of it.

After a while, Mae glanced up, smiling faintly. “You’ve been smiling a lot lately, love.”

Hermione looked up, startled. “Have I?”

“Oh yes,” Mae said, still scribbling on a stack of receipts. “You used to come in here with the weight of the world on your shoulders, like it was all waiting to crush you. But now…” she gestured vaguely towards Hermione, “now you look like someone who’s remembered how to breathe.”

Hermione felt a warmth bloom in her chest. “I think I have,” she said softly. “It’s taken a while.”

Mae gave a knowing smile. “The good things always do.”

Later, when the shop fell quiet, Hermione found herself thinking about that - about how far she’d come. There had been a time when she couldn’t hear her own laughter without guilt pressing in on her chest. Now, she could stand in the middle of this sleepy little town, surrounded by books, sunlight, and kind voices, and feel whole.

That evening she walked down to the sanctuary. Seth was repairing one of the fences, his curls damp with sweat, his shirt sleeves rolled up past his elbows. He grinned when he saw her.

“You’re early,” he said, hammering in the last nail.

“I finished up at the shop a bit sooner today,” she said. “Mae’s insisting I take a proper day off soon.”

“She’s right,” he teased, wiping his hands on his jeans. “You work too hard.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “Coming from someone who runs a sanctuary and still finds time to help every stray creature within fifty miles, including myself?”

Seth laughed. “Touché.”

They walked the grounds together, checking the animals. The sun was dipping low, turning the trees gold and filling the air with the scent of pine and sea salt. Pip trotted along behind them, tail twitching, darting ahead now and then to chase a leaf.

When they reached the far end of the field, Seth leaned against the fence, watching her. “You’ve been quiet today,” he said gently. “Something on your mind?”

Hermione hesitated, her fingers curling around the wood. “A little,” she admitted. “I’ve been thinking about the past.”

He stayed silent, giving her space to speak.

“There’s something I haven’t told you,” she said at last. “Something I’ve never told anyone here.”

Seth straightened, concern flickering across his face. “You don’t have to…”

“I want to,” she interrupted softly. “You should know.”

She took a slow breath, steadying herself, then rolled up her sleeve. The fading light caught on her skin, on the faint, silvery lines that had never quite disappeared.

The word Mudblood glimmered there, pale but unmistakable.

Seth’s breath caught. “Hermione…”

“It happened during the war,” she said quietly, not looking at him. “I was captured. Tortured. Bellatrix Lestrange carved it into my arm with her wand.”

Her voice didn’t shake, but it was almost a whisper. “I used to hate it. I tried everything to erase it. I thought it made me weak, marked somehow. But it’s part of me now. A reminder, I suppose, that I survived.”

Seth stepped closer, his movements careful, his expression full of quiet understanding. His hand hovered near her arm. “Can I…?”

She nodded.

He reached out and traced the scar with his thumb, so gently it barely felt like a touch. “It’s not weakness,” he said softly. “It’s proof of what you came through. What you’re made of.”

Hermione’s throat tightened. “You don’t look at me like I’m broken.”

“Because you’re not,” he said simply. “You’re the strongest person I’ve ever met.”

The words hit her harder than she expected. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The forest hummed around them, the evening light soft and golden.

Finally, she whispered, “Thank you.”

Seth met her eyes, his voice quiet and certain. “You don’t have to thank me for seeing you, Hermione.”

A few days after that, Seth mentioned that his mum wanted to meet her properly. Hermione had panicked for a solid hour before she’d finally agreed.

“Don’t worry,” Seth had said, laughing at her expression. “She’s lovely. You’ll see.”

Now, standing outside the Clearwater house with a basket of pastries from Mae’s bakery and a nervous smile plastered on her face, Hermione wasn’t so sure.

Sue Clearwater opened the door before he could knock. She was warm-looking, with kind eyes and the same easy smile as her son. “You must be Hermione,” she said, her voice full of warmth. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

“All good, I hope,” Hermione said.

“Oh, only the best,” Sue replied, ushering them inside. “Though from what I hear, you’re even more extraordinary in person.”

Hermione flushed. “That’s very kind of you.”

“Kind, but true,” Sue said, taking the basket from her. “And this? Pastries? You’re spoiling me already.”

“It’s nothing,” Hermione said shyly. “They’re from the shop I work at. Mae insisted I bring some.”

The house smelled of cinnamon and wood polish, with photographs covering the walls - Seth with a missing tooth, Leah at a school competition, the family together on the beach. It was warm in a way that hit Hermione deep in her chest.

Over tea, the conversation flowed easily. She asked about Hermione’s work and where she came from. Hermione answered honestly, though carefully, avoiding the parts about magic. She wasn’t ready to open that world to everyone, and she sensed that Seth’s mother understood more than she said.

At one point,Sue leaned forward, her eyes kind. “You make my son very happy, you know. I can see it.”

Hermione blushed furiously. “I could say the same about him. He’s… extraordinary.”

“Ah, I know,”Sue said fondly, glancing at Seth. “Always was. He’s got such a good heart, that one. Too soft for his own good sometimes.”

“Mum,” Seth groaned, but Hermione laughed, the tension melting away.

“I can’t imagine anyone better,” she said with a smile.

Sue looked between them, her expression soft and full of warmth. “Then I think you’re both very lucky.”

When they left later that evening, Hermione found herself holding Seth’s hand as they walked down the path. The air was cool and smelled faintly of sea spray and pine.

“She likes you,” Seth said after a moment, sounding pleased.

“Does she?” Hermione asked, half-laughing.

“She hugged you twice,” he said with a grin. “That’s basically family.”

Hermione laughed softly. “That’s a relief. I really liked her. She’s… warm.”

“She is,” Seth said. “She’s been through a lot, but she never lets it make her bitter.”

Hermione nodded thoughtfully. “I understand that.”

He smiled at her, something soft in his eyes. “You do.”

They reached the turn for the sanctuary, and Seth slowed, his hand still linked with hers. “I’m proud of you,” he said suddenly. “For sharing everything you did. For still choosing to see the good in people, even after everything.”

Hermione felt something gentle and fierce rise in her chest. “I had to. If I stopped believing in the good, I’d stop believing in myself.”

He squeezed her hand. “You’re something else, Hermione Granger.”

She smiled up at him, her heart full. “You keep saying that.”

“Because it keeps being true,” he said softly.

They walked the rest of the way in silence, the kind that didn’t need filling. When they reached the cabin, the last of the sunset washed the trees in gold. Pip, the latest rescue, a small grey kitten, darted out to greet them, weaving around Hermione’s legs.

Seth crouched to stroke the cat, laughing quietly. “He’s definitely picked his person.”

“Smart cat,” Hermione said, smiling down at them both.

1 Year Later

The world was still. The sea murmured softly below, and the stars scattered like silver dust across a velvet sky. Hermione lay nestled against Seth on the cliffs where everything had begun, the quiet stretch of land that had seen the first flicker of what they had become. The air carried that soft, salt-sweet scent she loved, the promise of the ocean tangled with pine and earth.

It had been a year since everything had broken and remade itself around her, and yet every day with Seth still felt like a quiet miracle. They came here often now, when the work at the sanctuary was done and the rest of the pack had gone home. It was their place, still and sacred, wide and endless.

Seth had been quieter than usual all evening. Not withdrawn, just thoughtful. His fingers traced slow, absent patterns along her arm as though his thoughts were far away. Hermione noticed the small crease between his brows, the way he kept glancing towards his jacket beside him, but she didn’t ask. He would talk when he was ready.

Now, under the fierce brightness of the stars, he took a slow breath.

“Hermione?” His voice was quiet, uncertain in a way that made her lift her head from his chest.

She smiled softly. “Yes?”

Seth sat up a little, his expression strangely serious. The firelight from their small lantern flickered across his face, turning his eyes to molten gold. For a moment he just looked at her, really looked, as if memorising every line, every freckle, every shade of her.

“You know how much I love you, right?” he began.

Hermione’s lips curved into a small smile. “I’ve got a rough idea, yes.”

He let out a nervous laugh and rubbed the back of his neck. “Good. Because I’m not great with words the way you are, and I’ve been trying to work out how to say this for weeks.”

Her heart gave a small, startled jump. “Seth…”

“Let me finish,” he said quickly, his voice shaking a little. “When you came here, I didn’t know what to make of you. You were this stranger who somehow fit in everywhere, with Emily, with Quil, even with the pack. And then I got to know you, and you changed everything. You make things feel calm when they shouldn’t. You make me want to be better.”

He paused, swallowing hard. “You once told me you’d been through so much darkness you didn’t think you’d ever find light again. But you did, and you brought it with you. You brought it to all of us.”

Hermione’s throat tightened. Her eyes burned. “Seth…”

He reached for his jacket, fumbling with something inside the pocket. “I didn’t plan to do this tonight. I wanted it to be perfect. But the truth is, every moment with you already is.”

When he turned back, a small ring rested in his palm. It was simple, silver and worn, a tiny stone catching the faint glow of the lantern. Hermione felt her heart twist, not because of what it was, but because of what it meant.

“I know it’s not much,” he said quickly, his cheeks flushing. “I wanted to get you something better, something…”

“Seth,” she interrupted gently, her voice trembling.

He stopped, looking up at her.

Hermione reached out, closing his hand around the ring. “You think I care about that?” she asked softly. “Do you really think I’ve ever measured love in gold or gems?”

Her smile trembled but her eyes didn’t. “You’re the kindest man I’ve ever known. You’ve seen me at my worst and never turned away. You’ve held me together when I was falling apart and never once asked me to be anything but myself. That’s worth more than anything money could buy.”

Seth’s shoulders dropped, relief loosening the tension in his face. “You’re sure?”

“Completely.”

He laughed then, breathless and shaky. “Then I’ll ask properly, even if it’s a bit late.”

He shifted onto one knee, still gripping her hand. “Hermione Granger, will you marry me?”

Hermione didn’t even glance at the ring this time. She looked straight at him, the boy who had become her anchor, the man who had held her through every storm. Her heart felt full to the point of ache, her chest tight with something too big for words.

“Yes,” she whispered, tears spilling freely down her cheeks. “Of course I will.”

Seth let out a broken laugh, standing quickly and pulling her into his arms. She went without hesitation, her hands fisting in his shirt as he buried his face in her hair. The rest of the world fell away, the cliffs, the waves, the sky, leaving only the warmth of him and the sound of his breath against her ear.

When he slipped the ring onto her finger, it gleamed faintly in the lantern light. It wasn’t grand, but it was perfect, a promise built from everything they’d survived and everything still ahead.

Hermione looked down at it once, briefly, then back up at him. That was where the beauty was. That was where her home had always been.

“I love you,” she said softly.

Seth smiled, eyes bright and wet. “I love you too.”

They stood there for a long time beneath the stars, holding each other close while the sea whispered below. The sky above them was the same as it had been that first night, vast and endless and full of light, but now it felt like it belonged to them.

Hermione leaned up and kissed him, slow and certain, the kind of kiss that wasn’t a beginning or an ending, but everything in between.

When they finally pulled apart, she rested her forehead against his, her voice barely above a whisper. “I told you once that Sirius’s star would always shine, even in the dark. I think it led me here.”

Seth smiled, brushing his thumb across her cheek. “Then I’ll make sure it never fades.”

And under the endless sky, with the sea breathing below and the stars keeping watch above, Hermione Granger, survivor, healer, warrior, and woman finally at peace, began the rest of her life with the man she loved.

Chapter Text

The morning of the wedding broke clear and bright, sunlight spilling through the tall trees that framed Hemlock Sanctuary. 

The air was soft and cool, carrying the faint tang of sea salt from the coast. Someone, Hermione was fairly sure it had been Emily, had filled the clearing with wildflowers, small bursts of colour tucked between tree roots and scattered along the aisle. 

A wooden arch stood at the front, draped with white ribbons that fluttered lazily in the breeze. The benches were simple and polished, their smooth surfaces catching the light. It was beautiful in an unpretentious way, the kind of place that felt alive.

Inside the cabin, Hermione stood before the small mirror by the window, her hands trembling slightly as she adjusted the strap of her dress.

The gown was soft ivory, simple and elegant, the hem just brushing the floor when she moved. Luna had spent the morning weaving sprigs of lavender into her hair, her fingers cool and deft. The scent was soothing, even if Hermione’s heart was still racing.

“You look like yourself,” Luna said gently, standing behind her. “That’s the most beautiful thing of all.”

Hermione met her friend’s eyes in the reflection and smiled. “You always know what to say.”

“I only ever tell the truth,” Luna replied, tucking one last flower into place. “Seth’s going to cry, you know.”

Hermione laughed softly, her nerves turning warm. “You think so?”

“I know so,” Luna said simply, her expression serene.

Emily appeared in the doorway, her eyes bright with pride. Leah stood just behind her, and George leaned against the wall, his tie crooked as always. They were all smiling in that quiet, knowing way that made Hermione’s chest ache.

“You ready, love?” Emily asked.

Hermione took a slow breath, her fingers brushing the lavender in her hair. “I think I am.”

“You’re more than ready,” George said, stepping forward to offer his hand. His grin was teasing but full of affection. “You’ve faced down Dark Lords and dragons. A wedding’s nothing compared to that.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, though her smile softened. “You’re impossible.”

“That’s what you love about me,” he said cheerfully, leaning down to kiss her cheek.

Outside, the faint hum of music began, a soft instrumental tune that drifted through the trees. Luna adjusted Hermione’s veil one last time, her touch careful. “You’re glowing,” she murmured, a little dreamily.

Quil appeared at the door then, smartly dressed for once, grinning from ear to ear. “Blimey, Hermione,” he said, shaking his head. “You’re going to knock him flat.”

Hermione laughed, though her throat felt tight. “You clean up rather well yourself.”

“Don’t I just?” he said with a wink, offering her his arm. “Shall we?”

The sunlight outside was dazzling. It poured golden through the canopy as she stepped into the clearing. Her breath caught at the sight before her. 

The benches were filled, the air alive with quiet warmth and expectation. Faces she’d come to know and love turned towards her, and for one suspended moment, the whole world seemed to still.

And then she saw him.

Seth stood at the end of the aisle, Embry at his side, dressed in a simple dark suit that did nothing to hide his strength. His curls had been brushed back, though a few rebellious ones had escaped already. When he saw her, his face lit with such pure, unguarded love that her heart seemed to stop.

Her fingers tightened around Quil’s arm as they began to walk. Everything else blurred, the flowers, the trees, the people, until all that was left was Seth.

Each step felt heavy and light at once. The soft rustle of her dress mingled with the whisper of wind through the branches. Quil leaned close as they reached the front, his voice low and kind. “He’s a good one,” he murmured. “You picked right.”

Hermione smiled through the tears threatening to spill. “I know.”

When Quil placed her hand into Seth’s, the rest of the world vanished. The warmth of his skin was the only thing that felt real.

The sunlight filtered through the trees as Old Quil began to speak, his voice steady and rich with warmth. The wildflowers glowed brighter under the light, ribbons shifting gently above their heads. It was small and simple and perfect, exactly as Hermione had hoped it would be.

Old Quil stood with his weathered hands clasped around a small book, his face creased into a proud smile. He had insisted on officiating, saying it was an honour to see a day like this in his lifetime. His words rolled through the clearing like soft waves, filled with the kind of wisdom that comes from having seen too much and still believing in love.

Hermione stood beside Seth, her hand in his, her heart beating fast but not from nerves. It was joy, deep and quiet and absolute.

As Old Quil spoke, she glanced over the gathered faces. The pack was there, every one of them. Emily sat near the front, beaming with pride. Leah sat just behind, her arms folded but her eyes glassy. Harry sat next to his imprint, tears threatening to overspill.

Leah and Harry had been together for around 7 months by this point. Whilst working on their friendship, Harry has stayed at Hemlock Sanctuary for what was initially supposed to be a week. After Leah imprinted on him, he hadn’t stepped foot back in England other than to gather his property from Grimmauld Place.

George and Angelina sat together, whispering and trying not to laugh at whatever joke he had whispered about Seth’s tie.

Further along, Hermione caught sight of Minerva, her hat tipped slightly in what could only be described as fond approval. Mae from the bookshop was there too, dabbing at her eyes and smiling so wide that Hermione nearly laughed.

And then she saw Rosalie and Emmett Cullen.

The vampires looked slightly out of place among the crowd, but Rosalie’s expression was soft and proud. Her usual cool poise had been replaced by something genuine, something almost maternal. Working with her over the past year on the Rising Phoenix charity had changed them both. Together, they had built a refuge for witches and magical beings escaping abuse, and in the process, forged an unlikely but deep friendship. Rosalie had found purpose again in the work. And today, she looked radiant, a small smile playing on her lips as she watched Hermione stand at the altar.

When their eyes met, Rosalie gave her the smallest of nods, and that was all it took for Hermione’s throat to tighten. She knew that look. It was pride and happiness and the rare peace of knowing two survivors had helped each other heal.

Seth’s mother sat near the front, one hand pressed to her mouth, eyes shining with pride and love. It made Hermione’s chest ache in the best way. This was what home looked like, this gathering of souls bound by choice, not just blood.

Old Quil’s voice carried over the quiet. “We’re gathered here today to witness something rare,” he said. “Two souls who’ve faced darkness and chosen love anyway. That’s not small. It’s the bravest thing there is.”

Hermione’s eyes prickled with tears. Seth squeezed her hand gently, and she turned back to him, her heart swelling.

When it came time for their vows, she drew a deep breath, her voice shaking only slightly. “When I came here, I wasn’t looking for anything,” she began. “I wasn’t ready to love anyone, least of all myself. But then I met you. And somehow, without even trying, you made me feel safe. You made me remember what peace could be.”

Seth’s eyes were bright, his jaw set as if he were holding back tears. Hermione smiled through her own. “You never asked me to change or to forget the past. You just stayed. Patient, kind, certain. You became my home, Seth Clearwater. And I promise to spend the rest of my life being worthy of that.”

Seth took a breath before it was his turn to speak, his voice rough but steady. “Hermione, I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone like you. You walked into my world, and everything made sense. You carry so much light, even when you can’t see it. You’re strong, stubborn, clever, and you make me want to be better every single day.”

He looked at her, his smile soft and certain. “You’re my heart, Hermione. You always will be.”

Old Quil’s eyes crinkled as he smiled. “By the promises you’ve made and the love that binds you, I now pronounce you husband and wife.”

Seth didn’t wait. He took her face in his hands and kissed her, slow and certain. The clearing erupted with cheers and laughter. Embry whooped, Paul whistled, and George shouted something that made everyone laugh harder. Hermione broke into laughter against Seth’s lips, her cheeks flushed and her heart impossibly full.

When she pulled back, the world was golden. The ribbons fluttered, the sunlight danced through the trees, and the people she loved most cheered around them.

Hermione looked up at Seth, her hand still in his, and knew that every road, every scar, every heartbreak had led her here, to love, to peace, to home.

The sun dipped low behind the trees by the time the ceremony ended, leaving the clearing bathed in the warm amber light of early evening. Tables had been set beneath strings of fairy lights that glowed softly like trapped stars. Someone, almost certainly Luna, had enchanted the lights to pulse gently in time with the music. Plates of food and bottles of wine covered the tables, and laughter filled the air, bright and unrestrained.

The Cullens stayed for a short while, lingering at the edge of the festivities. When they came to say their goodbyes, Rosalie surprised Hermione by pulling her into a firm embrace. Her arms were cool, but her touch was steady, almost protective.

“I’m happy for you,” Rosalie said quietly. Her golden eyes were warm in a way Hermione had never seen before. “It’s a wonderful thing, discovering what love really is. I didn’t think I ever would.”

Hermione understood instantly. She gave a small smile, squeezing Rosalie’s hand. “I’m glad you did.”

Emmett stepped forward then, grinning broadly as he scooped Hermione up into a bear hug that lifted her clean off the ground. “If you ever need someone to throw your husband into the sea, you know where to find me,” he said, laughing.

Hermione laughed too, brushing at her skirt once she was back on her feet. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Rosalie smiled faintly and looped her arm through Emmett’s as they turned to leave. “Enjoy this,” she said softly, glancing back once more. “You’ve earned it.”

Hermione watched them go, feeling an unexpected wave of fondness. Then she turned back towards the clearing and caught sight of Minerva wiping at her eyes with a handkerchief.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Minerva muttered, dabbing at her cheeks. “You’d think I’d have run out of tears by now.”

Hermione laughed, moving to hug her former professor. “Don’t you start, or I’ll cry too.”

Minerva held her tightly, her voice warm and full of affection. “I am so proud of you, my dear. You’ve been through more than anyone should ever have to bear, and yet here you are. You deserve this happiness. Every bit of it.”

Hermione’s throat tightened. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Before she could say more, Seth appeared at her side, smiling in that quiet, steady way that always made her chest ache. Someone called out for the first dance, and the crowd parted with cheerful laughter and teasing whistles. Hermione’s heart skipped as he offered his hand.

“May I?” he asked softly.

She nodded and let him lead her to the centre of the clearing. The music slowed into something soft and lilting. His hand found her waist, her fingers brushed his shoulder, and for a moment, it felt as if there was no one else in the world. The pack had gone still, watching with fond smiles. Even Paul looked unusually sentimental.

Seth swayed with her beneath the fairy lights, his touch steady, his smile full of quiet wonder. “You know,” he murmured, “I don’t think I’ve ever been this happy.”

Hermione’s heart melted. “Me neither.”

When the song faded, they were met with applause and laughter. Quil came bounding over, grinning from ear to ear. “Right, my turn!” he declared.

Seth rolled his eyes but stepped back, laughing as Quil dramatically bowed. “May I, Mrs Clearwater?”

Hermione giggled, curtseying with exaggerated grace. “You may.”

Their dance was ridiculous from start to finish. Quil twirled her too fast, almost tripping over his own feet, and Hermione laughed until her sides hurt. By the end of the song, she was breathless and glowing.

Then a familiar melody began to play, soft and haunting, and Hermione froze for a heartbeat. It was a song she hadn’t heard in years.

“Mind if I cut in?” a voice asked gently.

She turned to find Harry standing there, a small, sheepish smile on his face. He looked older, but there was a softness about him now, a peace she hadn’t seen before.

“You requested this, didn’t you?” she asked quietly.

He nodded. “Our song,” he said simply. “From the tent.”

Hermione felt her throat tighten. “You remembered.”

“I could never forget.”

They began to dance, slow and steady, and the world seemed to fall away until it was just them. The song spoke of loss and hope and the kind of love that ran deeper than friendship, something built from shared scars and survival.

When it ended, Harry kissed her forehead. “I’m so proud of you, Hermione.”

She smiled through her tears. “Thank you. For everything.”

Then the spell broke, and before she knew it, she was being passed from one pair of hands to another—Embry, Jacob, Paul, even Leah, who smirked and said she was “only doing this to prove she could lead.” Each dance brought laughter, teasing, and joy.

Finally, she found herself in George’s arms. He grinned down at her, his eyes bright with mischief and love. “You look bloody radiant,” he said. “I reckon Fred’s up there somewhere, rolling his eyes at how perfect this all is.”

Hermione’s breath caught. “Do you really think so?”

George nodded, his grin softening. “I know so. He’d be chuffed, Hermione. You made it through hell and still found your way back to happiness. That’s all he ever wanted for you.”

Her eyes shimmered. She leaned up and kissed his cheek. “I miss him.”

“I do too,” George said quietly, squeezing her hand. “But I think he’s with us tonight. Probably taking the mickey out of me right now.”

Hermione laughed through her tears, the sound small but full of warmth.

When the next song began, Seth appeared again, reaching for her hand. “Mind if I steal my wife back?”

George grinned and stepped aside. “All yours, mate.”

Seth pulled her close, his arm around her waist, his other hand finding hers. She fit against him perfectly, her head resting against his chest as they swayed. The laughter around them faded into the hum of music and the crackle of the bonfire.

“You alright?” he murmured, brushing a curl from her face.

Hermione smiled up at him, her heart full. “More than alright.”

He kissed her softly, slow and unhurried, the firelight flickering across their skin.

As the night deepened, Hermione thought that if happiness had a sound, it would be this: laughter, music, and the steady heartbeat of the man she loved.

The fire had burned low by the time the last guests drifted away. Only a few faint embers glowed gold in the grate. Hermione and Harry sat side by side on the porch of Hemlock Sanctuary, the night air cool and clean after the warmth of the day. Fireflies drifted lazily between the trees, their light soft against the darkness.

Hermione had known all evening that Harry wanted to talk. He’d smiled when he was meant to, laughed when someone made a joke, but there had been a heaviness about him that she recognised too well. When he finally turned to her, the look in his eyes told her this wasn’t an easy conversation.

“I spoke to Kingsley,” he said quietly. “About Ron.”

Hermione froze. She hadn’t expected that name tonight, not here, not in this peace. But she didn’t interrupt. She waited.

Harry rubbed a hand over his face, his movements slow and tired. “He’s been seeing a mind healer in Azkaban” he said at last. “They think the damage started long before the war ended. The locket - the Horcrux - it didn’t just make him angry or jealous. It infected him. Like poison.”

Hermione frowned, twisting her fingers together in her lap. “But we all wore it,” she said softly. “We all felt it. We argued, yes, but we didn’t…” She couldn’t bring herself to finish the sentence.

Harry nodded. “I asked the same thing. The healer said it’s different for everyone. The Horcrux fed on what was already there. On fear, resentment, insecurity. With Dumbledore, the ring destroyed him physically. With Ron, it attacked his mind. And it never really stopped. He wasn’t the same after that.”

Hermione’s eyes stung. She didn’t know if it was sorrow or anger. “So what does that mean?” she whispered. “That it wasn’t his fault?”

Harry hesitated. “Not entirely. It doesn’t excuse what he did. Nothing could. But it might explain why he changed so much. Why he became someone neither of us recognised.”

Hermione stared into the fire’s last flickers. “Then why didn’t it do the same to us?” she asked. “We carried it longer. We felt it too. It nearly broke me, Harry. But it didn’t… rot me.”

Harry turned to her, his eyes thoughtful. “I’ve been thinking about that,” he said. “And I think I know why.”

She looked up, curious despite herself.

“I think it’s the bond,” he said slowly. “Not the imprinting itself. We didn’t know about that then, but the magic that connects us to them. The wolves. It’s ancient, protective magic. I think it shielded us, in ways we never realised. You, me, even Luna. We were never truly alone, even when we thought we were.”

Hermione blinked, the idea sinking in. “You think it was already working before we even knew?”

Harry nodded. “Yeah. I think it knew what was coming before we did. You always said magic has intent. Maybe this was it protecting its own.”

They sat in silence for a long moment. The night seemed to hold its breath around them. The idea resonated in Hermione’s bones. It made sense in a way that felt both impossible and utterly right.

She thought back to those long, cold nights on the run, when fear had been constant and exhaustion bone-deep. Yet somehow, she’d kept going. She’d always assumed it was sheer stubbornness or duty. But maybe it had been something else.

“I used to feel it,” she said softly. “Even when everything was falling apart. There was this… thread. I could never explain it. It wasn’t courage, not really. Just a small, steady warmth that wouldn’t let me give up.”

Harry smiled faintly. “That sounds like him,” he said, glancing towards the trees where Seth was likely keeping quiet watch. “That sounds like what it feels like to be connected.”

Hermione’s lips curved into a small, wistful smile. “It’s strange, isn’t it? How something so wild, so instinctive, can feel like peace.”

Harry nodded. “It’s balance,” he said simply. “For all the things we went through, I think we were always meant to find that.”

Hermione looked out over the trees, the night stretching calm and endless around them. “Maybe that’s why I survived,” she whispered. “Why I didn’t let it destroy me like it did him. Maybe I was never really alone after all.”

Harry reached out and squeezed her hand. “You were never alone,” he said. “Not then. Not now.”

They sat together in silence after that, two survivors of a world that had almost broken them, bound by old magic that had never truly let go.

And as the first pale light of dawn began to colour the edge of the sky, Hermione realised she could think of Ron without flinching.

She glanced at Harry, their hands still loosely joined, and smiled. The world had broken them both once, but somehow, it had given them new lives to grow into. Ones built not from guilt or duty, but from choice.

Beyond the trees, she could see the faint light of the Sanctuary windows glowing against the dark. Seth would be waiting, probably half asleep by the fire with Pip on his lap. That thought alone filled her with a warmth that ran bone-deep.

“I should go,” she said softly.

Harry nodded, understanding. “You’ve got someone who’ll worry if you don’t.”

Hermione smiled at that, rising from the step. “We both do.”

He stood too, and for a moment they just looked at each other - two friends who had walked through fire and somehow found their way home.

“Goodnight, Harry,” she whispered.

“Goodnight, Hermione.”

She turned towards the cabin, the first light of morning spilling softly across the path. The air was cool and clean, carrying the scent of pine and sea salt.

And as she walked back through the quiet forest towards the man she loved, Hermione realised that peace wasn’t something she had found.

It was something she had chosen.