Chapter Text
MAY 1998
Harry Potter was dead.
Hermione had known, deep down, the moment he turned toward the Forbidden Forest, wand hanging loosely in his hand, that he would not come back. There had been something final in his eyes, a quiet resignation she had never seen before. Still, even knowing, a sliver of foolish hope had lodged itself in her chest. She had prayed, begged… that when Hagrid carried him back, Harry would stir, would leap from the half-giant’s arms and prove them all wrong. But she was never that fortunate.
Harry had walked to his death willingly. He had done it because he believed it was the only way to end Voldemort, to give them even a chance at survival. But no one had planned for Voldemort’s retreat when the fighting resumed, Nagini slithering away with him, shielded, untouchable, and the Dark Lord had vanished into shadow before anyone could regroup.
The battle that followed was nothing short of slaughter. They had been outnumbered ten to one. The Order had fought valiantly, desperately, but Harry’s death had left them reeling. The shock of it had frozen them in place for one fatal instant, and the Death Eaters had pounced. They had come at them hard and fast, merciless in their triumph.
Hermione would never forget the screams. Or the way spells painted the air in streaks of light, red, green, purple, colliding midair with bursts that left smoke and blood in their wake. She would never forget the faces.
Arthur Weasley, struck down trying to shield his son.
Fred Weasley, laughter silenced mid-battle.
Luna Lovegood, her wand slipping from her pale fingers as she crumpled, serene even in death.
Neville Longbottom, who had stood tall until the very end, defiance blazing in his eyes before the curse hit him square in the chest.
Those were only the ones Hermione had seen fall with her own eyes. There were others, so many others. Faces that blurred together in a haze of fear, loss, and firelight. The courtyard became a graveyard before her very eyes, the ground littered with friends and enemies alike.
She remembered the metallic tang of blood in the air, the acrid stench of smoke, the way her own heartbeat thundered in her ears as she ran, cast, dodged, survived by instinct alone. Her body still ached from curses that had come too close, from the bruises where she’d hit stone, from the weight of despair pressing down on her.
Hermione hadn’t even heard the Order was retreating. The world around her had dissolved into chaos, screams, spells, bodies falling, but she only knew the pounding of her own feet against stone and the guttural growls closing in behind her. Fenrir Greyback.
His snarls echoed in her ears as she shot stunners over her shoulder, each spell desperate and clumsy compared to the precision she usually prided herself on. None of them slowed him. His hulking shadow filled the narrow corridor, his eyes gleaming in the dark, and Hermione knew if he caught her.
She rounded the corner, lungs burning, skidding into the Trophy Room, glass shattering where her shoulder clipped a case. Her wand was slippery in her palm with sweat. She had half a thought of barricading herself in, but before she could make another move, something seized her arm in a crushing grip and…
Crack.
The world tore itself apart.
Hermione’s body was wrenched violently, her stomach flipping inside out. She reacted on instinct, swinging wildly against her unseen captor even as the sickening pull of Apparition dragged her through nothingness. Moving mid-apparition was reckless, but fear drowned out reason. She would not be taken alive. She would rather splinch herself in half than be dragged into Greyback’s claws.
They landed with a thunderous crack on hard pavement, the sound ricocheting off tall, narrow houses. Hermione hit the ground and scrambled, wand flashing, hair in her face, heart hammering. She didn’t register the black wrought-iron fences, or the familiar crooked windows of Grimmauld Place looming ahead. She didn’t recognize the voice shouting her name.
All she knew was that she was trapped. Captured. Fighting for her life.
She thrashed against the hands gripping her, her wand arm caught, nails digging into skin, her own voice hoarse from wordless cries. No matter what Ron yelled, she could not hear him through the roaring in her ears. His voice was just another threat, another Death Eater’s command, and she fought harder.
Neither of them noticed the blood at first, the hot, wet slickness staining her sleeve, dripping onto the stones. The Apparition had ripped her side open, flesh torn ragged where she’d been splinched. She barely felt it at first, adrenaline masking the pain, but the more she struggled, the weaker she became. Her limbs grew heavy, her swings slower, the world tilting and swimming at the edges of her vision.
Her breath came in short, shallow gasps. Her strength bled out of her as quickly as the dark crimson pooling beneath her knees.
She only had a moment, just one, fleeting instant of clarity, long enough to see the freckles on the face above hers, the desperate blue eyes pleading with her.
Ron.
It was Ron. He wasn’t the enemy. He had saved her.
Relief flickered in her chest before the world went black, her body crumpling against the cold pavement, the last thing she felt was his arms tightening around her to keep her from slipping away.
Ron had tried to catch her. He saw her eyes roll back, her body going limp, and he lunged forward, but the jagged wound spiraling down his forearm seared like fire the moment he moved. Pain shot through him, white-hot and blinding, and he wasn’t quick enough. Hermione slipped through his grasp, hitting the black pavement with a sickening thud.
Panic crashed through him like a wave. He dropped to his knees, clutching her hand, shouting her name, but her skin was already clammy, her breath shallow. He tried to lift her, but his arm refused him, the muscles trembling and weak from blood loss and agony.
Thankfully, the sharp crack of their arrival had been heard. Ginny and Molly came running, wands raised, the fear on their faces shifting instantly to horror when they saw Hermione sprawled on the stones, blood pooling fast beneath her.
“Inside. Quickly, now!” Molly barked, her voice breaking but urgent.
They dragged Hermione into the shadow of Number 12 Grimmauld Place, the heavy door slamming shut behind them with a reverberating echo. The smell of iron hit them at once. Thick, metallic, suffocating.
They laid her on the nearest surface, the polished dark wood floor just beyond the threshold. Blood gushed freely, spreading in a wide slick beneath her, seeping into the grain, trailing red streaks across their hands and sleeves as they tried to stem the flow.
From the wall, Walburga Black’s portrait shrieked with manic anger.
“Traitors! Filthy blood, staining these sacred floors! How fitting that the mudblood dies here!”
“Shut up!” Ginny roared, flicking her wand to draw the curtains over the portrait, but Walburga’s wails still seeped through, shrill and relentless.
Molly knelt over Hermione, face pale but set with fierce determination. Her wand flashed again and again, her voice hoarse as she muttered counter-curses, healing charms, stabilizing spells. Blood sprayed when she touched the wound wrong, splattering the wall beside them, streaking across Ginny’s arm. Molly didn’t pause. She pressed on, weaving spell after spell, her hands trembling but unyielding.
Ron stood frozen, useless, his injured arm throbbing at his side, his wand limp in his left hand. His mind screamed at him to do something… anything… but his spellcasting hand was ruined, and every attempt to grip his wand with his other hand ended in fumbling failure. He hovered helplessly as Hermione’s chest rose and fell in ragged, shallow gasps, each weaker than the last.
“Mum, she’s losing too much—” Ginny’s voice cracked, hysteria bubbling at the edges.
“I know!” Molly snapped, more to herself than anyone else, and her wand slashed through the air again, desperate, ferocious.
The fight dragged on, minute after minute, the seconds stretching into an eternity. Ron’s knees ached from kneeling on the hard floor, but he didn’t move. He couldn’t. His eyes stayed locked on Hermione’s pale face, her curls sticky with sweat and blood, her lips parted in faint, uneven breaths.
It took nearly twenty minutes.
When Molly finally sealed the torn flesh with a shaky final charm, the silence that followed was deafening.
Her hands fell into her lap, slick with blood up to the wrists. Her robes were drenched crimson, her face streaked where she had brushed her cheek with a bloodied hand. The floor was unrecognizable, slick with gore that had spread up the baseboards and across the wood in glistening pools. Even the air was heavy with the coppery stench.
Molly bent over Hermione, brushing damp curls back from her face, whispering her name with trembling lips. The wound was closed, but Hermione lay frighteningly still, her breathing shallow and uneven.
***
When she woke, Hermione was in an unfamiliar room. For a long moment, she didn’t move. She lay tucked into a large bed, her body heavy as though weighted down by lead, her head full of cotton. Her eyes fluttered open, struggling to focus, the world tilting every time she blinked.
Above her stretched a ceiling she didn’t recognize, painted with an enchanted night sky. Stars twinkled softly in slow rotation, constellations shifting across the dark expanse. Some glowed faint and far, while others pulsed brighter, sharper, as though trying to hold her attention.
One in particular caught her eye. Sirius. The Dog Star. Bright and constant, even here, even now. She traced its shape with sluggish eyes, the familiar constellation anchoring her in a way little else could.
She thought she recognized others, Orion, maybe, and Cassiopeia, but her vision kept slipping, blurring the lines, until she gave up trying to name them. Her head ached, her body throbbed with the memory of pain, and yet she couldn’t look away from the stars. The magic of them was soothing, a lullaby written in light.
So lost was she in the drifting cosmos above that she didn’t register the faint noises the muffled voices, the soft shuffle of footsteps across wooden floors, as the door to her room opened and quickly closed, silencing the noise.
It wasn’t until a hand touched her arm that she startled violently, her whole body jerking despite how weak she felt. Her heart thundered in her chest, breath catching as though she were still in battle, still running from Greyback’s shadow.
“Sorry, ’Mione. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
The voice was low, familiar, threaded with weariness.
Hermione blinked up at him, disoriented, her pulse slowly beginning to ease as her brain caught up with what her eyes were seeing.
Ron.
He stood at her bedside, face pale and drawn, freckles stark against skin that hadn’t seen sunlight in days. His right arm was bound in clean white bandages, but his eyes, red-rimmed and unbearably earnest, were fixed on her.
“I thought you heard me come in,” he added softly, a little awkward, like he didn’t quite know what to do with himself.
Relief crashed through her in a dizzying wave. She wasn’t in the Trophy Room. She wasn’t in the courtyard, or in Greyback’s clutches, or bleeding alone on the stones.
She wasn’t captured.
She was safe.
She finally tore her gaze away from the stars and focused on Ron. He sank into the armchair at her bedside, the one with a small pillow crammed against the back and a folded blanket draped over one arm. Its worn cushions bore the weight of many nights spent there, and Hermione realized that this was not the first time he had kept watch over her.
Even in the dim light, the evidence of it was clear. His eyes were swollen and rimmed red, deep shadows etched beneath them, exhaustion carving hollows into his face. His hair was damp, pressed flat against his forehead, as if he’d only just showered before coming in. He looked utterly drained, and yet the moment she turned her eyes to him, he managed a weak but genuine smile.
“It’s good to see you awake,” he murmured, reaching out and gently taking her hand where it rested limply atop the black covers. His palm was warm and trembling against her cold skin. “I was afraid I was going to lose—” His voice caught, the words breaking before he forced himself to swallow them down. He cleared his throat roughly, trying to disguise the crack, but his grip tightened on her hand.
Hermione gave his fingers the faintest squeeze in answer, too weak to do more, offering silent comfort.
“I was afraid I was going to lose you,” he finished in a rush, his voice quieter this time, steadier but raw. “I can’t lose you too.”
Before she could respond, he reached up with his free hand, brushing clumsily at his face to catch a tear that had escaped despite himself.
It was only then Hermione’s eyes widened at the sight of thick bandages swathed around his arm. Guilt pierced through the fog in her mind like a knife. “I’m so sorry,” she rasped, her voice hoarse, throat raw from disuse. The apology scraped from her chest, heavy with shame. She tried to explain, to tell him she hadn’t known it was him when she fought, that she had thought…
But Ron only glanced down at his arm and let out a low, rueful chuckle. The sound was tired, but it carried the smallest spark of humor. “Looks worse than it is,” he said softly. “Mum and Ginny wrapped me up like a Christmas turkey. They’re not exactly professional Healers, and they were extra paranoid, so what you’re seeing is mostly padding. I’ll heal just fine.” His lips tugged into a crooked half-smile. “Besides, I’ll get a wicked scar out of it. That’s something.”
A tiny smile pulled at Hermione’s mouth despite herself. The movement made her lips crack painfully, reminding her how dry she was. “Can I…” Her tongue felt like sandpaper against her teeth. “Can I get some water?”
Ron’s chair screeched faintly against the floor as he shot up, suddenly all nerves and urgency again. “Sorry, ’Mione! I should’ve thought of that.” He gave her hand one last squeeze before letting go, fumbling toward the door. “I’ll be right back.”
He left the room, and at once the muffled roar from the hallway spilled in before the door clicked shut again. Voices overlapped, rising and falling in bursts of conversation. By the sound of it, there had to be over a dozen people gathered outside.
As the door clicked softly behind him and the noise cutting off again, Hermione sank back against the pillows, her eyes drifting up once more to the constellation-marked ceiling. Sirius still burned bright overhead, unyielding, and she clung to that steady glow as the fog in her mind swirled, the edges of memory and fear pressing in on her.
Hermione used the moment of solitude to really take in her surroundings.
The room was square and surprisingly grand, though aged, as though it had once belonged to someone with impeccable taste who had long since fallen into dust. The walls were paneled in the French style, gilded trim catching what little light seeped in. In the muted glow, she couldn’t quite tell if they were painted black or a dark, oppressive green. Judging by the way the enchanted night sky above bled into the walls, she guessed a deep, forest green, like the shadows of the Forbidden Forest at midnight.
A large, ornate wardrobe loomed against one wall, its gilded carvings dulled by time. To her left stood a wide bank of windows, tall enough to stretch nearly to the ceiling, smothered beneath heavy curtains of velvet that swallowed any hint of daylight. The air smelled faintly of dust and polish, as though the room hadn’t been used in years until necessity forced it open.
The door opened again, flooding the room with both sound and light. Shouts and hurried words spilled through the crack before it clicked shut once more. In the brief spill of illumination, her suspicion was confirmed, the walls were indeed a rich forest green, their trim lined with gold.
“Here you go,” Ron said softly, his voice pulling her back from her thoughts. He crossed toward her with a cup of water balanced in his left hand. One of the floorboards groaned under his step, the sound sharp in the otherwise hushed room.
Hermione tried to sit up, pushing herself toward the headboard, but a sharp pain lanced through her leg. She winced, teeth clenched, as her body protested even the smallest shift.
Ron abandoned the cup on the nightstand at once, rushing to her side. He slipped an arm carefully around her lower back, steadying her. “You ok?” he asked, concern etched into every line of his face.
She nodded once, though her throat was tight with both pain and gratitude. With his help, she settled against the headboard, breathing shallowly until the ache dulled to a manageable throb. Ron reclaimed the cup, guiding it gently into her hands. She sipped, each swallow scratching down her dry throat, but the relief of cool water was enough to make her sigh softly. When she was finished, he took the cup and set it back on the nightstand within easy reach.
“Did I splinch my leg?” she asked, already half-knowing the answer. The heavy bandages wrapped around her thigh felt hot, stiff, pressing too firmly against wounded flesh.
Ron hesitated, then nodded. His gaze flicked away, jaw tightening. “Yeah. You lost a lot of blood, Hermione. We thought—” He broke off, exhaling sharply through his nose, forcing himself steady before continuing. “We were worried you weren’t going to make it. You’ve been slipping in and out for days. Your heart rate kept dipping dangerously low. Mum hardley left your side.”
The weight of his words sank into her chest like stone. She swallowed hard, guilt swelling in her throat until it nearly choked her. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “I shouldn’t have tried to fight you during the Apparition.”
Images flickered through her foggy mind, the blur of motion, the crushing pull, the terror of capture. She had lashed out blindly, and the memory of his bandaged arm burned like shame.
Ron reached for her hand, his grip steady, grounding her. He gave it a firm squeeze. “Mione,” he said quietly, “I would’ve done the exact same thing.”
And he meant it. She could see it in the steadiness of his gaze, hear it in the certainty of his voice. Given the chaos, the fear, the shadow of death breathing down her neck, anyone would have fought to survive.
“I told Mum you were awake,” Ron said after a pause. “She said she’ll come check your bandage in a little bit.”
Hermione only nodded. She didn’t want to know what state her leg was in, what Molly had seen when she’d tried to close the wound, how close she had been to bleeding out on the hallway floor. The throbbing ache was reminder enough.
Ron’s hand found hers again, warm, steady, anchoring her in the sea of fog and pain. “How are you feeling… other than your leg? Anything else I can get you?”
“No, Ron. Thank you.” She forced a small, sad smile, one that cracked faintly at the edges of her dry lips. “How are you doing?”
She didn’t know how long she had been unconscious. Time blurred when pain and sleep wove together. All she knew for certain was that she, Ron, Ginny, and Molly had survived. Beyond that, everything was shadows and guesses.
Ron’s breath shuddered out of him. “Everything’s so crazy right now. There are so many people unaccounted for. Everyone scattered after the battle. There are about twenty people here at Grimmauld Place.”
Headquarters. Of course. But whose room was this? Hermione had explored nearly every corner of this house during their time hiding here, yet the star-strewn ceiling and rich green walls were unfamiliar. The thought made her uneasy, but she didn’t ask.
“We haven’t heard from Percy or Bill,” Ron continued, his voice low, fraying at the edges. “We can only assume the worst.” His eyes dropped to their linked hands, as if he couldn’t bear to see her expression. “Mum’s putting on a brave face in the day, but… Ginny hasn’t left her bed since we came back. Once the adrenaline wore off, once reality sank in, she just… shut down. And at night…” He faltered, swallowing hard. “At night I can hear them. Mum, Ginny, George. They cry, quiet as they can, but I—” His voice broke and he shook his head. “It’s been really hard. Losing Dad. Fred. Harry. And probably Bill and Percy too. It still doesn’t feel real. Feels like we’re just waiting for them to walk through the Floo. But they don’t.”
Hermione couldn’t hold back anymore. Tears spilled freely, slipping down her temples to soak the pillow beneath her. She had known… Merlin, she had known Harry was gone. She had seen him carried lifeless in Hagrid’s arms. But hearing Ron say it aloud carved the truth deeper, past denial, past numbness. Harry is gone.
Ron lowered his head, resting his brow against their entwined hands. His hair brushed her knuckles, damp and trembling. “What do we do, ’Mione?” His voice was raw, barely above a whisper.
“I—I don’t know.” The admission slipped out of her, fragile and honest. For the first time in her life, she had no plan, no answer, no book or spell to guide her. Everything was supposed to be better after the Battle of Hogwarts. The world was supposed to heal. Instead, everything lay in ruins, broken beyond repair.
“Harry was supposed to be the one to end him.” Ron’s shoulders shook, his words ragged. “And now he’s gone. Everyone’s gone.”
Hermione’s chest tightened until she could hardly breathe. She tightened her grip on his hand with what little strength she had, letting him know she was there. That she wasn’t going anywhere.
She didn’t speak. There was nothing to say, no words that could patch the jagged wounds of loss. She just let the tears fall.
****
The next time Hermione woke, it was to the faint rustle of fabric and the cool draft of air brushing over her leg. The covers had been lifted, and someone was working carefully at her bandages.
“Molly?” she asked groggily, her voice thick with sleep. Her eyes blinked open, adjusting to the dim lamplight. The stout woman looked up, her face lined with weariness but soft with concern.
“Hello, dear,” Molly replied quietly, her tone gentle as she bent back over Hermione’s leg. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”
“It’s alright.” Hermione’s gaze drifted instinctively to the chair by her bedside. The pillow and blanket were still rumpled, but the seat was empty. “Is Ron gone?”
“Just left a few minutes ago,” Molly answered, her lips tugging into a small, weary smile. “Something about being hungry.” A faint chuckle escaped her, though it wavered at the end. “That boy does love to eat.” The humor fell flat almost immediately, dissolving into the heavy quiet of the room.
Hermione let her head sink back against the pillow, watching as Molly’s hands worked. The layers of bandages were thick, Ron had called them excessive and now, seeing them peeled away, Hermione could understand why he said so. The wrappings covered her entire thigh, layer upon layer, like a white cocoon shielding fragile flesh.
Molly caught the wide-eyed look on Hermione’s face and gave a small, knowing smile. “I know, the bandaging is probably excessive,” she admitted softly, her wand tracing light against the fabric to loosen a stubborn knot. “But this house is dusty, especially this room. No matter how much I scrub, it never feels clean. I didn’t want to risk anything settling in while you rested. The last thing we need is infection.”
Hermione let out a breathy little laugh, weak but sincere. “I get it. Thank you for taking care of me, Molly.”
At that, Molly paused. She lifted one hand from her work and gently placed it against Hermione’s cheek, her thumb stroking lightly across her skin. The touch was warm, grounding, achingly familiar.
“Of course, my dear,” she said softly, her voice rough around the edges. There was so much in those words, grief, exhaustion, and love that it nearly undid Hermione.
Hermione smiled up at her, eyes glistening. In that moment, she wasn’t the brightest witch of her age or the survivor of a war, she was simply a girl who had nearly died, and here was a woman who had always treated her as though she were one of her own children. Molly’s motherly love wrapped around her as surely as the bandages on her leg, and Hermione let herself sink into the comfort of it.
“Now, I must warn you,” Molly said gently, as she worked through the final layer of dressings. Her voice carried the no-nonsense weight of someone who had seen far too much blood in her lifetime, though it softened at the edges for Hermione’s sake. “We had to act fast. You splinched a major artery in your thigh, you were bleeding out on the floor, and I am no healer. I’ve had to patch up my children more times than I can count, yes, but never anything quite like this.” Her hands slowed briefly, as though the memory replayed itself before her eyes. “If Madam Pomfrey or any proper healer had been here, I would’ve had them examine it straight away. But I did what I could with what I knew.”
She hesitated, meeting Hermione’s gaze with quiet honesty. “You and your leg are safe. Whole. But the stitches… they’re not pretty, not precise, and they’ll leave a nasty scar. With certain salves and ointments, though, it should fade to a silvery pink in time.”
Hermione swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. “Okay,” she whispered, trying to brace herself. She wanted to sound braver than she felt, but her mind was already whirling with never ending possibilities.
Propping herself carefully up on her elbows, she tilted her head down to see.
Even expecting the worst didn’t prepare her. Her jaw parted slightly, air catching in her chest.
The wound stretched far longer than she anticipated, an unbroken line starting just below her hip and trailing the entire length of her outer thigh, stopping just before her knee. It looked like something carved by a cruel blade, pulled together by uneven black X’s that held the flesh closed. It was practical, functional, but utterly lacking the neatness of a healer’s touch.
Her skin around the sutures was swollen and raised, angry pink ridges contrasting against her pale flesh. Up close, she could see where the flesh puckered beneath each pull of thread, the whole thing raw yet already knitting itself together. It wasn’t fresh.
“How long was I out?” she asked, voice low, never pulling her eyes from the jagged line running down her leg.
“Almost five days,” Molly said, her tone both apologetic and matter-of-fact as she drew out a small vial of dittany. The greenish liquid glimmered faintly in the lamplight as she began placing sparing drops along the sutures, careful not to oversaturate.
Hermione’s heart lurched. Five days? She would have guessed a day, maybe two. But five? In a war, five days was a lifetime. Anything could have happened in that time.
Molly’s hand pressed lightly against her knee, grounding her. “Which, truthfully, was for the best. You needed to keep weight off it, or you’d have torn the stitches wide open. And knowing you—” her mouth curved faintly “We couldn’t have kept you in bed longer than a few hours otherwise.”
Despite herself, Hermione let out a small, hoarse laugh. Molly’s teasing was gentle, familiar, and it helped pull her away from the panic creeping into her chest.
“So within a day or two,” Molly continued, straightening the last of the sutures, “you’ll be able to get up and walk around again.”
Hermione nodded faintly, though she stayed silent. There were questions swirling in her mind. Where were the others, what had happened in her absence, who was still alive, but she could see the exhaustion etched into every line of Molly’s face. Deep shadows hollowed her eyes, her hands shook ever so slightly with each careful motion. Hermione couldn’t bring herself to demand answers when the woman had already given so much.
“I’ll leave your leg to breathe for a bit,” Molly said, wiping her hands on a cloth and stepping back. “I’ll come back shortly to wrap it again.”
“Thank you, Molly. Truly.”
Molly’s expression softened, her lips curving into a weary but genuine smile. “My pleasure, dear.” She patted Hermione’s hand gently before pushing herself upright. “I expect you’re starving. I’ll send some food up.”
Food hadn’t even crossed Hermione’s mind until Molly mentioned it, but the moment she did, her stomach clenched with a deep ache. She hadn’t felt real hunger since before the battle, it was strange, almost grounding, to feel it now.
The plump witch slipped out with quiet footsteps, closing the door softly behind her. Silence fell once more. Hermione sank back against the pillows, her eyes drifting once again to the enchanted starry night above. The constellations turned slowly in their endless dance, steady and eternal, even as everything in her world had been torn apart.
***
A short while later the door opened once again, a faint swell of voices drifting in before the door clicked softly shut. The noise was quieter now, more subdued, like the house itself was exhausted from holding so much grief.
“I heard you were awake,” George said, his voice rough, hollowed out by loss. He stepped into the room holding a plate of food, though his eyes didn’t flick to it, as though he had already forgotten it was in his hands.
Hermione’s breath caught in her throat. He was a shadow of the man she’d known, his shoulders hunched as if carrying a weight too great, his movements sluggish, his face pale beneath the flickering lamplight. Even his eyes, usually so alive with mischief, were dull, glassy, rimmed in red.
Hermione didn’t think. She ignored Molly’s warning about staying off her leg, pushed aside the lance of pain that shot through her thigh, and swung herself out of bed. The floor was cold under her bare feet as she half-stumbled, half-limped across the room.
“George—” Her voice broke. She flung her arms around him before he could protest, clinging to him with everything she had left. “I am so sorry.”
Her heart cracked anew. George hadn’t just lost a brother, he had lost his other half. The world had always known Fred and George as one unit, two voices in the same sentence, two bodies with the same heartbeat. Now there was only one. The silence left behind was unbearable.
For a heartbeat he stood rigid, the plate wobbling precariously in his grip. Then he set it down on the dresser with a muted clatter, and his arms came around her. Strong, familiar, but trembling. He pulled her against his chest, resting his chin on the top of her head.
Hermione felt the faint hitch of his breath against her hair, the tension slowly bleeding out of him as he let himself lean into her embrace. He smelled faintly of smoke and stale tea, and his shirt was rumpled like he hadn’t changed in days.
“I keep—” His voice cracked, and he pressed his mouth against her curls to steady it. “I keep expecting him to walk in. To finish my sentences. To—” He broke off, shaking his head, the words choking him.
Hermione tightened her hold, her own tears sliding hot and silent down her cheeks. “I know,” she whispered into his chest. “I know.”
They stood like that for what felt like forever, two broken souls holding each other up against a grief too big to face alone.
She wasn’t entirely sure when it had happened, or why, but somewhere along the way, she had become close to Fred and George. They hadn’t been part of her early years at Hogwarts, not really. Sure, they were Ron’s older brothers, and she saw them during the summers at the Burrow or occasionally in the common room, exchanging friendly nods or polite greetings, but they hadn’t ever really talked. Hermione remembered the early interactions as little more than a blur of mischief and reprimands. Most of the time, it was her doing the talking, scolding them for pranks that had gone wrong, while they just smiled, eyes twinkling, fully aware that whatever she said would be ignored. And yet, she never minded. Somehow, that grin, that sparkle, made it hard to stay annoyed.
Everything changed during her fifth year. She had been wandering through the library one afternoon, hoping to find some quiet corner for research, when she spotted Fred and George huddled together in the back stacks, whispering furiously over a charms book. Their hands moved animatedly, pointing at diagrams and notes as they leaned in toward each other, heads almost touching. Hermione’s curiosity was instantly piqued. The twins rarely spent time in the library; they preferred their own ways of learning, mostly experimenting in their dorms or lounging elsewhere.
Unable to resist, she approached. “What are you doing?” she asked, and before she could take another step, they had both spun toward her, eyes wide, and in a move that was somehow both startling and endearing, they pulled her into an empty chair next to them and hushed her.
For a few seconds, they exchanged glances, clearly debating whether or not they should tell her. Hermione could see the panic and excitement flicker across their faces, wondering if she would scold them or, worse, turn them in. Finally, the thrill of their scheme won out. They leaned in, whispering furiously, sharing every detail of their plan. Hermione didn’t remember exactly what the prank was now, but she remembered the laughter, the way it spilled out of her in unstoppable waves. She laughed so hard that Madam Pince eventually came over, stern and scowling, telling her to be quiet. Even then, she had barely managed to catch her breath.
From that day forward, Hermione found herself drawn into their orbit. She often sat with Fred and George during meals, their presence at first irritatingly loud and chaotic, but quickly comforting. In the common room, they claimed the couch next to hers, and whenever they crossed paths in the hallways, more often than not, one of them would change direction to walk with her to class, chatting about everything and nothing, laughing about small absurdities or sharing minor discoveries. They rarely discussed the pranks themselves, she would have disapproved, scolding them half the time, but every so often, they would let her in on their ideas. Hermione rolled her eyes at the more ridiculous concepts but often found herself marveling at their creativity. Their mastery of charms, their ingenuity with magical mechanics, had given her some of her own ideas, like the DA coins she helped design.
It was George, in particular, who became her closest of the two. Somehow, he had managed to avoid a detention with Fred and Lee one afternoon, and on a whim, had sought her out in the library. What started as a small, unplanned moment blossomed into their routine. At least once a week, they would find each other: Hermione buried in her studies, George sprawled nearby, doing whatever struck his fancy. There was no pressure, no forced conversation, just presence. Sometimes she would read with her feet in his lap, sometimes he would experiment with a spell or tinkering with his sketches while she quietly turned page after page.
That year, Fred and George became more than friends. They became brothers she hadn’t had, anchors in the chaos of school life, voices that could make her laugh even when the world felt heavy. Even after they left Hogwarts, the connection endured. She saw them over holiday breaks, exchanged letters, and maintained a closeness that was less about daily routines and more about the unspoken understanding they shared. The twins had become, in many ways, her chosen family, a reminder that even in a world of rules and danger, there were still places to belong, still moments of joy to be found.
“You’re not supposed to be standing,” George whispered after a few long, tense minutes, his voice soft but firm.
“I don’t care,” Hermione mumbled into his chest, refusing to loosen her hold.
“I do,” he said gently, easing himself back. “Come on. Let’s get you back into bed, that leg elevated, and some food in you.”
He supported her with practiced care as they hobbled across the creaking bedroom floor, each step slow and cautious. Hermione leaned into him, the warmth of his body a steady reassurance against the lingering fog of exhaustion and pain. Every small creak of the floorboards beneath them sounded impossibly loud in the quiet room, a reminder of the fragile world they now occupied.
Once she was safely propped against the pillows and tucked back into bed, George set the plate of food on her lap. Then, without a word, he eased himself onto the other side of the bed, resting his head on the pillow as his gaze drifted upward, taking in the enchanted ceiling. Stars twinkled in a slow, deliberate rotation, constellations familiar yet now filled with new weight and meaning.
Hermione picked at the toast, the smell of butter and sweet jam finally tugging at her appetite.
“I’ve never been in this room,” George remarked quietly, voice almost reverent. “It’s always been off-limits.”
The words struck her instantly. Her heart skipped. She finally knew for certain whose room this was. Regulus’ room. Her suspicion had been gnawing at her since she first woke here, and now it was confirmed.
Sirius had warded this space, forbidding anyone from entering. The rest of the house could be explored, but not this room, not Regulus’. Hermione understood why: Sirius carried a weight of guilt for the path Regulus had been forced down while he had escaped. He had died believing Regulus had remained loyal to Voldemort, never knowing the truth of the boy’s betrayal and sacrifice. Even now, the full story was shrouded in mystery.
The wards had broken after Sirius’ death, yet when Harry, Ron, and Hermione had returned to Number 12 Grimmauld Place during their horcrux hunt, they had avoided the room, honoring what Sirius would have wanted. Hermione’s surprise at being placed here now was profound.
“Me neither,” she said softly, eyes lifting to the stars George had been studying. She could make out the other constellation now, the bright set of stars that formed the constellation Regulus was a part of. “Why was I put in here?”
George hesitated, then spoke gently. “We originally had you in the room next to the one Ron and I share. But then more people started showing up, and we were running out of space. We didn’t want you sharing with anyone. You had people in and out all night for bandage changes or healing potions. They were going to open Regulus’ room for guests, but Ron refused. He wouldn’t budge at first, it’s not what Harry or Sirius would’ve wanted, but ultimately, with no other choice, he agreed, as long as it was you. Of everyone, Harry and Sirius would be most comfortable with you in here, because you’d respect the space.”
Hermione let out a small, quiet breath. That made sense. She felt a flicker of warmth, knowing she was trusted with a place so private, so significant.
“So, you, Ginny, Ron, and Molly are all sharing a room, and… who else is here? I can hear several voices when the door opens.”
George leaned back slightly, his gaze thoughtful. “After you and Ron apparated, I was pulled away by McGonagall along with one of the Patil twins. We grabbed Trelawney and the other twin shortly after. For the first night, it was just the eight of us. Then Kingsley brought Andromeda and Teddy. Two days ago, he brought a family of five, the Farrins, with three little kids. I hadn’t met them before.”
Hermione processed this, realizing just how chaotic the house must have become. Somehow, by some miracle of circumstance, she had ended up with a room entirely to herself. “That’s not fair,” she murmured. “Someone could share this room with me. I think Harry and Sirius would understand.”
George sent her a small, tender smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “If more people show up, that will likely happen. But for now, my little lion heart… enjoy the quiet while it lasts.”
She ate what she could, every bite grounding her, before carefully setting the plate on the nightstand. The moment the plate was out of the way, she inched down the bed, resting her head in the crook of George’s neck.
They lay there in silence, gazing up at the slowly turning stars. The chaos of the rest of the house, the weight of the war, the endless grief, they didn’t exist in this moment. Neither wanted to be alone, and neither wanted to be dragged back into the swirl of responsibilities and mourning.
For just a brief, fleeting instant, it felt like they were back in the Gryffindor common room, curled up by a warm, crackling fire, with no shadow of death looming over them. Just the comfort of each other, the steady rhythm of breaths, and the soft glow of stars above. For the first time in days, everything felt… okay.