Chapter 33: Book
Chapter Text
Harry Potter wasn't one to care much about rumors regarding himself. It was part of being a famous wizard, after all—the whispers, the glances, the constant weight of being "The Boy Who Lived." He could brush those off. But he could never brush off rumors when they were about Hermione or any of his friends.
This time, Harry simply didn't care.
As he walked with Hermione, his hand clasped tightly around hers, he barely noticed the curious stares of other students. Every step to the dormitory felt heavier, as if he were carrying the weight of his simmering fury alongside his worry. The moment they reached his bed, he waved his wand, casting quick privacy spells that surrounded them in a faint shimmer before finally sitting down, exhaling a breath he didn't know he'd been holding.
"Harry?" Hermione's voice was soft, filled with concern as she stood in front of him, searching his expression. "Are you okay?"
"I will be," Harry replied, though his gaze was dark. In his mind, visions of confronting Lockhart twisted into something far more brutal. The memory of seeing that vile man's lecherous, predatory gaze directed at his students, at Hermione, made his stomach churn with an anger he hadn't known he was capable of. Thoughts of hurting Lockhart—of erasing him from existence—loomed large in his mind, and he had to take a steadying breath just to keep himself from trembling.
Hermione, perceptive as always, reached out, resting a gentle hand on his cheek, anchoring him. "Everything's going to be okay, Harry," she murmured, her voice like a balm. "I'm not going to be alone with Lockhart. And based on what you all saw today, it's only people who fancy that disgusting man who fall under his spell."
She smirked, her tone turning playful as she leveled her gaze with his, her brown eyes sparkling despite the weight of their conversation. Leaning close, she added, "And I only fancy you."
With that, she brushed her lips softly against his. Hermione meant it to be a brief, comforting gesture, a kiss meant to calm him. But as she started to pull away, Harry pulled her back toward him, guiding her onto his lap, his arms wrapping around her tightly. The kiss deepened, turning from a gentle touch into something far more intense, almost consuming. Hermione felt herself falling, both physically and emotionally, into the storm of Harry's need, his desperation, his fierce, unguarded affection.
Her mind reeled, sparks dancing behind her eyelids. She had kissed Harry before, and each time, it left her breathless, but this was different—hungry, almost raw. A part of her wanted to keep him grounded, to ease the chaos she felt stirring within him, yet another part of her melted, reveling in this untamed side of him, in the feeling of being wanted so completely. Every insecurity she had faded as his grip tightened, as he seemed to pour his very soul into this kiss. She could only gasp for air in the spaces between, not caring if she was lightheaded, only focused on the sensations that were consuming her.
At last, Harry pulled back, leaving Hermione dizzy, a muddled mess of emotions, her lips tingling, her mind struggling to catch up with her body's response. Just when she thought it was over, he pulled her in again, and she allowed herself to fall back into the intensity, into the connection they shared, letting him pull her closer until she could feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against her own racing pulse.
When he finally paused, he kissed her nose, her forehead, and then held her in a fierce embrace, as if she were a lifeline. Hermione slumped against him, feeling almost weightless, her arms hanging limply at her sides, utterly spent yet completely content.
"Sorry," Harry whispered, his voice barely audible, a hint of something almost vulnerable hidden within. "I really needed that."
"Iz'okayy…" Hermione's words came out as little more than a slurred mumble, drawing a small smirk from Harry as he held her tighter, one hand now gently massaging her scalp, his other hand moving in slow circles along her back. She could feel herself drifting, lulled by his warmth, by the comfort of his touch, so much so that her eyelids felt heavy. She could have fallen asleep there in his arms, safe and grounded.
But then, Harry's voice pulled her back from the edge of sleep. "I'm serious about what I said," he whispered, his tone steely, filled with a quiet, controlled rage.
Hermione stirred slightly, tilting her head up to look at him. "What do you mean?"
"Killing Lockhart," he hissed, the two words chillingly sharp.
For a long moment, Hermione simply stared at him, feeling his anger as if it were her own. But then she leaned closer, sliding her arms around his neck and drawing him into a fierce hug. She wanted him to know she understood—that she was with him, no matter what.
"Do what you must," she murmured, her breath warm against his neck, and she felt him shudder slightly in response.
Harry pulled back just enough to look at her, a question lingering in his eyes. "Really?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Yes," Hermione replied, her voice strong. "He's a disgusting, vile man, preying on students, and on Muggle-borns. He only dared to lay a hand on them, thinking they're easy targets. He knows their words won't hold weight against him if it comes to light. After all, he's a famous celebrity, and in some people's eyes, that makes him untouchable. But it doesn't make him innocent."
Harry's expression softened, yet there was a flicker of something unresolved in his gaze. He hesitated before speaking, his voice almost tentative. "I'm talking about killing someone, Hermione. Really killing someone. Doesn't that bother you?"
For a moment, she stayed silent, her face a mask of thoughtfulness. Harry almost felt a pang of regret for confessing his dark thoughts. But then, finally, she responded.
"Frankly, no," she said, her voice unwavering. "I know this world isn't like the one I grew up imagining. Our world—the wizarding world—is darker, harsher. I've seen that since coming to Hogwarts. You're famous, and people would do anything to bring you down. I've accepted the fact that, sooner or later, you might have to kill someone to protect yourself, or even to protect us. Do I like the idea of you killing? No, not at all. But if you do it because you have to, because someone's threatened you—or us—then I'll accept it. And if you're doing it for me, then all the more reason to."
Harry nodded, his expression thoughtful, as he took in her words, the calm, steady way she spoke them.
"An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth," she said softly, her voice barely more than a breath, yet there was a fierce edge to it, a determination he hadn't quite seen before.
"Evil for evil," Harry finished, his voice equally soft, matching her intensity as he pulled her close once more.
In that moment, they understood each other completely.
xxxxx
As Harry stood in the Room of Requirement, he could feel the crackling energy of his rage, controlled and fierce, coursing through him. Every fiber of his being was directed at one target: Lockhart. He'd never felt this alive, this powerful. Even the anger he occasionally harbored against Dumbledore seemed faint compared to the fury burning in him now. That man—no, that monster—had crossed every line, and Harry wasn't going to stop until he paid.
And the best part was, he didn't have to hide it. Hermione knew, and not only did she know, she understood. She was there with him, beside him in this. She agreed with him, even supported him in this dark, burning quest. The thought brought him an odd sense of comfort, like he was finally allowed to be as ruthless as he felt, and still, Hermione would be there. She'd love him just the same.
The others were standing nearby, their expressions varying from grim acceptance to silent encouragement. Draco stood to Harry's right, his silver-blond hair glinting faintly in the flickering room light, his face set in a cold, calculating mask. Even Luna, her dreamy expression uncharacteristically focused, seemed to understand the depth of what they were discussing. She was a mystery in many ways, but in this moment, she was part of their circle, bound by an unspoken agreement.
Draco was the first to speak, his voice low and deliberate. "The key here is not just to end him, but to destroy him," he said, his gaze dark. "We need to bury his career first. Let the world see what he truly is—a fraud, a liar. Expose the fabrications in his books, dismantle his reputation. And when we finally finish him off, it needs to look like an accident."
Harry nodded, his jaw clenched as he listened. There was a deep satisfaction in imagining Lockhart's fake glory crumbling to dust, his name erased as surely as he'd erased the memories of others. Harry barely noticed as Ron shifted nervously beside them, uncertain but still there. He'd expressed his doubts before, but in the end, Ron had stuck around, unwilling to abandon Harry—even now.
Hermione's voice broke through his thoughts, calm and steady. "Lockhart has made it easy for us. His books are riddled with errors. He didn't even bother to change the dates on some of his supposed 'adventures,'" she said, rolling her eyes with disdain. "I'll make a list of all the wrong details and flaws we can use against him."
Draco nodded approvingly. "Good. If we're going to pull this off, we need evidence. And the only issue here is those... girls."
They all knew the difficulty lay in getting any of Lockhart's "fans" to speak up. Harry frowned, thinking of the girls he'd seen around Lockhart. They were bewitched, but not by magic—by his celebrity, his image. The sight of them doting on that lecherous fraud had made his skin crawl. Their enthusiasm for him was sickening.
He shuddered, the memory lingering. "You've seen those girls. They act like they're... enjoying it," he muttered, the revulsion evident in his voice.
Draco looked equally repulsed. "It's the way he's manipulated them. They think he's some kind of hero. It's twisted." He glanced sideways at Harry, a rare flicker of empathy in his eyes. "But it's not their fault. They don't even know they're being used."
At the mention of the girls' behavior, Ron, who had been listening in uneasy silence, looked visibly ill. He clamped a hand over his mouth, and his face turned a distinct shade of green. Luna, noticing his discomfort, offered him a piece of chocolate with a gentle smile, as though trying to soothe him. Ron took it gratefully, swallowing the piece and closing his eyes, attempting to erase the disturbing images from his mind.
Hermione's gaze sharpened, curious but concerned. "Is it really that bad?"
Draco let out a disgusted sigh. "Oh, it's worse than you'd think. The things we heard—the sounds he made…" He trailed off, visibly repulsed. "It's enough to ruin the idea of intimacy for any sane person."
Ron groaned, covering his ears, desperate to block out the memory. "Stop! I'll never be able to un-hear it!"
Luna tilted her head, her gaze turning to Harry with innocent curiosity. "What kind of sounds?" she asked, entirely oblivious to the horror on Ron and Draco's faces.
Harry couldn't help but laugh a little, despite the dark tension hanging in the room. He reached out, giving her hair a light, affectionate pat. "Trust me, Luna, some things are better left unknown."
Hermione eyed him with raised brows, tempted to probe him for more, but she could read the warning in his gaze. She grumbled and let it go, though a part of her was still curious.
Harry took a deep breath, letting the quiet return to their group. "We need a way to get through to some of those girls. They have to realize they're victims, not just fans. Maybe if they understood…"
Draco shook his head, doubtful. "And who's going to talk to them? You're not thinking of asking any of us to try, are you?"
Harry looked over at Hermione and Luna, who'd been listening closely. He had been thinking of them. "I know it's a lot to ask, but... maybe they'd open up to other girls?"
Hermione sighed, folding her arms across her chest. "Harry, you know I don't have friends outside of you lot. I'm hardly what you'd call approachable, especially for girl talk."
"I can try," Luna offered unexpectedly, smiling faintly. "The girls in my dorm do talk about boys sometimes. They always ask about who's the most handsome." She pointed at Harry. "You're quite popular, you know."
Harry smirked, giving Hermione a playful wink. She shook her head, rolling her eyes but couldn't hide a small, reluctant smile.
"Good," he said, more serious. "It's a start, anyway. We need to spread rumors. People need to start hearing about what he's done. Draco, you think you can manage that?"
Draco's eyes narrowed with a glint of mischief. "Consider it done. I'll speak to Daphne. She's got a way with secrets and rumors. If anyone can make this spread, it's her."
Hermione's brow furrowed slightly, her lips pressed into a thin line. She'd never been fond of Daphne Greengrass, but she'd promised herself she'd be supportive of Harry's allies, even if it meant tolerating Daphne's involvement. After all, she reminded herself, if she were to one day be Lady Potter, she'd need to keep good relations with all of Harry's associates—even those she didn't like.
Ron, standing slightly apart from the others, took a moment to absorb the reality of what they were planning. He looked over his friends: Harry's green eyes burning with unrestrained anger, Draco's trademark smirk tempered by a calculating gleam, and the solemn expressions of Hermione and Luna. A sigh escaped him, breaking the silence, as he shook his head.
"You guys are going about this the wrong way," he finally said, his voice carrying a mix of reluctance and resolve. The words hung heavy in the air, making everyone turn to him with surprised expressions, as if he'd thrown down a challenge none of them had anticipated.
Draco raised an eyebrow, barely hiding his surprise. He was well aware of Ron's reluctance towards their dark plan, assuming the redhead would just stand by silently, offering support in quiet solidarity. The fact that Ron was now contributing—actively strategizing—was unexpected. It created a new, almost exhilarating intensity in the room.
"What do you mean?" Harry's voice cut through the tension, sharp yet laced with curiosity.
Ron cast a steady look around at his friends before speaking again, each word deliberate and measured. "The strategy is right… but the timing's wrong," he explained, his tone carrying the weight of thoughtfulness and a hint of the anxiety that had gripped him since the planning had begun. "If we start spreading rumors, Lockhart will catch wind of them before we're ready. He'll just slip away. He doesn't need to stay at Hogwarts. The bloke's rich, thanks to all those ridiculous books, and he could always hide somewhere or just write another one to clean up his image. His popularity would crush the rumors like they're nothing."
A murmur of realization spread among the others, eyes widening as they processed Ron's words. The clarity in his logic struck them hard, and they began to see the flaws in their initial approach. Harry's fists clenched by his side, a controlled tension masking his simmering rage. Draco, too, absorbed Ron's perspective with admiration that he masked under a cool, approving nod.
Draco's voice took on a new urgency as he asked, "So… what do you suggest we do?"
A flicker of grim determination crossed Ron's face, his usual warm, easy-going demeanor temporarily replaced by something fiercer. "We need to settle this quickly. Spread the rumors, gather evidence, and make sure it's all wrapped up within the week. Get rid of him—if that's what it takes—before he can even think of running. If we do it fast enough, he won't have a chance to cover his tracks, and when he finally gets wind of it, it'll be far too late."
The room seemed to absorb Ron's words, as though each one had a life of its own, weaving into the walls and atmosphere of the hidden space. Nods of approval rippled through the group, their expressions shifting to ones of resolve. Hermione's brow furrowed slightly, her sharp gaze glinting with something fierce and determined, while Luna's usually dreamy eyes were focused, almost unsettlingly intense.
"So… you're saying 'we,'" Harry said, his eyes trained on Ron with a rare smile of encouragement, the weight of this unlikely alliance heavy on his words. "Does that mean…?"
Ron rolled his eyes, his expression tinged with resignation, yet unmistakable loyalty. "Your enemy is my enemy," he replied, his tone reluctant but steadfast.
For a brief moment, all the tension and darkness dissipated as Draco and Harry let out triumphant, unabashedly joyful laughs, leaping to their feet and enveloping Ron in a hug that was more fierce than affectionate. The warmth of this rare moment of camaraderie was infectious, breaking through their hardened resolve. Even Hermione, who was usually one to roll her eyes at such displays, couldn't suppress a faint smile, and Luna's lips quirked into an amused grin.
"Weasley's going Dark!" Draco chanted in mock celebration, a glint of mischief dancing in his eyes. "Weasley's going Dark!"
"Get off me! I'm not!" Ron protested, squirming as he tried to wriggle out of Harry and Draco's grip, but the grin tugging at his lips betrayed his amusement. "This is just a one-time thing!"
The room resettled as they released him, each of them savoring the moment of camaraderie before the weight of their plan pressed down on them once again, a dark cloud hovering in the air. The flickering candlelight cast longer shadows now, as if reflecting the looming decisions and the path they'd chosen.
xxxxx
The Gryffindor common room was warm and lively, filled with flickering firelight that cast dancing shadows across the stone walls, a comforting refuge from the biting February chill. But tonight, the cheerful room held an undercurrent of tension among Harry and his friends, as they mulled over the latest nonsense Lockhart had cooked up—a Valentine's Day spectacle of epic proportions. Hermione, who usually greeted these festivities with a mixture of disdain and amusement, was unusually serious tonight, her gaze sharp with determination.
Lockhart's intention of decking out the Great Hall in massive, gaudy pink blooms felt like a desperate cry for attention, a move as shallow as his teachings. Hermione crossed her arms, her frustration simmering. "He just wants to receive Valentine's cards from all those girls," she grumbled, her voice low as she leaned closer to Harry and Ron, the intensity in her eyes flaring like the fire crackling beside them. "Are we done with our plans yet? Because I want Valentine's Day to be the day we end him." Her voice dropped to a fierce whisper, her tone chillingly resolute. She was deadly serious, and Harry could feel the sharp edge to her determination—a side she rarely let show.
Ron shot her an approving grin, his expression mirroring the glint of mischief in her own. "It's actually perfect, isn't it?" he chuckled, shaking his head, disbelief mingling with a morbid sense of humor. Harry, who had been brooding quietly over their strategy, now looked up, an amused smile tugging at his lips. "Not to sound dark," he began, glancing between Hermione and Ron, "but the idea of ending someone we both hate on the most romantic day of the year sounds like a perfect day. I love it."
Without a second thought, Harry leaned over and pressed a quick kiss to Hermione's cheek, an instinctive gesture that held more comfort than romance. Hermione flushed, but before she could react, Ron wrinkled his nose and groaned, dramatically inching away from the two of them with exaggerated disgust.
"Merlin, not in front of me, you two!" he scoffed, playfully shoving them apart. His blue eyes sparkled with mock disdain as he crossed his arms. "Honestly, when I get a girlfriend, I'll snog her right in both of your faces!"
The three of them broke into laughter, the tension momentarily forgotten as they shared in the lighthearted teasing. Their laughter mingled with the crackling fire and the muffled sounds of other Gryffindors around them. Harry found himself glancing at Ron, a smile lingering on his face. The thought had crossed his mind a few times before—he genuinely wanted to see his friend happy, wanted to see Ron with someone who would understand him and laugh with him just as they did now. He knew it didn't bother Ron, but something about the idea gave Harry a strange kind of warmth, as if seeing Ron with someone he cared for would somehow complete their unbreakable bond.
Their laughter faded into comfortable silence when, without warning, an ethereal blue light filled the room, casting a ghostly glow that made every face turn. A Patronus—a bright, spectral creature moving with graceful purpose—glided through the common room window, its light so bright and sudden that the warmth of the fire seemed to fade. The Patronus—a grim, majestic dog that Harry instantly recognized—stopped in front of him. Its silvery, translucent form filled the room with an eerie urgency, and the voice that emerged from it was raw and urgent, cutting through the air like a blade.
"Harry! Come back home! This is a Code Red!" Sirius's voice boomed, the words chilling and unmistakably desperate. And then, as quickly as it had appeared, the Patronus vanished, leaving behind a silence as thick as the shock that filled the room.
Harry felt his blood run cold. His face paled instantly, every muscle in his body tensing with a fear he had never felt before. He didn't even pause to explain; instinct took over, and he grabbed Hermione's arm, dragging her toward the portrait hole with a grip that left no room for hesitation. Ron was right behind them, his face a mirror of Harry's horror-stricken expression.
"H-Harry?" Hermione's voice trembled as she stumbled along behind him, half-running to keep up. "Was that Sirius? W-What's going on?" Her questions were frantic, but she could see the desperation in Harry's eyes. "What's Code Red?" she yelled, hoping he would at least give her that answer.
But Harry didn't respond, his face drawn with a look Hermione had never seen before—a blend of fear, urgency, and grim determination that made her heart pound. His silence was terrifying, but she trusted him, even as her mind whirled with dreadful possibilities. Beside her, Ron kept pace, his normally carefree expression replaced by an unsettling pallor.
"Ron!" Hermione shouted, desperate for any clarity. "What's going on?!"
Ron bit his lip, a look of hesitation flickering across his face, as if he didn't want to acknowledge the answer even to himself. When he finally spoke, his voice was small, almost a whisper, but his words felt like thunder. "Code Red… it's for… if someone's dying," he managed to choke out, his tone strained and thick with dread.
Hermione's steps faltered for a split second, the weight of his words hitting her like a punch to the chest. The world seemed to tilt, her vision blurring for a moment, but Harry's grip on her arm was relentless. He tugged her forward, his tone urgent and tinged with a desperation that was impossible to ignore.
"Hermione! We need to go now! We'll learn more when we get there!" His voice was rough, barely controlled, and laced with the terror of someone who felt time slipping away far too quickly.
Without another word, Hermione nodded, steeling herself as she pushed through her shock and ran alongside him, her heart hammering wildly in her chest. The three of them tore through the empty corridors, their footsteps echoing through the silence as they raced toward an uncertain destination, their minds consumed by a singular, chilling question: who was in danger? And could they reach them in time?
xxxxx
Harry and Hermione reached Potter Manor in a whirl of green flames, stepping out of the Floo Network in McGonagall's office. The air felt colder here, laced with a dread that sank into their bones. Ron had stayed behind at Hogwarts to tell Draco and Luna, promising to come as soon as he could. It was a plan Harry had agreed to quickly, his face pale and tense as he spoke. Even McGonagall had noticed, breaking her usual firmness as she allowed both Harry and Hermione to leave without question. This wasn't school business; it was life and death.
As they entered the grand entrance hall, Harry called out with urgency that reverberated off the walls, his voice tight and desperate. "Dobby! Kreacher!"
Two small figures appeared with sharp pops, looking tear-stricken and exhausted, their eyes red-rimmed and their bodies trembling. Dobby rushed forward, clutching onto Harry's legs, his wails filling the silence.
"Master Harry! Mistress Hermy!" Dobby sobbed, his eyes squeezed shut as he latched on tightly, his small hands shaking. Kreacher stood close by, head bowed, his drooping ears and weary expression hinting at something too terrible for words. He didn't look up, just shuffled his feet, his grief tangible in the droop of his shoulders.
Harry's heart hammered, dread building with every second of silence. "Where's Sirius?" he demanded, his voice breaking. "What's going on?"
"Master Siri is at the infirmary," Dobby choked out, looking up at Harry with red, swollen eyes, then glancing over to Hermione. His lip quivered, and more tears spilled over. Harry saw it then, the look that passed from the house-elf to Hermione. Dobby's gaze held the weight of something unspoken, something devastating. It was as if that look was a final blow, shattering the fragile hope Hermione clung to.
In an instant, her legs gave way beneath her. She staggered, eyes wide and beginning to fill with tears as realization set in, her hands trembling violently. "N-No," she gasped, a strangled sob catching in her throat. "My mum…"
Harry's arm was around her instantly, pulling her back to her feet with a firm, gentle grip. "Come on, Hermione," he said, voice tight but steady as he tried to hold his own emotions at bay. "We have to go now. It'll be okay. Everything's going to be okay." But his words were more for himself, a mantra he repeated in desperation, trying to convince himself as much as her.
They hurried down the hallways, Harry guiding her, each step feeling heavier than the last as they neared the infirmary. The ornate corridors that once felt like home now seemed cold and lifeless, oppressive with the weight of what awaited them. By the time they reached the infirmary doors, a swarm of people crowded the room, their faces somber and etched with grief.
Harry had to push his way in, clearing a path until finally, he saw him—Sirius, slumped over, his face buried in his hands as he held Emma Granger's hand. Or, rather, what seemed to be her hand. Hermione let out a strangled cry, a desperate, broken sound that shattered the silence. She staggered forward, her gaze fixed on her mother lying still on the bed.
Emma Granger was almost unrecognizable. Half of her body was ravaged, charred by dark magic, while thin, web-like veins of black crept slowly across her skin, inching forward like a terrible curse seeking to consume her whole. Her breathing was shallow, each labored inhale and exhale a battle. The Healers had done all they could, but even Harry could see they were losing her.
Harry tore his gaze away, bile rising in his throat. Tears flowed freely down his face as he took in the room. Narcissa and Andromeda stood solemnly by, and Remus, his expression dark, met Harry's eyes for a brief, gut-wrenching moment. He didn't need to say anything; the look told him everything. They had done all they could, and it wasn't enough.
"Mum!" Hermione's voice cracked, and she stumbled forward, collapsing beside the bed as she clutched her mother's hand. "Mum! What happened? What… what's going on?" Her words came out choked, a desperate plea wrapped in anguish as she held on tight, as though sheer willpower could keep her mother tethered to this world.
Emma's eyes fluttered open at the sound of her daughter's voice. Her gaze was unfocused, weary, but she managed a faint, strained smile as she blinked slowly, trying to focus on her daughter. "H-Hello, love…" she whispered, her voice barely a breath, but the words cut through Hermione like a knife.
Behind her, Sirius rose and approached Harry, pulling him into a fierce hug. His body shook, and Harry could feel the silent sobs wracking his godfather's frame. "I'm so sorry, Harry," he whispered, his voice cracked and broken. "I should have been there. I should've kept her safe."
Harry's mind spun, trying to piece it together. "What happened?" he asked, his voice a thin, fragile thread. He didn't want to know, but he had to. "What… what did this?"
Sirius drew a shaky breath, his gaze dark as he pulled away, glancing over at Hermione and Emma. He hesitated, then spoke, voice hushed. "It was a book," he murmured. Harry felt his stomach drop.
"A…a book?" he repeated, his mind spinning as he struggled to understand.
"Yes," Sirius whispered, his gaze sliding to where Hermione sat, holding her mother's hand and crying softly. He explained, "One of my Aurors found it. It was cursed—charms designed to harm any Muggle who tried to read it. A dark spell triggered a small Fiendfyre that… that enveloped her for a moment." His voice broke. "By the time Dobby and Kreacher reached her, she was…half her body was already—" He couldn't finish, his voice fracturing under the weight of his sorrow.
Harry's chest tightened painfully, and he staggered backward, clutching his head. The realization washed over him, a crushing weight. This was his fault. The library had been meant as a sanctuary, a place where Hermione's mother could work safely. He should have checked, should have made sure there was nothing dangerous. This never should have happened.
"S-She'll be okay though, right?" he whispered, voice pleading. "She's… she's going to be alright?" The question hung in the air, desperate and fragile.
Sirius's face fell further, his gaze haunted. "Harry… she won't make it." He looked back at Emma, his eyes brimming with guilt and sorrow. "The curse… it's starting to seep into her body. It's consuming what tiny bit of magic a Muggle has. The dark magic is seeping into her, searching for any hint of a magical core to latch onto. She's barely holding on, and we don't have the countercurse. All we can do now is ease the pain. There's nothing… nothing left we can do. She… she wanted to see you. To see Hermione."
At those words, Harry's heart shattered. He stumbled forward, collapsing at Emma's bedside, his voice breaking into sobs. "Emma… I'm so sorry. This… this is my fault. I didn't know. I should've… I should've kept you safe."
Sirius quietly led the other adults out of the room, leaving only Harry, Hermione, and Emma in the oppressive stillness. Tears streamed down Harry's face, each one a testament to his regret. He clutched Emma's hand tightly, unable to bear looking at her, shame and grief suffocating him.
"L-Look at me… you b-brat…" Emma's voice was barely a whisper, but it held a touch of warmth and mock irritation that sliced through his sorrow.
Harry forced himself to look up, meeting her gaze. She was smiling faintly, her lips trembling. "It wasn't… your fault… I was… curious. Wanted to know your world…" She took a ragged breath. "Forgot that I was… just a Muggle."
"No, no, please," Harry choked out, shaking his head. "You're one of the most brilliant people I've ever met. You belong in our world. If you had magic… you'd be the greatest witch. The smartest of all of us." He felt Hermione beside him, clutching her mother's other hand, her sobs quiet but endless.
"I'm sorry, Emma, I'm so sorry," he begged. "Please, please don't die, please don't leave us." He gripped her hand, willing his strength into her fading life. "I don't know what we'll do without you. You're like a mother to me." His voice cracked, and he bowed his head, his shoulders trembling. "I don't want to lose another one. Please, stay strong. Please."
Emma's eyelids fluttered, and she looked at him, a faint, pained smile on her lips. "Harry… you're such… a brave boy," she whispered, her voice thin and rasping, yet filled with warmth and love. "Always… so strong."
Her words shattered him. Harry's grip tightened around her hand, as though his touch could anchor her to life. "No, Emma, please. Don't go. Don't leave Hermione. Don't leave us." His voice was raw, barely holding back a sob.
Emma's gaze softened, and her eyes flickered to Hermione. "Take care… of each other," she whispered, her voice barely audible, yet brimming with tenderness. She looked back at Harry, her expression one of deep, unspoken gratitude. "Thank you… Harry. For being… here for her."
Panic surged through Harry as her hand grew limp. "No, no! Sirius! Help! Somebody help!" he cried, his voice desperate.
Hermione's face contorted with horror as she lifted her head, realizing her mother was slipping away. "No! Mum!" she cried, clutching her even tighter.
Sirius and the Healers rushed in, casting spells in frantic waves, each one landing with a cruel finality. Hermione clung to her mother, her cries filling the room, but Emma's hand remained still, her breaths shallow and weakening.
Harry stumbled back, unable to watch as they fought to hold onto a life that seemed to slip further away with each passing second. His heart pounded in his chest, a single, crushing thought reverberating through his mind: he had failed.
And in that final, overwhelming moment, unable to bear the pain, Harry turned and fled.
Chapter 34: Left Eye
Chapter Text
The Potter Manor was a sprawling testament to generations of history and legacy, towering over the grounds with an aura of silent resilience. Each corridor had witnessed moments of triumph and sorrow, a testament to the family's storied past. Over the centuries, instead of separate estates, the Potters had simply extended the manor to accommodate each new generation, a tradition upheld until the tragic death of James and Lily.
Harry had been too young to remember his parents, but he'd felt their absence in the silence that lingered around the house, particularly in one part—the unfinished wing. This space was intended to be a personal retreat for James and Lily, a cozy escape from the demands of family life, a place where they could make memories with their son. But with their untimely deaths, the wing was left half-completed, a solemn reminder of dreams that would never be fulfilled.
When Harry inherited the manor, he'd locked the unfinished wing, as though sealing away not only its echoes but also the pain of a past he could never change. Yet now, as he stumbled through the darkened halls, the weight of his grief dragged him toward that very door. Barely able to breathe, he reached out, hesitating only a moment before turning the handle and stepping inside.
The air was cold and musty, undisturbed by time and tucked away from light. Dust coated every surface, and shadows stretched long across the empty space, quiet and foreboding. Somewhere in this silent, abandoned part of his family home, Harry felt the pull of his own emptiness mirrored back at him.
Finally, he came upon a painting in the center of the wing. It was a life-sized portrait, the figure within rendered so vividly it almost seemed alive. The painted figure looked up suddenly, his gaze meeting Harry's with a sharp, assessing look.
"What happened, Harry?" the painting asked, the young man's expression shifting from surprise to concern as he took in Harry's tear-streaked face.
"E-Emma's…" Harry's voice broke as he choked on the words. His knees buckled, and he sank onto the cold, dusty floor, unable to contain the torrent of sorrow that had built up within him. "Emma's dying."
The painted figure's face twisted in shock and horror. "What?! How? Was it Death Eaters? The wards are being updated every month! Did you miss it this month?!"
"No! The wards are updated!" Harry's fists clenched, and in a sudden burst of frustration and guilt, he punched the floor, the sharp pain in his knuckles grounding him for just a moment. "It was… it was a cursed book in the library. If a Muggle touches it, it sends out an explosion—a kind of dark fire that latches on and… and it's spreading through her. Dark magic is eating away at her right now, and…"
"And what?" the painting demanded, his voice sharp and fierce. "You ran away? You should be with her, Harry! If Emma's dying, you should be by her side for every last second, no matter how hard it is!"
Harry looked away, his face twisted in anguish. "I can't, okay?" His voice trembled, full of barely-contained anguish. "I can't watch another person I love slip away. I can't… I can't do it again. Every time… everyone I care about, they all end up hurt. I should have been more careful. I should've had a Curse Breaker check those books. I should have done something!"
The painting's face softened, yet there was still a steeliness in his gaze. "So, what? You're just going to stay here, drowning in regret, while she suffers alone? Is that the choice you're making?"
Harry's shoulders sagged, and he ran a hand through his messy hair, tugging at it in frustration. "I'm cursed, don't you see? Every time I let myself trust that I can keep people safe, something like this happens. I trusted my family's legacy… I thought, of all places, Potter Manor would be a sanctuary. And now Emma… she's paying the price for my blind faith."
The silence hung heavy between them, the painting studying him with a look that was a mixture of empathy and frustration. Then, the painted figure began to pace, his brows knit as he muttered to himself, as though lost in thought. Finally, he stopped, his eyes lighting up with sudden hope.
"Wait—Harry, the Elixir of Life!" the painting exclaimed, his expression fierce and determined.
Harry froze, his heart racing. "Y-You think it would work on a Muggle?"
"If the Polyjuice Potion worked on her, then the Elixir should work too!" the painting responded urgently. "Besides, she's dying, Harry. What do you have to lose? Try every potion, every magical means available to you—keep her with you as long as you can."
For a moment, Harry was still, his mind whirling. He could hear his heartbeat pounding in his ears as he clung to the sliver of hope the painting had offered. But doubt clawed at him, his mind racing through the potential risks, the unknown dangers that could come with using the Elixir. "But… the side effects," he murmured, his voice barely a whisper. "We still don't fully understand the Stone's powers. What if… what if I make things worse?"
The painted figure's expression hardened, and he leaned forward, his painted fingers pressing against the inside of the frame. "Forget the side effects. She's slipping away, and this is her only chance. Go to her, Harry—don't waste time hiding here in guilt. If you love her, if she means anything to you, then fight for her. You can't let her die alone."
Harry's gaze hardened, a flicker of resolve pushing through the darkness that weighed on him. He nodded, his face set with grim determination. Without another word, he turned on his heel and strode out, his mind set on saving Emma, even if it meant defying the odds.
As Harry's footsteps faded down the hall, the painting was left alone once more, the shadows closing in around him. In the stillness, the painted figure sighed, removing a pair of wire-rimmed glasses from his face and running a hand through his own messy black hair, revealing a faded lightning-bolt scar.
"Why does he only visit me whenever he's in trouble?" murmured the painted image of Harry Potter, his voice thick with the sorrow of memories and the painful bond that stretched across time.
xxxxx
The sterile silence of Potter Manor's infirmary pressed down on Hermione, smothering any faint hope she'd managed to hold onto. She didn't know how long the Healers had been working to keep Emma alive. Time had become an agonizing blur, punctuated only by the soft rustle of robes and the faint murmurs of spellwork drifting through the air. Hermione stood utterly still, her gaze fixed on the still form of Emma, lying pale and motionless. Narcissa's hand gripped her shoulder, a delicate but firm weight anchoring her to the present. Andromeda was at her other side, mirroring the silent support, though Hermione hadn't even been formally introduced to her yet. She only knew this woman was related to Narcissa and had the same sharp features and calm demeanor. In any other situation, Hermione might have marveled at the connection; now, the familiarity between these two powerful women was just a background detail, dulled by her shock.
Harry was nowhere to be found. The last glimpse she'd caught of him was as he'd fled the room, his face awash in grief. She'd wanted to be angry at him, to shout at him for abandoning her in this terrible moment. But she knew—she knew too well the guilt he must be feeling, the hollow ache he'd carry if Emma didn't survive. If she died, he would never forgive himself for letting her work in the Potter library. He would shoulder the blame for the cursed book that had slipped through his fingers, hidden within those ancient shelves, a silent trap ready to spring.
Hermione wrapped her arms around herself, desperate to suppress the rising tide of anger and sorrow churning inside her. She wanted to go after him, to find him and shake him, to tell him that none of this was his fault. But a darker part of her was screaming, demanding a target for her fury. She wanted someone to blame, someone to rage against for this cruelty. Yet there was no one. No face, no name. Just the faceless, remorseless nature of dark magic, lurking and waiting, tainting even the safest places. She felt helpless, and the frustration was unbearable.
Suddenly, a sharp voice shattered the quiet.
"Everyone, leave!" Hermione looked up, startled, and saw Harry standing in the doorway, his face streaked with dried tears, his hair in wild disarray. His green eyes burned, raw with anguish and fierce determination.
Sirius, who had been lingering near the door, looked taken aback. "Harry?"
"I said, leave now! Just me, Hermione, and Emma," Harry ordered, his voice like steel, even as his young face twisted with pain. He waved his hand toward the Healers, who looked startled and more than a little indignant at being dismissed by a mere twelve-year-old.
"Harry," Remus began, a note of caution in his voice, but Harry cut him off.
"Kreacher! Dobby!" Harry's voice rang out, edged with desperation. "Remove everyone from the room who isn't me, Emma, or Hermione. Don't let anyone back in until I say so!"
In an instant, the house-elves appeared, snapping their fingers and ushering everyone out. The Healers and other onlookers barely had time to voice their protests before they were swept from the room. Within moments, the infirmary fell silent, leaving Harry and Hermione alone with Emma, whose breathing had become frighteningly shallow. Her breaths were weak, each one a struggle.
Hermione's chest tightened as the oppressive silence pressed in around them. "Harry," she choked, her voice trembling, "what did you do?"
But Harry didn't answer. His hands were shaking as he pulled two potion bottles from his robes, the glass glinting faintly in the dim light. Hermione's heart lurched. She knew what those potions were; she and Harry had spoken about them in cautious whispers, a topic they'd half-joked about using on their friends and family. The Elixir of Life.
"I-Is that… is that even going to work on Mum?" Hermione asked, her voice barely above a whisper, terrified to hope.
Harry's eyes met hers, a raw determination shining in his gaze. "We don't know," he replied, voice hoarse, "but she's dying anyway. This is our last chance."
He took a breath, steadying himself. "Hermione, I need your consent. Should I use this on Emma or not?"
The question hit her like a blow. Hermione's mind spun, torn between the impossible choice Harry had thrust upon her. Her mouth opened, words failing her. Could she live with herself if she said yes and something went wrong? Could she bear the guilt if she said no and lost her mother?
"I… I—"
"I'll take full responsibility for whatever happens," Harry said firmly, his voice breaking through her hesitation. "I promise you, Hermione, I'll take all of it. Whatever happens, whatever the consequences… I'll take it all. All that matters now is saving her."
She wanted to scream, to cry, to flee from this nightmarish decision. But a faint, pained sound from Emma drew her back, grounding her in the moment. She looked at her mother, the anguish on her face unbearable.
"Do it," she whispered, barely audible, as if speaking any louder would make her break.
Harry nodded, his jaw set, and moved closer to Emma. He gently cradled her fragile body, careful not to aggravate her injuries. The burns covered half her body, blackened and charred, and he could feel the heat still radiating from the cursed wounds. His hands trembled as he positioned her to make her as comfortable as he could. Hermione fumbled to open the first potion, passing it to him with a look of fear and silent hope.
"Emma," Harry murmured, barely holding back a sob as he stared down at her face. "I'm sorry… I'm so sorry. But I have to try. Please, if you can hear me, know that I'm doing this to save you." He paused, voice wavering. "If you need to blame someone… blame me, Emma. It's my fault."
Slowly, he brought the vial to her lips, tilting it carefully. Emma struggled to swallow, her lips parting weakly. "Please," he whispered, pleading as he cradled her, clamping her mouth shut to help her drink. "Please, Emma. Just a little… just swallow it."
For a painful moment, nothing happened. And then, with a weak, strained gulp, Emma managed to take in some of the liquid. A single drop escaped her lips, rolling down her cheek.
Seconds passed by and still nothing. Desperation clawed at him, and Harry turned to Hermione. "Shit! The second one, quick!" he demanded, his voice cracking.
Hermione's hands shook as she opened the second vial, eyes blurred with tears. She handed it to Harry, who repeated the process, coaxing the potion into Emma's mouth, pleading with every ounce of his will for it to work. His whispers were fervent, almost a prayer, as he held her close, his hands and voice trembling with every word.
In the silence, Hermione watched, feeling the weight of what they'd done, the unknown consequences lurking just beyond their reach. The Elixir was a blessing and a curse—a mysterious brew that had granted Harry and Hermione the ability to heal quickly, a gift that came with the terrible price of potential immortality. They'd spoken of it in hushed tones, acknowledging its power but never daring to confront its dark side. For now, none of it mattered. Emma was their only focus, their only hope.
But then, as the seconds ticked by, nothing changed. Hermione's heart sank, her hope dimming like a fading flame. She glanced at Harry, whose expression mirrored her own despair, the hollow ache of impending loss tightening around them.
And then, Emma's body began to convulse.
xxxxx
They had messed up. Catastrophically.
Harry watched in horror as Emma's body convulsed, shuddering with violent intensity. Her limbs flailed uncontrollably, as if something dark and twisted had taken hold of her from within. His hands, trembling and unsure, barely managed to support her as he lay her back on the bed, desperately trying to keep her still, though every jerking movement seemed to resist him.
"Mum!" Hermione's voice broke as she clutched Emma's hand, her own knuckles turning white. It felt like a futile effort against the tremors that ripped through her mother's body, threatening to tear her apart from the inside.
Harry's hands flew to his hair, clawing at his scalp, breaths coming in shallow gasps as panic surged through him, mixing with dread. He could feel the raw, suffocating weight of failure settling in his chest. This was his fault. He'd forced the Elixir upon Emma, blindly clinging to hope. But now… now, it felt as if he had signed her death sentence. His chest tightened as the realization washed over him, cold and brutal. He had killed her.
This was the punishment, the cruel, twisted fate for children who dared to play at being gods.
"Emma… no," he choked out, his voice barely a whisper, too afraid to touch her, too afraid that he might cause her more harm. His hand hovered just inches from her, the instinct to reach out to comfort her colliding with the paralyzing fear that he would only make things worse. He felt so small, utterly helpless in the face of something he couldn't control, something that was slipping away from him.
And then, like the sudden drop of a storm's final raindrop, she stilled. The room fell deathly silent.
Hermione let out a strangled, broken cry, clutching her mother's lifeless hand as her shoulders shook with the weight of grief. The breath Emma once held—so precious, so fragile—had slipped from her lungs, and now, nothing. Her chest lay unmoving, her skin growing cold.
She was gone.
An orphan. Hermione's mind grasped at the thought with a chilling finality. Her mother—her last connection, the last person who knew her from before magic, from before all of this—was gone. She was alone in a world she had once been so eager to share with her mother. Alone because of a tragic attempt to bring her mother closer to her own magical existence.
Her cries filled the room, raw and piercing, a sound that fractured something deep inside Harry. Her head throbbed as sobs tore through her, body shaking as she leaned over her mother, clinging desperately to what was now a mere shell. The pain was unbearable, a weight pressing down on her chest until it felt as though she would collapse under it.
And then, Harry's arms were around her, holding her, grounding her even as his own anguish simmered beneath his touch. She continued to cry, unable to stop, unable to do anything but pour every ounce of sorrow into the only person who was here with her.
Then, a voice, fragile but unmistakable, broke the silence.
"Dear, you're so loud. Come on now, I'm okay already."
Hermione froze, her heart stuttering mid-beat. Her head snapped up, and her tear-streaked eyes locked onto Emma's face.
Emma's eyes were open, her gaze warm and gentle as she looked at Hermione, a soft smile pulling at her lips. Hermione's breath caught, her mind racing to comprehend what she was seeing. This had to be a dream. Or some twisted trick of the mind, a desperate hallucination born from unbearable grief.
"M-Mummy?" Hermione's voice trembled, her heart caught between hope and disbelief.
"Hello, love," Emma whispered, her smile widening, tears spilling from her own eyes. "It's okay, Hermione. I'm… I'm here. I'm alive."
And with that, Hermione flung herself into her mother's arms, clinging to her with a fierceness she hadn't known she possessed. "Mum!" Her voice was choked with joy, with relief, with disbelief. It was as if a torrent of emotions was pouring out of her, flooding over the intense grief that had consumed her only moments before.
Emma laughed, her arms tightening around her daughter, and she buried her face in Hermione's hair, reveling in the warmth, the pulse of life shared between them. For a brief, terrifying moment, she'd felt an agonizing, searing pain rip through her entire being, followed by a dark, cold nothingness. And then, somehow, inexplicably, she was here. Her body felt whole, untouched except for the pale cloudiness of her left eye—a small, lingering mark of what she'd just endured.
She glanced around, taking in the room and the boy who stood just beside the bed, his face a study of shock and wonder, as if he were looking at a ghost. Harry's hands trembled, clutching his robes with white-knuckled force, his tear-filled eyes fixated on her, struggling to process what he was witnessing.
Emma extended her hand toward him, marveling at the way her fingers, now unscathed and steady, stretched toward him, a silent invitation. Could this be magic? The true magic that children like Hermione and Harry carried within them? She couldn't understand it, but she could feel it—an inexplicable force that had wrapped itself around her like a second chance.
Harry took a tentative step forward, his movements hesitant, as if he feared she might vanish if he got too close. Then, reaching her hand, he allowed himself to fall into her embrace. For a moment, he was still, almost unsure of the comfort he sought. But then his arms tightened, and the weight of everything that had happened broke over him.
He wept, clinging to Emma and Hermione as if the world would shatter if he let go. His sobs were thick, mingled with whispered apologies, and a single word that slipped past his lips without him realizing it—"Mum."
A surge of love flooded Emma's heart, and she held him close, stroking his hair with gentle, comforting hands. She didn't fully understand the depth of Harry's grief or the haunting guilt he seemed to carry, but in that moment, she didn't need to. For now, she would be there, a shelter for the children who had done the unthinkable to save her life.
She held them both, feeling as though something indescribable had passed through her, something eternal, fragile, and beautiful.
xxxxx
Hours had bled into the evening, each passing moment steeped in an ominous quiet as the last healer made his way out of Potter Manor. They offered Sirius Black solemn condolences, shaking their heads in silent acceptance of what they'd seen as inevitable. In their eyes, there was no further hope; they had done all they could. Whatever fragile thread Emma Granger had been clinging to had seemingly snapped, and no more spells, no more potions, would bring her back. One by one, the Healers departed, leaving Sirius, Remus, Narcissa, and Andromeda with the echo of empty words and bitter loss.
It was Kreacher and Dobby's incessant arguing that finally jolted the household from a frozen standstill. The two house-elves, one grumbling and another insisting, had fought over whether to allow Sirius and the others into the room. With a reluctant snarl, Kreacher had finally allowed a single look through the door. What he saw had silenced him instantly. And so, with wide eyes, Sirius had thrown open the door, nearly stumbling in his haste.
He froze, his breath catching. There, nestled in the grand bed before him, was Emma Granger, her head resting gently back on the pillows, while two young figures clung to her. Hermione and Harry were huddled against her, their heads on her shoulders, both still asleep, their faces tear-streaked and peaceful, as if in the throes of an emotional storm finally quelled. And Emma's hand stroked their hair with a tenderness that should have been impossible after all she'd endured. Her left eye, though now a shocking, milky white, gazed forward, seeing but unseeing, her remaining eye watching the children's breathing with quiet reverence.
Sirius managed a hoarse, trembling whisper, as if breaking the silence might shatter the entire fragile scene. "E-Emma?"
She looked up, surprise flashing in her one good eye. "Sirius?"
"What—what happened?" He swallowed, his voice raw. "You were... how are you even... alive? This—" He was fumbling for words, as if each one might break the spell, as if any explanation could make sense of the impossible.
Behind him, Narcissa and Andromeda had finally managed to peek around the corner. Both took in the sight with wide, stunned eyes. Narcissa barely dared to breathe. "You're alive," she whispered, her voice a ghost. "But… how?"
Emma looked down, almost amused at the question. Her fingers continued stroking the hair of the two children as she considered her words. "I...I can't quite remember," she admitted. Her voice, soft but carrying an undertone of lingering bewilderment, quivered. "There was pain… so much pain. I thought it would swallow me whole. And then...there was just nothing. Silence. Until I woke up and saw them—Harry and Hermione—crying over me." Her voice cracked slightly, but a fragile smile broke across her face, and her hand gripped the fabric of the bedspread, as if grounding herself to the reality before her.
Andromeda was the first to recover her composure enough to approach Emma fully. She raised her wand, murmuring diagnostic spells under her breath, her eyes widening as symbols floated above Emma's figure, glowing faintly. Remus and Narcissa leaned forward, their curiosity mingled with awe.
Sirius could no longer hold back. "What...what does it say, Andi?" he demanded, almost fearful of the answer.
"It says…" Andromeda's voice fell to a reverent whisper, her eyes fixed on the symbols with amazement. "It says perfect health. There's no sign of any curse or lingering affliction." She paused, swallowing her disbelief. "It's as if she never faced death at all."
"Oh, but my left eye…" Emma touched her cheek, her fingers tracing the whitened, sightless eye with a frown. It was an unsettling mark left by her ordeal—a scar she wasn't sure would fade with time or magic.
Andromeda nodded, her face soft with sympathy. "I believe it's permanent, I'm afraid. I'm sorry, Emma."
A hesitant smile tugged at Emma's lips. "I think I can live with that," she murmured. She looked around the room, taking in the faces of her friends, still stunned and filled with wary joy. Andromeda offered a warm, if slightly formal, smile.
"Oh, forgive me, I should introduce myself. My name is Andromeda Tonks. I'm Narcissa's sister and Sirius's cousin. I'll be Hermione's tutor this summer," she explained gently, filling in the silence with introductions, offering some semblance of normalcy in the surreal atmosphere.
Emma looked between Sirius and Andromeda, questions gathering behind her steady gaze. "A tutor?"
"It's… a long story," Sirius mumbled, stepping closer to the bed, his brow furrowed. "I'll explain it all later, I swear." He took her hand in his, as if the feel of her warm skin could ground him back to reality. "Are you sure you're alright? Are you sure you feel no pain? Maybe we should call the healers back, make sure you're fully examined."
Emma rolled her eyes, groaning as she placed a hand on Sirius's arm. "Sirius, I'm fine. Really," she said, exasperation slipping into a faint smile. But the look on his face made her pause. "Oh, stop that smirk! I said I'm alright!"
"You might feel alright," he said softly, his voice tinged with worry, "but earlier, you were seconds away from…" He faltered, pressing his lips together in a hard line as if forcing back memories that might shatter him if given voice.
She gave his arm a reassuring squeeze. "I know, Sirius. And I'm sorry to have worried you." Her eyes softened, tracing the worry etched on his face, the shadows under his eyes. "Whatever happened, I'm okay now. Somehow… I feel fine. Better than fine, actually." She glanced down at Hermione and Harry, her voice turning thoughtful. "I don't know what they did exactly. I just have this vague feeling, this hazy memory of them… choosing. Something I can't quite grasp, as though there's something they didn't want me to remember. But I feel… whole."
The adults exchanged uneasy glances, each wondering what threads of magic had bound Emma's life back together. The weight of what she had gone through, coupled with her near loss, hung in the room like a faint mist, unsettled and lingering.
It was Narcissa who broke the silence with a question that cut through the stillness. "Should we wake the children?"
Emma gently stroked Hermione's head, brushing a few strands of hair back from her face. "No, let them sleep. They've cried themselves to exhaustion." She hesitated, glancing down at their uniforms, then frowned. "Were they… did they come straight from Hogwarts?"
Sirius looked away, his hands fidgeting as he spoke. "I… called for them when I realized… and they left immediately. I wasn't sure, but you'd asked for them. I thought…"
Emma let out a soft laugh, her voice thick with emotion. "Thank you, Sirius." She paused, shaking her head. "Though I'm amazed they managed to leave so quickly."
Remus chuckled, breaking some of the lingering tension. "I'm fairly certain Harry bulldozed his way to Professor McGonagall's office to get home. He wouldn't have taken no for an answer."
Emma's mouth fell open as the words hit her, the guilt flooding her expression. She put a hand to her face, groaning. Remus's chuckle grew softer, and he shared a knowing look with her, noticing that particular gesture she had—one Hermione shared every time she grew frustrated.
The corners of Sirius's mouth curved into a rare, tender smile. "Are you sure you're alright, Emma?"
She sighed, leveling him with a look before the barest hint of a smile danced on her lips. "Yes, Sirius. A hundred times yes. I'm fine," she replied, exasperated but amused. "If the kids weren't asleep, I'd likely be running laps around this manor right now. I feel as if I've had five cups of coffee."
Andromeda shot Sirius a reassuring glance before looking back at Emma. "In a good way, I hope?"
"Oh, yes. In a very good way." Emma chuckled softly, then looked back at Sirius, surprised when his hand gently cupped her cheek. Her gaze widened, her heart skipping a beat as he leaned in, his lips brushing hers in a kiss that was as unexpected as it was filled with raw, unguarded emotion.
A collective gasp sounded from the room. Remus's mouth dropped open in shock, Andromeda's eyes twinkled with barely concealed delight, and Narcissa stifled an excited squeal. Emma pulled back, her cheeks flushed, her expression dazed.
"S-Sirius?" she managed, her voice barely a whisper.
Sirius took a shaky breath, his eyes shining with an intensity that burned away any doubt or hesitation. "Emma, seeing you there… almost losing you… it made me realize I can't live without you. Not anymore. I'm done playing games, done with waiting for a perfect moment." His voice dropped, rough with feeling. "I want you. I need you. Marry me."
Narcissa and Andromeda clutched hands, their faces alight with uncontainable joy as they exchanged thrilled glances. Remus, still wide-eyed and slack-jawed, blinked, trying to process the whirlwind of emotions that had just swept through the room. The weight of the evening lingered, but in that moment, there was a fragile, tender hope that glimmered among the shadows, one no one dared to disturb.
xxxxx
It had been a week since the accident with Emma, and the atmosphere at Potter Manor was finally settling back to normal. Due to the family emergency, Dumbledore had granted Hermione a two-week stay at home, allowing her time to be with her mother as she recovered. To keep things simple, the adults decided it would be best to call it an accident, something unfortunate that had startled them all but was now in the past. Emma was healing well, much to everyone's relief, and with each passing day, the incident felt less like a sharp memory and more like a hazy, fading worry.
Harry, however, hadn't been content with simply leaving Emma's side during that first week. He'd been allowed to stay with the Grangers for several days, insisting on doing everything he could to help. It wasn't until Professor McGonagall had come to escort him back to Hogwarts that he reluctantly let go, clinging to Emma as though his absence might cause her to slip away again. Emma had been a little taken aback by his sudden protectiveness, but she also felt a quiet warmth in it, a reminder of the family they had somehow become to one another. She'd been surrounded by Harry, Hermione, and even Ron and Draco, who managed to visit once, whenever possible, finding herself surprisingly comfortable with their constant company. It wasn't as though she was left alone for even a minute—and for now, she wouldn't have had it any other way.
Harry, though, wasn't one to let things go without action. The Potter Library had been locked, the doors sealed until further notice. Harry had made arrangements with Bill Weasley to perform a complete sweep, meticulously checking for pranks, jinxes, curses—anything that could possibly pose a threat to anyone who entered. Bill had been quick to volunteer, hoping to help in any way he could after hearing what had happened. Harry, however, had insisted on paying him, pressing gold into his hands and only grinning when Bill protested. Eventually, Bill accepted, chuckling, his arm slung around Harry's shoulders as he gave in. To Harry, Bill was practically family, and they both understood there was no point in arguing when it came to keeping their loved ones safe.
Sirius, meanwhile, had taken matters into his own hands with Grimmauld Place. Though the Grangers rarely stayed there, using it mainly for trips to Muggle shops via Floo, it didn't stop him from insisting on the same level of protection. Bill agreed to inspect the house, scanning each shadowy corner with the same thoroughness. Harry's insistence on security extended even further, as he'd also arranged with the goblins to start on the house the Grangers planned to build next to Potter Manor. Although Emma had made it clear she wanted the cost of the house itself to be her responsibility, Harry took care of the safety measures without hesitation, paying for the strongest, most sophisticated wards and charms he could manage. If it was up to him, not even a breeze would cross the threshold without his approval. Emma had rolled her eyes at the elaborate defenses, but Harry had only shrugged, smiling as he assured her he'd kept his promise.
Between the two of them, Harry and Hermione kept the exact details of the accident to themselves. Sirius, always alert, had eventually sat them both down to ask what really happened that day. There was no resentment in his tone, just the gentle persistence of someone who cared too deeply to ignore the mystery entirely. But Harry and Hermione had only exchanged a knowing glance before giving a simple, careful answer.
Hermione folded her hands, frowning as she recounted the event with wide, solemn eyes. "I…I just cried and cried, hoping she'd be alright. And then, when I looked up, she was smiling at us, her injuries gone."
Harry nodded, his expression carefully controlled, adding just a hint of hesitancy. "I felt a little magic, but it was gone almost instantly. For a second…I thought she had…" He paused, letting the words drift before continuing. "But she started talking, just like that."
Sirius regarded them both, an unreadable expression in his eyes, and eventually nodded, letting the matter rest for now. He had his suspicions, but forcing them to relive the moment through Legilimency or otherwise would be unfair. There was a bond of trust between them, and he wasn't willing to breach it over lingering doubts. For Harry and Hermione, it was enough; they'd given their answer, and for now, the questions had ended.
Meanwhile, Andromeda Tonks had set up her own informal residence at the Manor, keeping a close eye on Emma's health. She was thorough, running diagnostic spells daily, keeping track of her vitals, and ensuring that her recovery was complete. In fact, Emma seemed more energetic than ever, a newfound liveliness that occasionally had Hermione groaning in exasperation. Her mother, eager to shake off the restrictions of bed rest, had tried to take over tasks throughout the house, even making a bid for the library before being gently scolded and redirected. The library remained off-limits until Bill completed his sweep, but Emma's cheerful persistence had made the household feel more normal again, as though nothing had ever been amiss.
Within the week, everyone had started to drift back into their familiar routines, the Manor humming with activity. Laughter filled the hallways, the chatter of old friends who'd seen each other through yet another strange and unpredictable chapter.
But now, as the dust settled, an unspoken peace lay between Harry and Hermione, a subtle understanding that neither needed to explain aloud. The truth of what had happened that day belonged only to them—a secret, buried and safe, just like the wards on the Grangers' future home.
xxxxx
It was the last evening of Hermione's leave from Hogwarts, and anticipation tingled in her every thought. Tomorrow, she'd finally reunite with Harry, Ron, Draco, and Luna. She'd missed them all more than she cared to admit, especially Harry. The letters and the stories they shared just weren't the same as being there. Sitting on her bed in the quiet of Potter Manor, she found herself grinning at Luna's latest letter. Luna's handwriting, looped and whimsical, had shared an amusing account of the Valentine's Day disaster Lockhart had orchestrated. As she read the letter, Hermione couldn't help but chuckle, half-thankful she'd missed the spectacle of dwarves dressed as cupids delivering singing valentines. Still, Luna's words painted a vivid picture.
Apparently, the chaos had spread far and wide, with poor Harry and Draco bombarded with love notes and letters from every direction. Luna reported with delight that the boys hadn't even flinched; they'd simply incinerated the stack of letters without a moment's hesitation. Hermione could practically picture it—the flash of fire, the unbothered expressions on their faces, and Ron standing by with an awkward scowl. Luna mentioned that while Harry and Draco took the attention in stride, Ron looked slightly dazed and even disappointed, scowling by the end as he'd realized some of his letters were merely attempts to reach Harry and Draco. Hermione rolled her eyes at the thought.
Of course, the surge of interest in Harry didn't sit well with her, but she trusted him completely. He'd made it clear how he felt, and Hermione wasn't worried. Still, it wouldn't hurt to make a mental note of the names of those girls for…future reference. It was almost amusing, how much they fawned over him. "They don't stand a chance," she thought, amused at how protective she felt. Maybe tomorrow she'd ask Luna for a more detailed list of the love-struck letter writers. Just in case.
Her thoughts drifted as she debated replying to Luna's letter tonight or waiting until they could talk tomorrow morning. She folded the letter carefully, setting it aside. At that moment, her mother, Emma, entered the room, hair still damp from a shower, wrapped in a soft towel, with a familiar smile playing on her lips. She wore her cozy pajamas and looked as relaxed as Hermione had ever seen her—almost as if they were sharing an unspoken vacation from their usual worries.
"What are you smirking about, honey?" Emma asked, easing onto the bed beside Hermione and eyeing the letter she had just put down.
"Oh, just some girls trying to send Harry love letters," Hermione replied, rolling her eyes but unable to keep the pride out of her voice.
Emma raised her eyebrows and laughed lightly. "Well, he is a handsome boy, isn't he?"
"Mum!" Hermione groaned, cheeks pinkening as she flopped back against the bed in mock embarrassment.
"What?" Emma replied, laughing even harder. "You know he is! So, what did he do about those letters?"
Hermione's expression turned smug. "He burned them," she said, unable to mask her pride.
Emma gasped theatrically, covering her mouth with her hand. "Oh, those poor girls! Just torched their letters, did he?"
Hermione frowned slightly. "Poor girls? They're sending love letters to my boyfriend, Mum! They're the ones in the wrong here."
Emma chuckled, nudging Hermione's shoulder playfully. "I know, but can't you imagine how some of them must have poured their hearts into those letters? And he just—poof!—burned them without even reading them. Don't you think that's a little sad?"
Hermione sighed and shook her head. "It's their own fault for liking someone who's already taken. Besides, anyone who's genuinely interested in Harry should know better. I think it's about time people realize he's my boyfriend." She folded her arms with a mock serious expression.
Emma shook her head with a grin. "Since when did you become so possessive?"
Hermione's eyes sparkled as she grinned. "Since I fell in love with the Wizarding World's top potential bachelor," she said, half-joking, but a touch of real fondness softened her tone.
Emma laughed, brushing a loose strand of Hermione's hair behind her ear. "Well, does the school even know that you two are together?"
Hermione paused, tilting her head thoughtfully. "Not really. It's not like we've made an announcement or anything."
Emma nodded thoughtfully. "That explains all the letters. If people knew, maybe there wouldn't be so many of them."
"Oh," Hermione murmured, a slight blush dusting her cheeks. "I guess you're right, Mum."
They laughed together, sinking into the covers as they lay side by side, feeling the warmth of shared laughter and the quiet understanding of mother and daughter. For a moment, they lay in companionable silence, Hermione's thoughts drifting back to the memories of her friends at Hogwarts, the home she'd built in the Wizarding world, and the comfort of having her mother by her side here at Potter Manor. It was a rare peace, and she treasured it.
After a few minutes, Emma turned onto her side, her face a mix of hesitance and resolve. "Hermione?"
"Hmm?" Hermione responded, glancing sideways.
"Would you be…angry if…" Emma's voice wavered, and she quickly waved her hand dismissively. "Oh, never mind. It's nothing, just a silly thought."
Hermione groaned, grabbing a pillow and giving her mother a gentle nudge with it. "Mum! I hate it when you do that. Now you have to tell me!"
Emma laughed, resting her hand over her mouth. "Alright, alright!" She took a deep breath, turning to face her daughter fully, her expression suddenly serious. "I was just wondering…would you be angry if I…decided to get married again?"
Hermione froze, her mind racing as she processed her mother's words. For a moment, she was sure Emma was joking, but the seriousness in her mother's gaze made her reconsider. "M-marriage?" she squeaked, unable to hide her surprise.
Emma gave her a soft smile. "I wouldn't dream of making any big decisions without knowing how you'd feel about it. You're the most important part of my life, Hermione. I just want to make sure you're okay with any choices I make."
Hermione's mind whirred, memories of their life together flashing by, her mother's quiet strength and unwavering love filling each one. "But…who, Mum?" Hermione's eyes widened, realization dawning. "Oh my gosh…is it…is it Sirius?"
Emma's face turned a shade of pink Hermione had rarely seen as she turned away, mumbling, "Forget I said anything…"
"Oh my gosh, Mum!" Hermione whispered, half-delighted, half-shocked. "Are you really marrying Sirius Black?"
Emma buried her face in her hands, groaning. "I didn't say anything! Let's just drop it, Hermione!"
But Hermione wasn't about to let it go. She bit her lip to contain her excitement, her thoughts a blur of mixed emotions—delight, nervousness, and even a touch of disbelief. But as her thoughts settled, a feeling of warmth filled her. "I…I think I'd be okay with it, Mum," she said softly, taking her mother's hand. "You've always looked out for me, especially after Dad died. You've given up so much, and I just want you to be happy. Besides," she added, her voice catching as she met her mother's gaze, "I think Dad would want you to be happy too."
Emma's eyes filled with tears, and she hugged Hermione tightly, whispering how much she loved her, how proud she was. They lay there, tangled in each other's arms, sharing quiet laughter and hushed words of love and gratitude. And as the stars began to glow outside the window, their laughter softened into the warm hush of night, carrying them gently to sleep.