Chapter 2569 - Ch: 41-42

Chapter 41: Training

Chapter Text

Hermione Granger flopped onto her bed in her private room at Potter Manor, the soft, luxurious bedding doing little to ease her sour mood. She had every reason to be glad she was back home, surrounded by friends in the sprawling grandeur of Harry's ancestral home, yet a storm of frustration churned within her. In just a week, Harry, Sirius, Draco, and Ron would be leaving for France, and she wouldn't be going with them.

The thought sent a sharp pang of resentment through her, and she buried her face in her pillow with a groan. Her fingers tightened on the fabric, and she kicked her legs against the mattress with the kind of unrestrained energy one might expect from a much younger child. It wasn't fair—not in the slightest.

Sirius had tried to explain it to her, his casual tone doing little to soften the blow. He had patiently outlined how this wasn't a holiday trip but a serious endeavor: Animagus training under the tutelage of experts. She had listened, or at least she had tried, but every word had only deepened the sting. The fact that the boys were going without her was bad enough, but the reasoning behind it felt even worse.

According to Sirius, the family hosting the training—the Delacours—was highly particular about their guests. Draco, with his typical flair for dramatics, had gone further, describing them as "choosy" in a way that made Hermione bristle. She'd scowled when he'd mentioned they would need to meet the Delacours in a neutral location before being allowed into their home, as if they were negotiating some delicate truce instead of merely visiting.

Ron, meanwhile, had looked distinctly uncomfortable during Draco's explanation. His restless fidgeting hadn't escaped Hermione's notice, and it only added to her suspicion that there was more to this trip than anyone was saying.

The mystery gnawed at her, but even that wasn't the worst of it. As if being left behind wasn't punishment enough, she would also be stuck with her own training, a prospect that filled her with a sense of resigned dread.

She let out a muffled yell into her pillow, the sound vibrating through the plush fabric and barely softening her frustration. Kicking at the bed again, she pushed herself up just enough to throw the pillow onto the floor with a huff.

"This is the worst year ever!" she exclaimed to the empty room, her voice echoing faintly off the high ceilings.

What made it all so much worse was the lack of time she'd had with Harry. Proper time, alone. Sure, they'd spent plenty of moments together amidst the group, but it wasn't the same. Whenever they were in a room with Ron or Draco, she felt like her words never carried the same weight. And now, even as she sulked in her room, her mother was off having some important private discussion with Harry.

Her fists balled at the thought. What could they possibly be talking about that didn't include her? The unfairness of it all was overwhelming, and she threw herself back onto the bed, her arms spread wide in theatrical misery.

A muffled scream tore from her throat, louder this time, and the sound carried through the hall like an exclamation mark to her frustration. Somewhere outside her room, the soft patter of house-elf feet came to an abrupt halt.

Kreacher and Dobby exchanged a cautious glance. They had prepared a tray of snacks and drinks for Hermione—soft pastries dusted with sugar, a steaming mug of hot cocoa, and a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice—but neither was brave enough to deliver it just now.

"Miss is being very upset," Kreacher muttered, his gruff voice tinged with reluctant concern.

"Perhaps we wait," Dobby whispered, wringing his hands nervously. "Let her settle first. Dobby doesn't want to make it worse."

They both nodded in agreement, retreating into the shadows of the hall as Hermione let out another muffled yell into her mattress. The tray of snacks would have to wait, left on a side table until the storm of frustration in Hermione's room subsided.

As the Manor's quiet halls absorbed the echoes of her tantrum, Hermione rolled onto her back and stared at the ornate ceiling. She wasn't just upset about being left behind or even the looming training. She was angry because, in moments like these, she felt small and excluded, as though the universe had conspired to make her an outsider in her own circle of friends.

She let out one more long groan before grabbing her pillow from the floor and clutching it tightly to her chest.

The week ahead stretched before her like an unwelcome guest, and no amount of kicking, yelling, or sulking seemed enough to banish the weight of it.

xxxxx

Summer was supposed to be a time for relaxation, a reprieve from the chaos of the school year. But for Harry, it seemed that even his summers were destined to be packed with plans that left little room for the quiet moments he secretly craved. All he wanted was to spend the first week back at Potter Manor simply being a kid—lounging around, maybe even playfully teasing Hermione, and enjoying the rare luxury of feeling normal.

But Sirius, ever the whirlwind of enthusiasm, had other ideas. Without consulting anyone, he had arranged for Harry, Ron, and Draco to accompany him to France for Animagus training. As if that wasn't frustrating enough, Hermione had been excluded from the trip altogether which wasn't surprising at all to Harry. The Delacours were particular about their guests, and their estate—occupied by an extended family of Veela—was decidedly off-limits to strangers.

Harry's irritation simmered as he mulled over the situation. His thoughts were interrupted by a faint but unmistakable yell echoing down the hallway. Turning toward the noise, he raised an eyebrow, bemused, as he caught sight of Emma Granger perched on her bed in a room nearby.

"I think that was Hermione," Harry remarked, his voice laced with mild amusement.

Emma sighed, leaning back against the headboard. "Oh, don't mind her. She's just frustrated about the whole France thing. Can't say I blame her, though. I'd be upset too if I were left out. Honestly, I'm frustrated myself. I wouldn't mind a vacation."

Harry nodded absently, still half-listening to the muffled noises of Hermione's apparent tantrum. He crossed his arms, focusing back on Emma. "Right. So, what's this important conversation about anyway, Emma?"

Emma glanced away, her demeanor shifting to something more hesitant. She folded her arms, her gaze fixed firmly on the wall, as if gathering her thoughts.

"Emma?" Harry pressed, his curiosity piqued.

She let out a disapproving hum, still refusing to meet his eyes. Harry groaned, leaning against the doorframe.

"Please don't make me do this," he muttered.

"You promised, Harry," Emma said firmly, her tone taking on a playful edge. "You already called me that once."

"It was a spur-of-the-moment thing!"

"And you promised you'd do it again!"

"Oh, for Merlin's sake!" Harry threw his hands up in exasperation. "Alright! Fine! Mum." He all but spat the word, emphasizing it dramatically as Emma clapped her hands together in delight. He rolled his eyes. "Happy now? What's this about?"

"Okay, okay!" Emma laughed, clearly enjoying her victory. "Well... I don't really know how to explain this, but I've been hiding something from Sirius and Hermione for the past few days. And I figured you'd be the safest person to tell without causing a scene—or panicking."

Harry frowned, his curiosity deepening. "Reveal what?"

Emma hesitated for a moment, then extended her hand. Before Harry could ask what she was doing, a book on the far side of the room shot through the air, landing neatly in her outstretched palm.

Harry's jaw practically hit the floor. "Y-You—what—" he stammered, pointing at the book as if it were a ticking time bomb. "What just happened?!"

"I don't know!" Emma admitted, laughing nervously. "But it's been happening for a while now. Things move or break when I get emotional. At first, I thought it was Hermione causing it, but then I noticed it also happened when I'm alone. So, I started experimenting—just little things, you know, based on what I've read in the magical theory books in your library."

As if to prove her point, she lifted her hand again, and another book zoomed toward her, albeit with a jerky, uneven motion that suggested a lack of control. Harry stared, his mind racing. The way the books moved... it wasn't like wandwork. It was raw, untamed magic.

"Stay here," he said abruptly, darting out of the room before Emma could protest. He returned minutes later, carrying a bundle of wands—seven in total, each varying in length, wood, and core. He spread them out on the bed. "Close your eyes," he instructed. "Just feel for the one that feels... warm, or maybe it tingles. Something that feels right."

Emma gave him a skeptical look but complied, running her fingers over each wand in turn. She paused on one, her expression shifting to a frown. "This one is warm but it feels... weird," she said, opening her eyes. "Like wearing someone else's jacket."

Harry grinned. "That's Cherry wood with a Unicorn hair core. Don't worry—it's just a trial. Try waving it around."

Emma hesitated, then gave the wand an awkward flourish. To her astonishment—and mild horror—a pale light flickered at the tip. She gasped, dropping the wand as if it had bitten her.

"Was that me?!" she exclaimed, covering her face with her hands.

"Of course, it was you!" Harry said, barely containing his excitement. "I can't believe it! You're really doing magic! When did this start happening?"

Emma thought for a moment, snapping her fingers as realization dawned. "After the accident," she said quietly. "That was the first time I broke something—my bathroom mirror. I was so upset when I saw... you know." She gestured vaguely toward her eye.

Harry's expression softened. "We could use a cosmetic charm to make it look normal if it bothers you," he offered gently. "You wouldn't regain sight, but—"

"No, it's fine," Emma interrupted, smiling faintly. "I'm used to it now. But what do I do? Oh! Do I get to go to Hogwarts too?" Her face lit up, excitement bubbling over.

Harry chuckled. In that moment, she looked so much like Hermione it was uncanny. "I don't know," he admitted. "But we need to tell Hermione and Sirius. Soon."

Emma nodded, still holding the wand with a mixture of awe and trepidation.

xxxxx

Hermione sat perched on the edge of Harry's bed, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. The tension in the room was palpable, as though the very air had thickened under the weight of their unspoken concerns. Harry moved with practiced precision, his wand flicking in deliberate arcs as he cast a series of privacy charms around the room. The shimmering layers of magic settled almost imperceptibly, but Hermione knew they were redundant. They were in the Lord's room, after all, a sanctum protected by wards older and stronger than any spell Harry could conjure. Nothing and no one could breach its defenses. Still, his vigilance spoke volumes about the gravity of their discussion.

"Harry," Hermione began tentatively, her voice barely above a whisper as the silence grew oppressive. She shifted slightly, the mattress creaking beneath her. Her chest felt tight, her heart pounding against her ribs. This was a conversation she had dreaded yet felt compelled to have. "You— you teased Sirius earlier," she said, attempting to ease into the topic. "You did that so they'd focus on each other, didn't you? To keep them distracted?"

"Shh," Harry interrupted, raising a hand to quiet her. His green eyes scanned the room again, his movements sharp and deliberate. He seemed more restless than usual, as though the weight of their discovery had unsettled him. Finally, he nodded to himself, lowering his wand. "Okay," he murmured, his voice a little steadier. "I think we're clear."

Hermione inhaled deeply, her resolve hardening. "Harry, what do we do?" she asked, standing abruptly. Her pacing began in earnest, each step quick and jittery as though her energy had nowhere else to go. "Did we... did we cause this?"

Harry's expression darkened, and he leaned against his desk, crossing his arms over his chest. His eyes followed her movements, his mind working furiously. "We don't know, Hermione," he admitted, his tone heavy with frustration. "It might be a combination of the curse she was hit with, or maybe it's the Elixir of Life. But we can't say for sure if that's why Emma suddenly… well, why she can do magic now."

The memory of Emma's accidental magic—her shock, the energy bursting from her fingertips—had been haunting Harry ever since. The timing was impossible to ignore. It had all happened after the accident, after the curse had hit her. His gut told him it wasn't a coincidence, but he couldn't rely on intuition alone. This was uncharted territory.

"But isn't this incredible?" Hermione stopped abruptly, her eyes wide and gleaming with a mixture of hope and apprehension. "Harry, just think about it! Muggleborns have always been a minority in the wizarding world. What if we've stumbled onto something that could change that? What if we could—" Her voice faltered momentarily before surging with conviction. "What if we could create more witches and wizards? A whole new generation that isn't looked down on for their bloodline!"

Her enthusiasm was electric, her cheeks flushed with the sheer enormity of the idea. She clasped her hands together, as though holding the fragile dream she had just articulated. But Harry remained unmoved, his gaze sharp and wary.

"Hermione," he said slowly, his tone cautious. "We don't even know if the Elixir of Life is responsible. For all we know, you might just come from a long line of Squibs. Maybe something dormant triggered your magic when you were born. It could be the same with Emma—a Squib who didn't know it, and the Elixir fixed her."

Hermione paused, considering his words. The explanation was plausible, even logical. But deep down, a quiet certainty pushed back against Harry's reasoning. "It's possible," she admitted, her voice softening. "But… it feels like more than that. We need to know, Harry. We need to find out."

"And how do you propose we do that?" Harry asked, his brow furrowing. "Hermione, experimenting on people—on Muggles—it's unethical. What if something goes wrong? What if—"

"We have to try!" she interrupted, her voice rising with a mix of desperation and determination. She turned to face him fully, her hands clenched into fists. "Harry, the Philosopher's Stone isn't just some artifact. It's a miracle. It heals injuries, cures diseases, extends life. What if it also creates a magical core? Can you imagine what that could mean for people like me? For Muggleborns? This could be our chance to level the playing field, to prove we're not… lesser. We wouldn't be seen as people with 'dirty blood' anymore."

Harry's frown deepened, his jaw tightening as he listened. "I don't think your blood is dirty, Hermione," he said quietly.

She scoffed, her frustration boiling over. "I know you don't, Harry, but the rest of the world does! Don't think I haven't noticed how Muggleborns are treated. We're barely tolerated, let alone respected. Do you know how few career opportunities there are for us? In the entire history of the Ministry, there hasn't been a single Muggleborn department head. Not one! They're stuck in menial roles, doing the work no one else wants."

Her voice cracked, but she pushed on, stepping closer to him. "Harry, we could change that. If more Muggleborns started appearing, the Ministry would have to take notice. They'd have no choice but to adapt. With your connections—with Sirius, Amelia, and—"

"Hermione, stop!" Harry's voice rang out, sharp and commanding. A surge of magic rippled through the room, rattling the objects on his desk. The force of it silenced her immediately, her breath catching in her throat.

Harry ran a hand through his hair, his frustration evident in the tension lining his face. Without a word, he stepped forward and pulled her into a firm embrace, his arms wrapping tightly around her. His touch was grounding, a silent plea for calm amidst the chaos of her thoughts.

"Hermione," he murmured, his voice low and strained. "Just… let me think."

She hesitated, her body stiff in his arms. But as the seconds stretched on, her shoulders relaxed, and she leaned into him slightly. The silence returned, heavy but no longer oppressive.

Harry's mind raced, weighing the risks and the potential consequences of her plan. Could they really wield this kind of power without backlash? Was it worth the danger? His arms tightened around her as if seeking an answer in the steady rhythm of her heartbeat.

"Harry?" she whispered after a long moment, her voice tentative.

"Shh," he replied, resting his chin lightly on her head. "Just… give me a moment."

And they stayed like that, suspended in the fragile stillness of uncertainty.

xxxxx

Harry was quiet, his arms wrapped protectively around Hermione as he gently ran his fingers through her hair, the other hand tracing soothing circles on her back. Her breathing was unsteady, her body tense against his, but he didn't say anything yet. He let her relax, feeling the rhythm of her heartbeat slowly match his. His mind, however, was anything but calm.

A memory surfaced, one he hadn't thought of in years. He was a child then, maybe five or six, sitting cross-legged on the floor of Grimmauld Place. Sirius had been hosting a rare gathering of trusted friends—older witches and wizards Harry didn't recognize back then. They had been talking about him, their tones ranging from awe to curiosity. Sirius, ever the proud godfather, had been quick to boast about Harry's accidental magic.

"He's extraordinary," Sirius had said, his voice filled with something Harry now recognized as fatherly pride. "He can summon things without even realizing it—his toys, snacks, even that blasted stuffed dragon he drags everywhere. And his toy broom? Merlin, he's practically flying circles around me."

Harry had laughed at the memory back then, the warmth of Sirius's pride washing over him. But there was a line from one of the older witches that had etched itself into his mind, even if he hadn't understood its significance at the time.

"So you think Dumbledore was right, then? About how Muggleborns are a perfect addition to our world for producing more powerful wizards and witches?"

At the time, it had meant nothing to him—just idle talk among adults. But now, years later, with all he had seen and learned, it resonated differently. The wizarding world was small, far smaller than most realized. Almost every powerful family could trace their lineage back to the same few ancestors.

The Blacks, for instance. Harry, Ron, Draco, even Neville—all of them had ties to the Black family. Ron's grandmother was a Black. Draco's mother, Narcissa, was a Black. Even Harry himself, through his father's side, had Black blood. The Longbottoms weren't exempt either; Neville's great-grandmother had been a Black. The interweaving of bloodlines was endless, and Sirius himself had lamented the complications of it.

For generations, pureblood families had clung to the idea that keeping the bloodline "pure" was the key to maintaining their magic. The birth of a Squib was an unbearable shame, a blemish on their so-called perfection. Yet, in their desperation to preserve their magic, they had failed to see the dangers of inbreeding. Weaknesses had crept in—illnesses, diminishing magical strength, madness.

And then, there were the Muggleborns.

Harry had discovered through quiet research that Dumbledore had been one of the first to champion the idea of integrating Muggleborns, not just for moral reasons, but because of their potential. Their "dirty blood," as the bigots called it, was actually a lifeline for the wizarding world. Muggleborns introduced new strength, new diversity. They were the secret to revitalizing the magical community.

But even that came with its own ugly truth. To some, Muggleborns were nothing more than tools—means to an end. Dumbledore's vision of a stronger wizarding world had merit, but it also carried the implication that Muggleborns were valued only for what they could produce. Not for who they were, but for what they could give.

Tools.

Harry's thoughts darkened as he considered what Hermione had proposed. If the Elixir of Life could create a magical core in Muggles, the balance of their world would shift irreparably. Hogwarts, in a few years, could be filled with half-Muggleborns, half-purebloods. The idea was tantalizing—but dangerous. The implications stretched far beyond what Hermione had envisioned.

"Harry, talk to me," Hermione's soft voice broke through his thoughts, her warm breath brushing against his neck.

He looked down at her, and his resolve wavered. Her eyes burned with conviction, bright and unwavering, and he saw in them the fierce determination that had always drawn him to her. It wasn't just an idea to her; it was hope, a chance to rewrite the future of their world.

He grinned softly, a wave of affection crashing over him. Without a second thought, he leaned down, capturing her lips in a kiss.

It wasn't hurried or tentative—it was deep and filled with everything he couldn't put into words. His hand cradled the back of her head, anchoring her to him as he poured his emotions into the kiss. He wanted her to know how much he admired her brilliance, her courage, and the fire that made her who she was.

When they finally parted, Hermione looked up at him, her cheeks flushed, her lips slightly swollen. She melted into his arms, hiding her face in his chest as if to escape the intensity of the moment. "Have I ever told you how lucky I am to have you?" Harry murmured, his voice low and filled with sincerity. "You're such a brilliant girl."

Her response was muffled against his chest, but he caught the words, "Yes, but continue praising me."

He laughed, a genuine, hearty sound that seemed to chase away some of the tension lingering in the room. Tightening his hold on her, he pressed his cheek against her hair. In that moment, a decision solidified in his mind.

The next few years were going to be damn interesting.

xxxxx

Harry took on this new fact as a challenge for the rest of the week. His room at Potter Manor had become a chaotic yet oddly productive sanctuary. Hermione had claimed a corner of the expansive space, her determined posture hunched over a mountain of books, loose parchments, and hastily scribbled notes. The air was tinged with the faint smell of parchment, ink, and a lingering sweetness from the peppermint tea that the elves had prepared before.

Hermione was relentless in her pursuit of understanding how the Philosopher's Stone functioned. The way it produced the Elixir of Life seemed, to her, far too simplistic—sweating out drops of immortality like dew on a stone. The concept gnawed at her mind, driving her to test every plausible theory. Harry couldn't help but admire her focus, even if it came at the cost of his now cluttered workspace.

Hermione's frustration was palpable. She would occasionally let out small, exasperated sighs or mumble to herself as she flipped through yet another heavy tome from the Black and Potter family library. Harry had offered to fetch Luna for help, as she had a knack for runes and magical oddities, but the suggestion was met with a sharp glare and an indignant roll of her eyes.

"How dare you, Potter," Hermione scoffed, her voice brimming with mock offense. "I can come up with a solution of my own!"

Harry held up his hands in a gesture of surrender, a wry grin tugging at his lips. "Alright, alright," he said, backing off with a chuckle. "I was just saying, maybe we need another brain in here. You know, to lighten the workload."

Hermione huffed, though her lips twitched in what might have been the ghost of a smile. Harry left her to her relentless brainstorming, shifting his own focus to another pressing issue: how to test the Elixir of Life without ending up on the wrong side of magical or Muggle authorities.

The idea of using a random Muggle had crossed his mind, but it felt inherently wrong. He couldn't just grab someone off the street and force them to drink the Elixir. That was the kind of thinking that led to dark paths he wanted no part of. Still, there had to be a way to find willing participants—people who could truly benefit from the effects of the Elixir, even if it didn't awaken any latent magical abilities.

Harry's mind drifted to his cousin Dudley. The thought of Dudley being the first test subject was so absurd that it drew a sharp laugh from him. The memory of visiting the Dursleys with Sirius surfaced, bringing with it a mixture of amusement and disdain. Vernon had practically turned purple with rage at the sight of them, spitting insults about "freaks" while Dudley cowered behind his mother like a piglet seeking shelter. The idea was amusing, but ultimately useless. The Dursleys would never agree to anything magical, let alone something as radical as drinking the Elixir of Life.

No, Harry needed people who would actually want—no, need—the Elixir. His thoughts clicked into place.

Muggle hospitals. Of course.

There were countless people suffering from illnesses with no known cures in the Muggle world. The Elixir might not turn them into wizards or witches, but it could grant them a second chance at life. It was a practical, compassionate solution, and one that wouldn't draw too much attention if handled discreetly.

Harry jotted the idea down on a piece of parchment, his quill scratching against the surface with purposeful strokes. His wealth afforded him a unique advantage—he had contacts in both the magical and Muggle worlds who could be persuaded to assist him for the right price. Discretion wouldn't be an issue, and neither would finding volunteers.

The next phase of his plan involved something far more ambitious: finding children to mentor—potentially magical ones who might join Hogwarts in the coming years. If they could identify young Muggleborns or magical children early, they could ensure they received proper guidance and education. Harry aimed for at least five to eight children for the first batch, enough to make a noticeable impact but not so many that it would draw undue scrutiny.

Convincing these children to join specific Houses at Hogwarts, however, presented a challenge. Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, and Ravenclaw were easy enough to navigate, but Slytherin was another matter entirely. The House was notoriously unwelcoming to Muggleborns, filled with purebloods and half-bloods who often shared a disdain for anyone they deemed "lesser." Draco was an exception to this rule, but even he admitted that a Muggleborn in Slytherin would face insurmountable hostility. It was a problem they hadn't yet solved, but Harry was determined to find a way.

His mind wandered to orphanages. The idea struck him with the force of a revelation. Muggle orphanages were full of children who had no family, no stability—children who were, in some ways, just like him. If they turned out to be magical, they could be offered a home, an education, and a future. Even if they weren't magical, Harry could still provide them with opportunities they would never have otherwise.

He envisioned it clearly: a warm, welcoming home where these children could thrive, supported by his wealth and resources. He could even sponsor their education at Hogwarts, ensuring they had everything they needed to succeed. The thought filled him with a sense of purpose, a feeling that he was finally taking control of his life and using his position for good.

Grinning to himself, Harry began outlining his plans on parchment, the list growing longer with each passing moment. He felt a surge of satisfaction as he imagined the possibilities. Things were going great, and for the first time in a long while, Harry felt like he was shaping the future—not just for himself, but for the magical world.

xxxxx

The living room of Potter Manor was bathed in the soft golden light of the late afternoon sun, its sprawling windows letting the lush greenery of the estate spill into the room. The faint scent of polished wood and the crackle of a magical fire in the hearth lent a warmth that was sharply at odds with the tension brewing inside.

"I can't believe this!" Hermione's voice rang out, sharp and indignant, as she stomped her foot against the plush Persian rug. Her cheeks were flushed a deep pink, her curls bouncing with every frustrated movement. Her glare, fierce and unwavering, was aimed directly at her mother, Emma, who stood with her arms crossed, her expression one of composed but firm disapproval.

"Hermione, dear, stop that," Emma said with a soft frown, her voice calm but tinged with impatience. "You're not a little kid anymore."

"But you're leaving me alone in the house!" Hermione snapped, her voice rising an octave. She threw an accusatory glance at her mother and then at Sirius, who had his hands raised in a gesture of exasperation. "Why does she get to go to France too?! It's completely unfair!"

Emma exchanged a look with Sirius, who let out a weary sigh, rubbing his temples. "It's just going to be for a week, Hermione," he began, his tone steady but clearly attempting to keep the peace. "We already told you. If your mother suddenly starts displaying magic without proper documentation in the wizarding world, it's going to cause all sorts of issues. People will talk. We'd have to explain her 'freak accident,' and don't even get me started on how you two—" he jabbed a finger toward Harry and Hermione—"are still keeping quiet about how she was healed so quickly in the first place!"

At this, Harry, who had been lounging on the arm of one of the velvet armchairs, awkwardly scratched the back of his head and avoided meeting anyone's eyes. Hermione's glare, however, remained unwavering, darting between Emma and Sirius with an intensity that could have melted glass.

"Why can't I just join you, then?" Hermione demanded, her voice brimming with frustration. "If it's only for a week, I can come too!"

"We've already explained," Emma snapped, her patience visibly fraying. "Narcissa and Andromeda will be arriving this weekend to begin your training. And let me remind you, Hermione Jean Granger, this is training you desperately need if you're to carry yourself as a proper Lady of the House of Potter someday! Stomping around the room and throwing a tantrum like a child is hardly fitting behavior!"

Hermione bristled at the words, her fists clenching at her sides. "But that's not fair!" she shouted. "I want to go on a vacation too, and you're leaving me behind like some sort of afterthought!"

"It's not a vacation," Sirius interjected, his voice calm but firm as he stepped forward, trying to mediate between the two Granger women. "We'll be doing paperwork for most of the trip. It's crucial we forge the right documents for your mother so she can be registered as a witch in France. If anyone starts asking questions about her, we need to have everything in place to avoid scrutiny." He turned to Harry, a silent plea for support evident in his tired eyes.

Harry sighed and pushed himself off the armchair. He walked over to Hermione, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and pressing a soft kiss to her temple. The affectionate gesture momentarily softened the rigidity in her posture, though her pout remained firmly in place.

"When we get back, I promise we'll take a Portkey to Switzerland," Harry said, his voice warm and coaxing. His emerald eyes met hers, sparkling with sincerity. "We'll spend a week there, just the two of us... maybe Sirius and Emma too when you're not angry with them anymore. A proper vacation, no paperwork, no training. Just fun. What do you say?"

Hermione's resolve wavered for a moment, but she knew deep down that this was a losing battle. Emma and Sirius had already made their decision, and as much as it rankled, she couldn't deny that the trip to France was important. The last thing any of them needed was for Emma's sudden magical abilities to raise suspicion, especially with her impending marriage to Sirius, the infamous Lord of the House of Black. Hermione's own connection to Harry, the future Lord of the House of Potter, only made things more complicated.

Still, the sting of being left behind hurt. She shot one last glare at Emma and Sirius before turning on her heel and storming out of the room, her curls bouncing wildly as she went.

Harry watched her retreat with a sad smile, then turned to face the adults. "I'll talk to her," he said softly. "She's just feeling left out. It's been a stressful few weeks for her."

Sirius nodded, his expression somber. "Thanks, Harry. I know she listens to you better than anyone."

As Harry followed after Hermione, the living room fell silent save for the faint crackle of the magical fire. Emma let out a heavy sigh, leaning into Sirius's embrace as he wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

"I hate fighting with her," Emma admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "But this trip is necessary. If we don't do this now, everything could fall apart."

Sirius pressed a kiss to her hair, his other hand resting on the small of her back. "She'll come around," he murmured. "She's a smart girl. She'll understand eventually. And once it's all sorted, you'll finally get what you've wanted—us, married, before she goes back to Hogwarts."

Emma nodded, though the weight of the argument still lingered in her chest. She glanced toward the doorway where Hermione had disappeared, a faint pang of guilt tugging at her. "I hope you're right," she said softly. "I just want her to be happy."

Sirius gave her a reassuring squeeze. "She will be. We all will be. Just wait and see."

The fire continued to crackle softly as the two stood there, holding onto each other, the promise of better days ahead comforting them both.

xxxxx

The day of the trip to France had finally arrived, and the air in Potter Manor buzzed with both excitement and tension. The group had gathered in the elegantly furnished living room, a space that exuded warmth and sophistication with its high ceilings, polished wood paneling, and large windows that bathed the room in natural light. A grand fireplace crackled in the background, its embers adding a soft glow to the scene. Everyone was dressed in smart casual outfits befitting the occasion, their attire a mix of wizarding elegance and Muggle practicality.

A carefully prepared Portkey—a length of worn rope coiled neatly on a side table—sat ready to whisk them away in just a few minutes. Their shrunken bags, neatly tucked into pockets or charmed pouches, meant there was little clutter to distract from the strained atmosphere.

Harry sat comfortably on one of the plush armchairs, Hermione nestled tightly against his side. Her arms were crossed, her expression a storm of quiet rebellion as she glared at the group preparing to leave her behind. Despite her clear irritation, Harry absentmindedly ran his fingers through her hair, his movements soothing but also slightly apologetic.

"I can't believe this," Hermione muttered, her voice low but laced with a sharp edge. "You're actually leaving me."

Harry sighed softly, tilting his head to look at her with a small, patient smile. "Trust me, Hermione. Three weeks will fly by before you know it," he said, his tone calm but tinged with the affection he always reserved for her. "And your mum will only be gone for a week."

Hermione responded with a pointed roll of her eyes, making her feelings about his reassurances perfectly clear. Across the room, Emma folded her arms, her own patience beginning to wear thin. It was clear from the way her lips pressed into a thin line that she was struggling to keep her composure.

"A week apart might actually do the two of you some good," Sirius interjected, his voice light and teasing as he leaned back in his chair. He cast an amused glance between Harry and Hermione, hoping to ease the growing tension.

Meanwhile, Ron and Draco had wisely chosen to stay out of the brewing conflict, retreating to a corner of the room where they were engrossed in a game of Wizard's Chess. Their heads bent low over the board, they moved their pieces with quiet focus, doing their best to remain invisible and avoid being dragged into the argument.

Andromeda and Narcissa stood nearby, observing the scene with matching expressions of amusement. Both women, regal in their bearing and sharply dressed in robes that radiated quiet authority, seemed more entertained than concerned. Andromeda, ever the diplomat, broke the silence with a warm smile.

"Don't worry about Hermione, Emma," she said confidently. "We'll take excellent care of her. She's a brilliant young witch, and I'm quite looking forward to seeing just how much potential she has."

Narcissa nodded in agreement, idly twirling a strand of her blonde hair as she spoke. "Indeed. Hermione is bound to surprise us all. I have no doubt she'll excel in her training."

Sirius rose from his chair and crossed the room to kneel in front of Hermione, taking her hands in his own. His expression softened as he looked at her, his usual mischievous demeanor replaced by rare sincerity.

"Hermione," he began gently, "I know this is going to be a hard few weeks for you. But I want you to remember something: you wanted this training. You wanted to be prepared for the future, not just for your role in Harry's life but for your own ambitions. And I have no doubt you're going to do great things—things even greater than what Harry or I could accomplish on our own."

Hermione's stony expression flickered, her resolve cracking just slightly under the weight of Sirius's earnestness. Despite herself, she felt a spark of warmth at his words, though she stubbornly tried to maintain her air of indifference.

Sirius glanced briefly at Andromeda and Narcissa before continuing. "That being said, you'll have the option to stop at any time. The next three weeks are going to be intense—a condensed version of what most witches in the Black family go through over years. You'll be tired, sore, and probably ready to hex us all by the end of it. But I know you can do it. You're stronger than you think, Hermione."

Hermione's jaw tightened, her eyes narrowing slightly as if to challenge his words. Sirius simply smiled, recognizing the determination in her expression for what it was: a sign that she was already steeling herself for the challenge.

He stood, brushing off his robes, and checked his watch. "Well," he said briskly, "it's time to head out." He reached into the table and took the Portkey, holding it up for everyone to see. "Everyone ready?"

The others began to rise. Ron and Draco made their way over to Hermione, each taking a turn to hug her. Ron, ever the comforter, promised to bring back plenty of snacks and books, while Draco smirked and assured her that she wouldn't even have time to miss them with how demanding her training would be.

Emma approached her daughter next, pulling her into a brief but firm hug. They patted each other on the back in a way that was equal parts affection and truce, both knowing that their earlier tension would eventually pass. Sirius followed with a tighter embrace, murmuring something to Hermione that made her nod silently.

Finally, Harry stood before her. His green eyes locked onto hers, his expression soft but unwavering. "You're in charge of the house while I'm away, okay?" he said quietly, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "I left a mirror on your desk. I'll call you every day."

Hermione's frown deepened, but her voice wavered slightly when she spoke. "I'm going to miss you."

"I'm going to miss you too," Harry replied, leaning down to kiss her forehead. His lips lingered there for a moment before he whispered, "I love you, Hermione. Good luck with your training."

With one final squeeze, Harry joined the others, gripping the Portkey tightly. He glanced back at Hermione, giving her a small wave and a reassuring smile before the group vanished with a soft pop.

Left standing in the suddenly quiet room, Hermione let out a heavy sigh before turning to Andromeda and Narcissa. Her shoulders straightened, and she squared her chin, determination blazing in her eyes.

"I'm ready for the training," she said firmly.

xxxxx

Hermione glanced around the basement of Potter Manor, her sharp eyes taking in every detail of the expansive room. The air was slightly cooler down here, carrying a faint scent of old stone and dust, but the space was well-lit by glowing orbs of magical light that hovered near the ceiling. This was the very place where Harry had first revealed his Animagus form—a moment that had left everyone awestruck. The room itself was more than adequate for dueling or any sort of magical training. The walls bore faint scorch marks from countless practice spells, a testament to the rigorous sessions held here in the past.

Her stomach fluttered as she thought about what was to come. The first week of her training, she had been told, would focus on spellwork—both offensive and defensive. She adjusted the snug fit of her training clothes, Muggle-style athletic wear that allowed for free movement. The outfit was practical, though she felt oddly self-conscious standing in it before the two imposing witches who would be her instructors.

Andromeda Tonks, with her soft, welcoming demeanor, stood to Hermione's left, offering a small, encouraging smile. In stark contrast, Narcissa Malfoy was perched elegantly nearby, her icy blue eyes studying Hermione with an expression of mild amusement, as though sizing up her capabilities before the first word of instruction had even been spoken.

"Alright, we should begin," Andromeda said, her tone light but firm. She stepped forward, folding her hands in front of her. "Today, we'll be starting with the basics—understanding the principles of control, discipline, and awareness."

Narcissa raised an eyebrow and held out a pale hand, her movements graceful yet commanding. "Let me see your wand."

Hermione, without hesitation, reached into her pocket and passed her wand over to Narcissa.

The action was instinctive, an automatic response to the request of an elder witch, and it wasn't until Andromeda sighed heavily that Hermione realized her mistake.

"That," Andromeda said, her voice sharp enough to make Hermione flinch, "is the first thing you'll need to unlearn."

Hermione blinked in confusion, her heart thudding as she watched Andromeda's expression harden.

"The moment you hand over your wand," Andromeda continued, her tone tinged with disappointment, "you might as well be signing your own death warrant. Trust no one when it comes to your weapon. Not me, not her"—she gestured toward Narcissa—"not even Harry."

Hermione's breath caught in her throat. Her eyes darted to Narcissa, who had already slipped her wand into the folds of her elegant robes.

"Wait—what?" Hermione stammered, her voice rising in panic. "What are you doing? Give me back my wand!"

Narcissa tilted her head slightly, her lips curving into a faint smile. "No," she said simply. The word landed like a stone, final and unyielding.

"But you can't just take it!" Hermione protested, stepping forward, her hands outstretched.

"You gave it away," Narcissa replied coolly, her tone almost mocking. "Now, you'll have to spend the day without it. Think of it as your first lesson: always guard your wand as if your life depends on it—because one day, it might."

"That's not fair!" Hermione snapped, her frustration bubbling over.

Narcissa's eyes gleamed with a sharpness that made Hermione take a half-step back. "Fair?" she repeated, her voice dripping with disdain. "Fairness is a luxury afforded to duels in controlled environments. Out in the real world, there is no fairness—there is survival. And you, little girl, must learn to survive."

The room seemed to grow colder as Narcissa pulled out her own wand, her movements slow and deliberate. Her posture was relaxed, but her aura exuded a dangerous confidence.

"Now," Narcissa purred, "do you want to proceed with the easy version of this training—or the hard version?"

Hermione narrowed her eyes, her jaw clenching as anger surged through her veins. She could feel Narcissa's gaze, sharp and taunting, daring her to rise to the challenge.

"I'll take the hard version," Hermione hissed through gritted teeth, her voice steady despite the knot of anxiety forming in her chest.

Narcissa's smile widened, transforming her cold beauty into something almost predatory. "Excellent."

"Cissy, no!" Andromeda's voice rang out sharply, a note of alarm in her usually calm demeanor.

But Narcissa's wand was already raised.

"Crucio."

The word slipped from her lips with an elegance that belied the cruel intent behind it.

Hermione barely had time to register what was happening before it hit—a searing, blinding pain that ignited every nerve in her body. Her knees buckled, and she collapsed onto the cold stone floor, gasping for breath as the agony overwhelmed her. It was as though her very blood had turned to fire, her muscles twisting and spasming uncontrollably.

The scream tore from her throat before she could stop it, raw and unrestrained.

It lasted only a single second, but it felt like an eternity. When the pain finally subsided, Hermione lay on the floor, trembling and gasping for air, her body drenched in sweat.

She could hear Andromeda's frantic voice in the background, but it was muffled, as though coming from underwater. Narcissa's face hovered above her, calm and composed, showing no trace of remorse.

"Lesson number two," Narcissa said, her tone almost conversational. "Pain is a teacher like no other. You will remember this far longer than any lecture or textbook."

Hermione's fingers curled into fists against the floor as she fought to steady her breathing. Her mind was a whirlwind of anger, humiliation, and determination.

Chapter 42: Unforgivable

Notes:

As much as I love including Fleur and her family in my fics, I couldn't possibly try and edit how her accent would look like when written. I would probably make mistakes along the way so I just kept them as written. Just please imagine Fleur doing her French accent because that's just how I do - like honesty, with Clémence Poésy in my mind when I'm writing this.

If that doesn't work, then I apologize.

Also, yeah, saw some of the comments before so just want to put this as a warning that moving forward things will just get darker and darker for Harmony. If it's not your cup of tea, I would like to apologize and thank you for reaching this part of my story. Every comment cheers me up, believe it or not. Makes me feel like someone spent part of their day reading what I wrote, even if it's not to their liking.

Chapter Text

One second.

That was all it took for Hermione to crumple to the cold stone floor of the Potter Manor basement, her body consumed by what felt like a hundred fiery knives piercing her skin. The Crucio had hit her before she even fully registered Narcissa Malfoy's wand lifting. She had braced herself for a stunning spell or a disarming jinx—something challenging but not this. Not an Unforgivable Curse.

Her breath hitched as the aftershocks rippled through her, leaving her muscles trembling and her mind reeling. Her hand clawed at the smooth floor, the faint scent of damp stone mixing with the copper tang of blood she bit back from her lip. Through the haze of pain, she glared up at Narcissa, rage and disbelief burning in her teary eyes.

"Our training will include you suffering from Unforgivables," Narcissa explained, her voice calm and detached, as if she were discussing the weather rather than the torture of a thirteen-year-old girl. The older witch didn't even spare a glance at Hermione's disheveled form on the floor, her tone clinical. "You will only be under the Cruciatus Curse for one second to start. Then three seconds, and, at most, five. After that, you will be expected to stand up, ready to send spells, shield yourself, or flee."

Hermione's stomach twisted at the matter-of-fact way Narcissa spoke, as if this was a standard practice. The cool, calculating demeanor made her anger flare hotter than the lingering pain.

"Cissy, we can't just do that and not prepare her!" Andromeda scolded, her usually warm face now tight with disapproval as she shot Narcissa a look of pure frustration.

"She's being defiant at the moment," Narcissa huffed, clearly unimpressed by Hermione's defiance or distress. "Throwing tantrums like a child. Even my Draco knew how to show respect when it came to training."

Andromeda let out a sharp sigh, crouching down beside Hermione. Her hands were firm but gentle as she helped the younger girl sit upright. "Are you okay? Do you need to take a break?" Her voice was softer now, coaxing, the concern evident in her furrowed brow.

Hermione shook her head, her jaw clenching as she fought to suppress the tears threatening to spill. She wouldn't give Narcissa the satisfaction of seeing her cry. Almost as if responding to her resolve, a surge of magic welled up within her, wrapping around her body like a protective shield. The combination of the Elixir in her body and the faint hum of the runic tattoos on her skin poured enough energy into her limbs for her to stand.

"I—I can still go," she managed, her voice shaking but her determination shining through.

Andromeda blinked, momentarily taken aback by the speed of Hermione's recovery. Most witches and wizards would have been writhing on the floor for far longer after a Cruciatus Curse, even for a second. A smile broke across her face, pride evident. "You really are a talented witch, Hermione. Remarkable, truly."

"Excellent!" Andromeda continued, brushing a stray curl from Hermione's forehead. "Now, there's no more of that coming—I can promise you that."

"For today, at least," Narcissa added, her lips quirking into a sly smile.

"Cissy, shut up!" Andromeda snapped, her annoyance bubbling over.

Narcissa rolled her eyes but turned her full attention back to Hermione, her expression cool and calculating. "Now, I want you to do laps around the basement. For an hour. We'll be sending spells your way, and you'll need to evade every single one. If a spell hits you, that's an extra ten minutes added to your time."

Hermione's eyes narrowed. She was still shaking slightly, but her fiery glare was locked on Narcissa as the older witch continued, her tone almost mocking.

"While you're running, Andi will be asking you questions—basic things you should've learned by now at Hogwarts. You'll need to answer them while dodging. Fail to answer, and that's another ten minutes."

The challenge made Hermione's blood boil. Before she could argue, Narcissa casually pointed her wand at her, forcing Hermione to start running.

"What do you think you're doing?" Andromeda hissed in a low voice, glancing at Hermione, who was already circling the basement, her breaths quick and uneven. "We need her to like us, Cissy! Not hate us!"

"I don't need her to like me," Narcissa replied smoothly, her gaze never leaving Hermione's struggling form. "I need her to take this seriously. She's brilliant, yes, but as Draco explained, she's great at books and knowledge but lacks expertise in actual spellwork." A small, almost fond smile tugged at her lips. "Besides, isn't she quite adorable when she's angry? I really do wish I'd had a daughter."

Andromeda scoffed, shaking her head. "Believe me, I love my Nymphadora dearly, but sometimes I think life would've been easier with a son. She's too much, even for me."

While the two witches exchanged banter, Hermione pushed herself to keep running, her legs aching with every step. Tears welled in her eyes, but they weren't from pain or exhaustion—they were from sheer, unrelenting anger.

Every dodge she managed fueled her determination, and every near miss from a spell stoked the fire in her chest. She didn't care if she had to run for hours or endure their relentless training. She would prove them wrong.

Even as her body protested and her mind raced, Hermione began formulating plans—ways to outwit both Narcissa and Andromeda. She wouldn't let them break her, no matter how harsh the training became.

She was already thinking of ways to get back at both of them.

xxxxx

"Harry, we have to run now!" Malfoy yelled, his voice strained and urgent, cutting through the cacophony of chaos around them.

"But Ron! They've taken Ron!" Harry's voice cracked, panic and fury battling for dominance as he turned toward the direction where Ron's terrified screams still echoed.

"I know! But we have to run now, or we'll be taken too!" Draco roared, his pale face twisted with determination and dread as he gripped Harry's arm with an iron-like hold, practically dragging him forward.

The grass beneath their feet was slick with dew, making their footing precarious as they bolted across the expansive estate. The lush, picturesque surroundings were a stark contrast to the nightmare they found themselves in, the serene beauty mocking their terror. The once-pleasant air was now sharp with the scent of sweat, fear, and distant magic.

Ron's agonized cries tore through Harry's resolve like a knife. Each sound seemed to slice into him, urging him to turn back. But Draco wouldn't let him. The Slytherin's grip was firm, his jaw clenched tightly, his usually haughty expression replaced by one of pure survival instinct.

"I can't with this!" Draco suddenly hissed, his silver eyes darting behind them as the shadows of their pursuers loomed closer. Without warning, he released Harry and, in a blur, shifted into his Animagus form—a sleek, black crow. With a powerful beat of his wings, he took to the skies, soaring above the chaos.

"No, Draco!" Harry shouted, desperation lacing his tone. "Don't fly! That's their territory!" His voice cracked against the air, but his plea fell on deaf ears. Draco's form disappeared into the gloom above, his dark feathers blending into the twilight.

Harry's stomach twisted as he ran, his heart pounding like a war drum in his chest. His legs burned with the effort, each step heavier than the last. The distant screech of a bird-like creature sent a chill down his spine. He ducked instinctively as a massive, predatory shadow swooped above him, its wings slicing through the air like blades. He turned just in time to see the creature—a monstrous hybrid of bird and human—redirect its focus toward Draco.

"Draco, no!" Harry bellowed, his voice hoarse as he skidded to a halt, watching in horror.

Draco shifted back mid-flight, his crow form dissolving as he fell. His scream was shrill, raw with panic, as he plummeted toward the ground. But before he could crash, the creature's talons snatched him mid-air, clutching his robes in a cruel grip.

"Draco!" Harry's voice broke as he witnessed his best friend being carried off, Draco's figure dwindling into a dark speck against the horizon. Fury and helplessness surged in him, but there was no time to process it.

A cold, cruel laugh from behind snapped his attention back to the present. He turned and saw the manic grins of their pursuers, their faces alight with triumph. Panic gripped his chest like a vice, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps as he forced his legs to move again.

Run. Just run.

The world around him blurred as his body screamed for rest, every muscle begging for reprieve. His vision swam, but he pushed forward, knowing that slowing down meant capture. Harry felt his magic roil inside him, wild and untamed, urging him to shift into his Fenrir form. But he clamped down on the instinct. He needs to finish this trial without turning.

His feet faltered, exhaustion finally catching up to him. He stumbled, hitting the ground with a force that rattled his bones. The edges of his vision darkened as his energy waned. His body felt like lead, refusing to cooperate as he tried to push himself back up.

A shadow loomed over him, and before he could even register what was happening, Fleur Delacour's striking visage came into focus. Her silvery hair glinted in the fading light, and her sapphire-blue eyes sparkled with a mix of triumph and mischief.

She crouched over him, her delicate features marred by a victorious smirk. "C'est fini," she murmured, her voice soft but laced with finality.

And with that, darkness claimed him.

xxxxx

Sirius lounged casually at the ornate wrought-iron table set in the sun-dappled garden of the Delacour estate. The heady aroma of freshly brewed coffee mingled with the faint scent of blooming lavender carried by the gentle breeze. He leaned back, savoring the richness of the drink, a small smirk playing on his lips as the distant, unmistakable sounds of teenage boys screaming echoed through the grounds.

The shouts weren't cries for help—at least not in the true sense. Sirius chuckled to himself, imagining the chaos. Fleur, Gabrielle, and several of their Veela cousins had apparently decided to "welcome" their guests with a rigorous, unrelenting training session. The moment Harry, Ron, and Draco had set foot on French soil, the Delacour girls had practically pounced, turning their visit into some sort of impromptu battle royale. Sirius couldn't decide whether to pity or envy the boys.

Claude Delacour, Lord of the House of Delacour, joined him at the table, his impeccable robes flowing with an air of authority. He carried a large envelope, sealed with an elegant crest, which he placed gently on the table in front of Sirius. "It is finished," Claude said, his deep, resonant voice calm yet firm. "Miss Emma Granger is now registered as Emma Toussaint—a homeschooled Muggleborn witch from an already extinct House."

Sirius raised an eyebrow, setting down his coffee mug. "That was quick," he remarked, pulling the envelope closer and inspecting it. "Thanks, Claude. How much did it cost?"

"One hundred thousand Galleons," Claude replied smoothly, lifting his own coffee to his lips with practiced grace.

"Just that much?" Sirius asked, feigning surprise, though his tone carried a hint of amusement. The Black family fortune could easily absorb such an expense without so much as a ripple.

Claude smiled faintly. "Yes, the Ministry was more than happy to see the renowned House of Black taking an interest in reviving the House of Toussaint. Your reputation precedes you, my friend."

Their conversation was interrupted by another high-pitched scream from somewhere deeper within the estate. Sirius snorted into his cup, while Claude merely paused, tilting his head slightly as though trying to place which of the boys had made the sound.

"My apologies for the noise," Claude said, his voice betraying no actual regret. "The children are... quite enthusiastic about having Harry and the others here again."

"Don't be," Sirius said with a laugh, his grey eyes sparkling with mischief. "It's refreshing to hear them scream for once instead of me."

Claude raised a questioning brow. "What is the purpose of this... training, anyway? I was under the impression this was meant to be a simple visit."

Sirius reached into his robes and withdrew a neatly folded copy of the Daily Prophet. He slid it across the table toward Claude, who opened it with mild curiosity.

"Ah," Claude murmured, his expression darkening as he read. "The perverted teacher killed at Hogwarts. I remember this."

Sirius sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I have a hunch it was those kids who killed him," he admitted, his voice heavy with a mix of pride and concern.

Claude's reaction was measured, his eyes meeting Sirius's with a calm certainty. "If that is the case," he said after a moment, "then he deserved it."

"Agreed," Sirius replied, his lips pressing into a thin line. "But they're just kids, Claude."

"And already cleaning up the bad wizards in your country," Claude pointed out, his tone carrying a note of reluctant admiration.

"Yes," Sirius conceded, his shoulders sagging slightly, "but I want to remind them that they are kids. They need to learn that not everything can be solved with brute force."

Claude chuckled at that, a rich, warm sound that filled the air. "And so you brought them here, hoping my family might humble them?"

"Exactly," Sirius said with a wry grin. "If anyone can show them that they're not invincible, it's your lot."

"You have no need to worry," Claude assured him, nodding toward the garden path with a knowing smile. "Look for yourself."

Sirius turned, and his smirk widened as he saw Fleur Delacour striding toward them with her usual grace, though her expression was anything but serene. She had a firm grip on Harry's collar, dragging him along with little effort. Harry's dark hair was disheveled, and his face was a mix of defiance and exhaustion.

Behind her, Gabrielle followed, her youthful features glowing with triumph. She carried Ron in his Animagus form—a bedraggled red fox—by the scruff of his neck. Tucked under her other arm was Draco, who had transformed back from his crow Animagus form and now looked thoroughly displeased to be cradled like a sack of flour.

"Hello, Papa! Sirius!" Fleur called out cheerfully, her accent thick but her tone jubilant. "We caught them!"

"Excellent, Fleur and Gabrielle!" Claude said, beaming with pride. "I suppose it's time for lunch? Where are your cousins?"

"They will join us soon," Gabrielle chirped, dropping Ron and Draco unceremoniously onto the ground before darting forward to hug her father. Without another word, she disappeared into the house.

Sirius couldn't hold back his laughter as Ron groaned, slowly shifting back into his human form, while Draco remained sprawled on the grass, muttering curses under his breath.

"Ah, Sirius, what is this?" Fleur suddenly asked, her attention snapping back to Harry. She tugged at his sleeve, revealing a runic tattoo etched into his skin. Her brow furrowed as she inspected it, her fingers ghosting over the design. "I can sense magic in this."

Sirius froze, his coffee forgotten as the mug slipped from his hand, shattering on the stone patio. His face paled, his voice barely above a whisper. "What the hell?"

xxxxx

Harry, Ron, and Draco knelt on the polished wooden floor of Sirius Black's spacious bedroom, their expressions a mix of guilt and nervous defiance. The room, adorned with rich, dark furnishings and scattered remnants of Sirius's travels, felt unusually stifling under the weight of Sirius's fury. The sheer force of his temper was almost tangible, a storm crackling just beneath the surface as he loomed over them, his arms crossed tightly against his chest.

Their sleeves were rolled high onto their shoulders, exposing intricate runic tattoos etched into both arms. The designs glowed faintly in the dim light, their magic humming like a heartbeat.

"First you three decide to become Animagi," Sirius bellowed, his voice echoing off the walls like thunder, "and now this?!" He jabbed a finger toward the glowing marks on their arms, his face reddening with every syllable. "What in bloody hell were you lot thinking?"

Ron flinched under the intensity of Sirius's glare, but Harry, ever the one to take responsibility, opened his mouth to respond. "I-It's for protection and experi—"

"Oh, well, bloody perfect then!" Sirius exploded, cutting him off before he could finish. He threw his hands up in mock celebration, his sarcasm razor-sharp. "I suppose I should be thrilled you lot went ahead and did this without a word to me! Maybe I should throw you a bloody party, eh?"

The boys exchanged uneasy glances, their guilt palpable as Sirius's tirade continued. "Tattoos! On your backs too!" He pointed at each of them in turn, his fury tempered only by the obvious concern etched into his features. "Do you even understand the risks? The damage you could have done to yourselves?"

Draco, ever the one to explain himself with a calculated calm, finally spoke up, though his voice trembled slightly. "The runic tattoos are... they're protective," he began, clearly trying to maintain composure. "They're powered by our magical cores and absorb stray or sudden spells. It's safer this way. See?"

With a nod from Harry, Ron reluctantly demonstrated by firing a weak Stupefy charm at himself. The spell hit his arm and dissipated instantly, leaving no mark, no reaction, nothing. Sirius's eyes widened, his anger momentarily giving way to astonishment.

"They can absorb basic spells without harm," Draco continued, gesturing to the faintly glowing marks. "It's experimental, yes, but it works. And the runes on our backs help enhance physical resilience—healing minor injuries, softening falls—"

"Experimental?" Sirius interrupted, his voice rising again. "You're experimenting on yourselves? At twelve?! Are you out of your minds?!" He paced back and forth, running his fingers through his hair in exasperation. His pacing stopped abruptly as a new thought dawned on him. He crouched down, gripping Harry's shoulders firmly and looking him dead in the eye.

"Harry," Sirius said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Please, for the love of Merlin, tell me it's just the three of you."

Harry froze. His green eyes darted nervously toward Ron and Draco, who both looked as though they'd rather be anywhere else in that moment.

Sirius's grip tightened slightly. "Just the three of you," he repeated, his voice teetering between a plea and a command.

Harry swallowed hard. "Um... w-well..."

"Oh, Merlin!" Sirius roared, leaping to his feet and pacing again, his boots thudding heavily against the floor. "Who else? Who else have you roped into this madness?"

"L-Luna," Ron mumbled, his face going beet red as he avoided Sirius's burning gaze.

"And?" Sirius demanded, his voice sharp as a whip.

Harry looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole. "H-Hermione," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

Sirius froze mid-step, his face a mask of horror. "No!" he yelled, throwing his hands into the air in despair. "Oh, Merlin, no! What have you done? Emma's going to kill you, and then she's going to kill me! Do you have any idea how protective she is of Hermione? She'll never forgive me for this!"

He turned back to the boys, his frustration palpable as he jabbed a finger toward them. "Do you three have any concept of consequences? Or do you just barrel ahead, dragging innocent people into your harebrained schemes?"

A knock on the door cut through the tense atmosphere like a blade. "Sirius? Are you there?" came a voice from the hallway.

Sirius flinched, his head snapping toward the door. In an instant, he spun back to the boys, his wand already in hand. "Not. A. Word," he hissed, his tone brooking no argument. With a flick of his wrist, a glamour charm shimmered over the boys, concealing the tattoos from sight.

The boys nodded vigorously, their fear of Sirius's wrath momentarily eclipsed by the need to avoid whoever was outside the door.

Sirius straightened his robes, forcing a calm expression onto his face. "We bury this," he whispered harshly, his gaze sweeping over the three of them one last time. "Until you lot are old enough, this doesn't leave this room. Do you hear me?"

The boys nodded again, their faces pale as Sirius strode to the door, muttering something about needing a stiff drink the moment this day was over.

xxxxx

A week had passed in a blur, the days slipping through Hermione's fingers like sand. Despite the relentless pace of the summer training, she was proud to have kept up, even earning a rare nod of approval from Narcissa Malfoy. The matriarch's praise was fleeting, of course, as Narcissa immediately found new ways to test Hermione's limits, pushing her further with each grueling session. But Hermione's pride was her armor, and she refused to falter. She wouldn't give them the satisfaction of seeing her break.

Today, however, was a respite. A rare day off from the ceaseless drills and lessons, and Hermione was determined to make the most of it. She sat cross-legged on the thick, ornate rug covering the floor of the Potter Manor library. The room was a marvel, with towering bookshelves that seemed to stretch endlessly upward, their shelves filled with ancient tomes and leather-bound volumes that whispered of forgotten knowledge. Sunlight streamed through the high windows, casting golden patches across the polished wooden floors and illuminating Hermione's chosen spot by the bay window.

In her lap was a stack of new books—her mother's latest peace offering. Emma had returned to her daughter's side after a long absence, bringing gifts as a way to bridge the emotional chasm that had grown between them. Hermione had hugged her mother fiercely when she arrived, the weight of unspoken apologies pressing between them.

"Sorry about everything," Hermione had murmured, and her mother had only smiled, brushing her hair with a tenderness Hermione had missed desperately.

Now, as she thumbed through the pages of her new treasures, Hermione found herself savoring the quiet. For once, the house wasn't echoing with the demands of Narcissa or the sharp reprimands of Andromeda. It was just her, the smell of parchment, and the low crackle of the enchanted fireplace in the corner.

But even in the stillness, something niggled at the edges of her awareness.

It wasn't unusual for the manor to feel... strange. Hermione had noticed it early on, during her solitary moments in the vast house. At first, she'd dismissed it as her imagination. But there was no denying it: the faint, sugary-sweet smell that occasionally wafted through the air was not a dessert or treat prepared by the house-elves. It was something else entirely.

The scent had a cloying quality, lingering just long enough to make her curious but vanishing before she could pinpoint its source. Hermione had even taken to wandering the house during her breaks, hoping to stumble upon the origin. But every time, her efforts were in vain. Worse, she often felt as though she was being watched.

There were moments when she could swear she saw a shadow or a figure out of the corner of her eye. She would spin around, her heart racing, only to find nothing but empty corridors or silent rooms. It was unnerving, but she refused to let it rattle her. If Narcissa or Andromeda were behind it, trying to unsettle her as part of some twisted game, she wasn't about to give them the satisfaction of a reaction.

With a soft sigh, Hermione pushed the thought aside and focused on the task at hand. Books and documents were spread around her in an organized chaos. Among them were official papers that bore their new names: Emma Toussaint and Hermione Toussaint.

The French Ministry of Magic had facilitated their new identities, a necessity for the life they were building. The papers detailed their connection to the Toussaint family, an old and respected lineage. Hermione studied the documents carefully, knowing that she would need to memorize the details of this fabricated history. One slip could unravel everything, especially with the storm that would undoubtedly come when Sirius Black announced his marriage to her mother.

The thought gave Hermione pause. The very idea of her mother marrying Sirius was still surreal, though it came with its perks. Hermione's official status would shift to that of a half-blood, granting her rights and protections she'd never had as a Muggle-born. With the Black name behind her, the doors of opportunity would open wider. Yet the implications of this marriage stretched far beyond her own status.

Harry would remain the Black family Heir, of course. Sirius's illness ensured that he couldn't produce children of his own. Hermione had overheard the discussions, the whispers of bloodlines and legacies, and while she had no interest in such matters, she knew how much weight they carried in the wizarding world.

She absentmindedly turned a page in one of the books, her mind drifting.

"Wait..." she murmured aloud, sitting up straighter as a thought struck her. Her eyes widened as she pieced it together.

If Sirius's illness could be cured... if he could drink the Elixir of Life... wouldn't that mean he could have children again?

The realization hit her like a bolt of lightning. If Sirius could have a child, it would change everything. That child would become the next Black Heir, sparing Harry from the expectations and burdens of the title. It would give Harry freedom—freedom from the relentless pressure to ensure the continuation of the Black line.

Hermione's heart raced as the idea took root. Could it work? Would Sirius even consider such a possibility?

Shutting her book with a decisive snap, she rose to her feet, her thoughts churning. She had to think this through, weigh the implications, but for now, she needed space to clear her head.

As she made her way toward her room, the faint sweet smell returned, curling faintly at the edges of her senses. It lingered longer this time, a quiet reminder of the manor's mysteries. Hermione hesitated for the briefest moment, then shook her head and continued on.

There were more pressing questions to answer than whatever tricks the house might be playing on her senses.

xxxxx

The sunlight streamed through the tall, arched windows of Fleur's bedroom, bathing the room in a soft, golden glow. The Delacour estate was breathtakingly beautiful, its elegance unmatched by any wizarding household the boys had ever seen. Fleur's room reflected that same grace—delicate floral wallpaper, a vanity adorned with ornate silver filigree, and an oversized canopy bed draped with sheer, sparkling fabric that gave the entire space an almost ethereal quality. It smelled faintly of lavender and something sweeter, a fragrance that clung to everything in the room.

Ron and Draco stood near the foot of the bed, their faces a mixture of amusement and disbelief as they watched the unfolding scene. Harry, in his Animagus form—a sleek, black wolf—lay sprawled on the plush, velvety rug, resigned to his fate. Fleur Delacour, every bit the picture of radiant beauty, was seated beside him, gently stroking his fur as though he were her most prized possession.

For her part, Fleur looked utterly content, her silvery-blonde hair cascading over her shoulders as she hummed softly in French. Her eyes sparkled with mischief, though there was a genuine warmth in her affection for Harry that made the scene both endearing and faintly absurd.

Ron leaned closer to Draco, his voice barely above a whisper, though his tone carried all the weight of a dire warning. "Yeah, we can't let Hermione see this. She'd burn the whole place down, no questions asked."

Draco nodded, his gray eyes wide with barely concealed amusement. "She'd turn Fleur into ash before asking for an explanation," he muttered back.

Fleur's sharp ears picked up on their conversation, and she tilted her head, pouting in mock indignation. "Ah, nonsense! I would be on my best behavior when your woman comes, Harry!" she said with an exaggerated huff. Her fingers continued to trace soothing patterns along Harry's fur, eliciting a low, almost exasperated growl from him. "I just miss you all so much. I wish you had gone to Beauxbatons with me! I would have taken care of you all, like proper brothers!"

The wolf's green eyes rolled dramatically, his entire body shifting just slightly as if to say, 'Sure you would.'

Fleur giggled, undeterred. "But it is amazing, 'no?" she continued, her voice light and teasing. "To be Animagus at such a young age—it is truly incredible. I wish I could do so, but alas, I am already Veela. Any more special abilities, and it would simply be unfair to the rest of the world." She laughed softly, her confidence as effortless as her beauty.

Draco, who had been lounging casually against the vanity, smirked. "It really wasn't that hard," he said, his tone dripping with smugness.

Ron snorted, shooting Draco a sideways glance.

Fleur's attention drifted to the boys' arms—runic tattoos that were hidden that held both power and significance, though she couldn't help but wrinkle her nose at them. "But these tattoos," she tutted, shaking her head in mock disapproval. "Tsk, tsk. Dirtying your young bodies like this? Non! If I were your mother, I would have skinned you alive."

Her tone was sweet and airy, as if she were commenting on the weather, but the underlying weight of her words sent an involuntary shiver down Draco's spine. Even Ron straightened up a little, his usual bravado faltering.

Harry let out a quiet, disgruntled whine, his ears flattening against his head.

Fleur burst into laughter, her eyes sparkling with amusement. "Ah, I was only teasing," she said lightly, waving a hand as if to dispel the sudden tension in the room. She pushed herself to her feet gracefully, brushing nonexistent dust from her skirt. "Well then, it is such a beautiful day outside! Let us fly on our brooms, oui?"

Ron and Draco seized the opportunity with alarming speed, practically bolting from the room. Their footsteps echoed down the polished marble hallway as they made their escape.

Harry, still in his wolf form, made an attempt to follow, his sleek body moving with practiced agility. But before he could make it to the door, Fleur's arms shot out with startling speed, scooping him up effortlessly.

"Nuh-uh, Harry," she said with a triumphant grin, cradling him against her chest as though he were a puppy rather than a proud Animagus. "You are coming with me. Your fur is too soft to resist!"

Harry let out a long, resigned sigh, his body shrinking in her arms as he willed his form to become smaller. Fleur squealed in delight, her grip tightening as she adjusted to his new size. "Oh, you are too precious like this!" she gushed, pressing her cheek against his now puppy-sized head.

The wolf—or rather, Harry—cast a longing glance toward the door, silently cursing his luck. He wanted nothing more than to escape this humiliation and return to the relative peace of Potter Manor. But for now, he was at Fleur's mercy.

He really, really wanted to go home.

xxxxx

Hermione hit the cold, hard floor with a dull thud, her body trembling from the aftermath of the curse. Her breaths were ragged, her chest heaving as she tried to push herself upright. The cool stone beneath her palms did little to soothe the fiery pain still radiating through her limbs. Despite the urge to surrender, to let the agony pull her into submission, she clenched her jaw and lifted her gaze.

When her eyes landed on Narcissa Malfoy, whose lips curved into a faint, mocking smile, a surge of defiance flared within her. That smirk — as though this was all a game, a mere exercise — ignited something primal. Hermione forced herself to her feet, her legs trembling under the strain, and straightened her back despite the wobble in her knees.

"Well," Narcissa began, her voice smooth and detached, though her eyes gleamed with approval. "I must admit, you're beginning to acclimate to the Cruciatus Curse much faster than I anticipated. I'm not sure whether to attribute it to sheer Gryffindor pride or my own lack of malice." She tilted her head slightly, studying Hermione as if she were some curious experiment. "Regardless, it's far better progress than either Draco or Harry achieved at first."

Hermione's breath hitched at the mention of Harry. Her eyes narrowed, her exhaustion momentarily forgotten. "H-Harry... Harry also went through this?" Her voice quivered, not from weakness but from the flood of emotions threatening to drown her.

"Of course," Narcissa replied, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. "It was an essential part of his training. As the target of countless dark wizards and witches, he needed to understand the curse's effects — to resist and endure. Draco as well. The only one spared was the Weasley boy, and only because Molly would've had my head for even suggesting it."

"The Imperius Curse was also included in their regimen," Andromeda added from the shadows, her tone almost apologetic, as if trying to soften the blow. "Repeated exposure allowed them to build a certain resistance over time."

Hermione's hands curled into fists, her nails biting into her palms. Her mind raced, processing this revelation. Her Harry, subjected to such horrors at probably an age where he should have been running around and sneaking sweets from Diagon Alley. She stared at Narcissa, her eyes burning with a mix of disbelief and fury. "How... how old was he?" she whispered, though the question felt like a scream in her throat.

"Draco was—"

"I don't fucking care about Draco!" Hermione snapped, her voice sharp and cutting. "How old was Harry?"

Narcissa raised an elegant brow at the outburst but didn't falter. "He was ten," she replied matter-of-factly. "The same age Draco began."

Ten. The number echoed in Hermione's mind like a drumbeat. Her stomach churned, and her vision blurred with unshed tears. Ten years old. A child subjected to the unspeakable agony of the Cruciatus Curse, his screams undoubtedly echoing through the walls of this very manor. And here she was, struggling to withstand it at thirteen.

The rage boiling within her finally erupted. "You allowed a child to undergo the Cruciatus Curse?" she snarled, her wand already in her hand, trembling as much as her body. Her voice was low, venomous, and filled with an intensity that made both sisters tense.

Narcissa's response was swift — a stunning spell shot straight at Hermione, its speed a testament to her practiced precision. But Hermione, fueled by raw emotion and the protective runes inked into her skin, absorbed the brunt of the attack without so much as a flinch. Her eyes locked onto Narcissa's, filled with a storm of fury.

Before Narcissa could react, Hermione's wand was already in motion. Andromeda hesitated, torn between intervening or remaining neutral, but her delay gave Hermione the upper hand.

"Crucio!"

The curse shot from Hermione's wand with a force that startled even her. Narcissa's scream shattered the tense silence, a sound that echoed against the stone walls of the basement. The composed, elegant Malfoy matriarch crumpled to the floor, her body writhing in pain.

"Hermione, no!" Andromeda's voice rang out as she fired a disarming spell, but Hermione deflected it with a flick of her wand. Tears streamed down her face, her vision blurry, but her determination unwavering. She held the curse for five agonizing seconds before letting it go, her wand lowering as her chest heaved with labored breaths.

Narcissa lay on the ground, shuddering, her once-pristine composure shattered. Hermione glanced at Andromeda, her eyes still aflame with anger. "Don't try to stop me," she warned, her voice rough. "I'm done for today."

With that, she turned on her heel and strode toward the exit, stepping over Narcissa's trembling form without so much as a glance. Blood dripped from her bitten lip, and she spat onto the stone floor as she left, her retreating figure radiating fury and pain.

The room fell into a heavy silence. Andromeda rushed to Narcissa's side, kneeling to help her sister. She uncorked a potion and pressed it to Narcissa's lips, who drank it gratefully, though her body still twitched from the lingering effects of the curse.

"Cissy! Are you alright?" Andromeda asked, her voice tight with concern.

Narcissa gave a weak laugh, her usual elegance replaced by a raw vulnerability. "I'll live," she muttered, sitting up with effort. "I should have seen that coming. I've been pushing her too hard lately."

"But she cast an Unforgivable at you!" Andromeda exclaimed, her hands trembling as she steadied Narcissa.

"I know," Narcissa replied, her voice still tinged with disbelief. "And that's precisely why we have a problem, Andi."

"What do you mean?" Andromeda asked, frowning.

Narcissa took a shaky breath, her pale features tinged with a hint of fear. "The pain I just felt... it was familiar."

Andromeda's brow furrowed. "Familiar how?"

Narcissa hesitated, her voice barely above a whisper. "It was as intense — no, perhaps even more intense — than Bella's at her prime."

Andromeda froze, her face draining of color. Bellatrix Lestrange, the most feared and deranged of the Black sisters, was a name synonymous with unrelenting cruelty. Her mastery of the Cruciatus Curse had broken countless victims, including the Longbottoms. To hear that Hermione Granger, a young Gryffindor girl, could match or even surpass that level of raw power was beyond unsettling.

"She has that same fire," Narcissa continued, her voice trembling. "That same untapped, uncontrollable rage."

Andromeda shuddered, memories of Bellatrix's reign of terror flooding her mind. If Hermione truly possessed that level of darkness within her, the implications were chilling.