Harry Potter - Series Fan Fiction ❯ When Freesias Bloom ❯ Main Story ( Chapter 1 )

[ A - All Readers ]

July 1997

The Hogwarts Express rattled steadily along the tracks, its windows washed in the soft gold of late afternoon. Sunlight spilled across my lap, warm against my skin, and for a fleeting moment, everything felt quiet, as though the world might be calm again.

But inside, the knot of worry had not loosened, not even a little. It sat tight in my chest as the train carried us closer to London.

Ron sat beside me, holding my hand. His fingers were warm, a little rough, but reassuring. He gazed out at the rolling countryside, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, his eyes bright with something close to hope. Being with him helped. It did not undo anything, but it helped, just a little.

Across from us, Harry sat hunched in his seat, his gaze fixed somewhere far beyond the window. His shoulders were tense, his face drawn. He looked as though he was carrying something none of us could reach, an invisible weight pressing down on him that never seemed to lift. Not completely.

This was meant to be a relief, a break, coming home, even if only for a little while. But watching Harry like that made it difficult to feel anything except dread. I recognised the look in his eyes. I had seen it before, after Sirius died, when he had stared at nothing for days, not speaking unless he absolutely had to. And again, after Professor Dumbledore. I still remembered the way he had looked that night, horrified and broken. Weeks later, that pain had not left him. Not really. It clung to him like a shadow.

Even the Horcrux hunt in the cave had changed him. He had not said much about it, but the way he had looked afterwards, the blankness and the exhaustion, told me everything I needed to know.

How much more was he supposed to endure?

Without thinking, I reached across and placed my hand over his, just lightly. A simple gesture, a reminder that he was not alone.

He glanced at me then. His eyes met mine, and something flickered there, something raw and unspoken. Pain, perhaps. Gratitude. Maybe both. Then it was gone. He drew his hand away and turned back to the window, closing himself off once more.

It hurt, though I did not take it personally. It was not about me. It was about him, about how he always felt he had to shoulder everything alone. He was the bravest person I knew, but even the brave needed help sometimes.

Ron must have noticed too. He leaned in, his voice low and quiet. “He’s strong,” he murmured, trying to sound sure. “He’ll get through this. You’ll see.”

I nodded, though I was not so sure.

There was so much we did not understand, so much we were not prepared for. And Harry did not want us to come with him. He had said it more than once, with that quiet finality that always set me on edge. He was determined to find the remaining Horcruxes alone, as if cutting us off might somehow keep us safe.

I understood why, I truly did, but it did not make it easier.

I hated the feeling of being left behind, not because I wanted to chase danger, but because I wanted to be there beside him. To fight with him, not apart. To carry part of the weight he always tried to bear alone.

“We’re in this together, Harry,” I had told him. My voice had cracked when I said it; I remember that. “You do not have to do this by yourself.”

But he had not listened. He had shaken his head, calm and unyielding, as though he had already made peace with whatever he intended to face, as though we were only people he needed to protect rather than the friends who had stood by him every step of the way.

It hurt more than I let on. The three of us had always been together. That was how it worked. That was how we worked. But now the threads between us felt strained, fraying ever so slightly.

Ron squeezed my hand again. I leaned into him, grateful for the comfort, even as my eyes stayed on Harry. He sat still, his reflection faint in the glass, almost ghostlike.

I wished I could protect him. I wished I could fix it, all of it. But most of all, I wished he knew, truly knew, that he did not have to face what was coming on his own.

As the Hogwarts Express rolled to a gentle stop, I closed my eyes and let the rhythm of the train settle somewhere deep in my chest. I knew it could not last, this suspended moment, this odd little in-between where we were not quite home yet but far enough from everything we had left behind to pretend, just for a while, that things were normal again.

Around me, voices rose: laughter, calling, and the familiar clatter of trunks being dragged down from the racks. People moved with purpose, already thinking of what came next. But I stayed still for a moment longer, breathing.

After everything that had happened that year, everything we had lost, everything we had survived, this journey felt like the first time I had truly exhaled. We were safe, for now. The war, the fear, the impossible choices—they were behind us, at least for the length of this platform. And I wanted, needed, to hold on to that peace for as long as I could.

When I finally stepped down from the train, the light of King’s Cross hit me like a charm, bright and sudden, making me squint. Steam curled around my ankles as a wave of people came into view: parents, brothers, sisters, and guardians, all scanning the crowd, eyes darting, arms half-lifted in anticipation. Some were grinning, others already in tears, relief and joy woven together.

I searched for my parents in the crowd.

The Weasleys stood near the front. Mr and Mrs Weasley spotted Ron at once; Mrs Weasley’s arms flung wide, her face a mixture of fierce love and barely contained panic. Just behind them, I saw my parents.

Mum waved both hands, practically bouncing on her toes. Dad’s smile was tighter, more reserved, but it softened the moment he saw me. They looked exactly the same and yet completely different. I realised then, with a strange twist in my stomach, how much I had changed.

To them, I was just Hermione, their daughter, home for the summer, a bit taller perhaps, a little more tired around the eyes. They did not know. Not really.

They did not know about the nights I had not slept, or the way the world had split itself apart and never quite come back together again, or the people who had not made it.

I ran to them. Mum caught me in one of her crushing hugs, and for a second, I could not breathe, but I did not care. I did not pull away. I needed to feel them, solid and real. Dad wrapped his arms around us both, and suddenly I felt small again, eleven years old, a girl with too many questions and a new wand in her bag.

I wanted to tell them everything. I ached to. We almost did not make it, I wanted to say. It was horrible. I was terrified. I still am. But the words would not come. They sat in my throat, heavy and formless. How could I explain something I did not fully understand myself?

The tears came without warning. I was not sure whether they were happy or sad, probably both. Mum smoothed my hair and murmured something soothing, but I barely heard her. I simply held on and let myself be held. For a little while, the world felt quiet again.

Eventually, I stepped back and wiped my cheeks. I was not quite ready to leave. I turned, scanning the platform, and spotted Harry and Ron standing together, still close to the train. They had not moved much, and from the look on their faces, they did not know how to, either.

We had been through so much together, more than I could begin to name. And now we were about to go our separate ways, at least for a little while. The thought of it left a hollow ache in my chest.

I walked over and stood in front of them. The silence that fell between us was not uncomfortable; it was full. Full of everything we did not know how to say, everything we did not have to.

We were closer than ever, yet bruised in ways none of us had worked out how to speak about.

“Write to me,” I said, my voice quieter than I intended but steady. “Both of you.”

I stepped forward and hugged them, one after the other. Ron’s hug was warm and a little hesitant, his arms wrapping around me as though he was not quite sure what was allowed. Harry’s was different, tighter. He held on a little longer, and I did too.

“I mean it,” I whispered. My throat felt tight again. “Stay safe, please.”

Behind me, I felt Mum’s hand on my shoulder, gentle but insistent. It was time. I nodded, stepped back, drew a breath, and followed them.

As we walked towards the barrier, I glanced over my shoulder. Harry and Ron were still standing there, side by side, watching me go.

For a moment, everything paused. Time seemed to hold its breath.

Then it moved on.

I sat in the back seat, my forehead resting lightly against the cool glass, as London flickered past in smudges of colour and movement. My parents chatted in the front about school reports and exam boards, but their words blurred together, background noise against the louder rush of thoughts in my head. I nodded when I needed to, but in truth, I was miles away.

So much had changed.

Even now, after returning from Hogwarts, I had not quite managed to come down from everything. My thoughts spiralled constantly: spells, plans, protections, what I still did not know, and what I needed to learn before it was too late. Being Harry’s friend, the Chosen One’s friend, was not something I had ever imagined when I met him on the train at eleven. But now, with everything ahead of us, I could not separate my identity from it, nor did I want to. I felt grateful, humbled even, to stand beside him, beside both of them. I would not have traded it for anything.

Still, it was a lot.

I rolled the window down slightly, and the breeze rushed in, cool and sharp and full of summer. It caught at my hair and made my eyes water a little, but I did not mind. It grounded me. It reminded me, just for a second, that I was still here, still in my parents’ car, still in a world where sunlight streaming across the seat could mean something simple, something hopeful. For all its chaos, this was a beautiful day, the kind of day people never think to remember but always miss once it has gone.

And I wanted to remember it before everything changed.

When we pulled into the drive, the sight of home made my chest tighten unexpectedly. Our house, a narrow Georgian terrace half covered in ivy, with neat windows and a slightly wonky front gate, looked just as it always had. Familiar. Safe. My father’s keys jingled as he stepped out, the gravel crunching underfoot in a way that made something in me ache. Mr Weasley would have been fascinated by the automatic garden lights flickering on beneath the porch. The thought made me smile, briefly.

This house had no spells to keep out Death Eaters, no enchantments or wards or protective charms. But it had warmth, laughter, and love. For now, that was enough.

I stepped inside, letting the scent of polished wood and clean linen wrap around me. Afternoon sunlight filtered through the front windows, spilling across the floor in golden lines. The furniture was in its usual place, the framed photographs on the mantel had not moved, and my mother’s favourite freesia candles still sat, unlit, on the bookshelf. It was exactly as I had left it, and yet I was not.

Upstairs, I paused in the doorway of my bedroom. Rosebud wallpaper. Books in neat rows. My iron bedstead was draped in soft quilts. Calm. Ordered. Nothing like the Burrow, of course; Ron’s room was a delightful mess of broomstick posters and Chudley Cannons memorabilia. Mine was quieter and thoughtfully curated. I took a strange sort of pride in that. This space was me, or rather the version of me that still existed here.

I began to pack almost immediately. There was a kind of comfort in the routine. But it felt different this time. The books I left behind were old spellbooks annotated in the margins, the ones too sentimental to risk taking. Notes from lessons. Photographs. The silly Muggle paperback I had never finished. I could not bring myself to touch half of it.

I knew, deep down, I might not be back for some time, and if I were, the world might look very different.

Still, even with all of that, something light flickered through the uncertainty, a small thread of hope. Harry’s birthday was just around the corner. And then, of course, the wedding.

Bill and Fleur’s wedding felt like a pinprick of starlight in a darkening sky. A celebration. A defiant, joyful thing in the face of so much fear. Two families coming together. Two people choosing love, even now. It was a reminder, one we desperately needed, that life was still worth fighting for, that even in wartime there could be laughter, music, and dancing. I pictured Fleur in her gown, Mrs Weasley fussing over decorations, and Ginny sneaking glances at Harry. I held on to that image tightly, the way you might hold on to a lifeline.

Eventually, I stopped. There was only so much I could pack before it all became too heavy, physically and otherwise.

I left the half filled beaded bag on the bed and wandered into the bathroom. The steam rose quickly as I turned on the shower, and for a few precious minutes I let the heat wash everything away. My muscles unwound beneath it, slowly. The water ran over my shoulders, and I imagined it carrying off the worry, the fear, and the exhaustion I had not had time to feel before.

I stayed there until the banging of pots and pans in the kitchen reminded me where I was: back in the Muggle world, in my own house, still Hermione.

But not quite the same girl who had left last September.

Not any more.

As I stepped out of the bathroom, the scent of slow roasted beef drifted up the stairs, rich and savoury, mingling with the buttery warmth of Yorkshire pudding. It wrapped around me like a comfort charm, familiar, steady, and safe. My parents had gone to every effort again. They always did when I came home, as if feeding me properly might make up for the distance between their world and mine.

Ron would have been ecstatic. He always said Muggle meals had “proper heft”, not that he ever turned down anything with gravy, magic or not.

I padded downstairs slowly, still towelling my hair. From the bottom step I could hear them in the kitchen: clinking cutlery, pots being moved about, and their voices, gentle and affectionate, bickering over something small, probably whether to serve the roast with carrots or peas. It made me smile, that easy rhythm they had with each other. For a moment, I let myself linger there, on the threshold of the ordinary.

Even as I watched them through the doorway, part of me remained apart, displaced. That lovely illusion of normality was delicate now, paper thin. One wrong move and it would tear. Because this was not normal, not really. The world outside our little kitchen was falling apart, and I was letting them believe everything was fine.

Mum glanced up as I walked in. Her face lit with that same beaming joy I had known all my life, bright, open, uncomplicated. “We thought we’d make all your favourites tonight,” she said, carving the roast with the kind of precision that only came from years of practice. “Didn’t want you going back to school feeling half fed.”

Dad looked up from the table, already pouring gravy into the boat. “You’ve got that hollow Hermione look about you,” he added with a grin. “And I know how Hogwarts kitchens spoil you, but nothing beats a proper home-cooked meal.”

I smiled, genuinely, if a little stiffly. “Thanks,” I said softly. “It smells brilliant.”

It did. The meal. The warmth. The perfume Mum always wore, freesia, was light and floral, a scent that instantly pulled me back to summers in the garden, knees grass-stained, books forgotten on the bench. It was all so normal, so deceptively normal, and I was lying to them with every step I took, every smile I offered.

They had no idea what I was preparing for, what Harry, Ron, and I were about to do, or what we had to do.

I watched Mum’s hands as she plated the food. I knew those hands as well as I knew my own—freckled, steady, and kind. I watched her fuss with the cutlery, listened to her hum under her breath, and felt a terrible twist of guilt. She thought I was tired from studying. She thought I would be heading back to school in September. I wanted so badly to sit down, to tell them everything, to warn them. But I could not. Not yet.

She looked up again, pausing mid-slice. Her smile faltered slightly. “You look a bit pale,” she said, her voice lowering. “Are you feeling all right?”

I tried to school my face into something convincing. “I’m fine,” I said, brushing it aside. “Just tired.”

She did not look convinced. Neither did Dad.

“Exams,” he offered gently, though his brow was furrowed. “Too much on your plate again, I expect.”

If only. They had no idea I was preparing to vanish, that I had already made a list of what to pack, that I had charmed my beaded bag for concealment, or that I had been practising charms and spells, the kind that were never meant to be used lightly, or at all.

I sat down and tried to act normal as Mum spooned roast potatoes onto my plate. I even laughed when Dad made a joke about the peas being overcooked. But my thoughts had already drifted, as they always did now, to what came next: Dumbledore’s clues, the Horcruxes, the war, and the moment when I would have to leave this house, not just for school but properly, perhaps for good.

I had packed courage alongside my socks.

I keep my wand on me now, even in the kitchen.

Mum reached out and tucked a strand of damp hair behind my ear, the way she used to when I was little. Her eyes lingered a moment too long, and I saw the question forming there.

“What’s wrong, love?” Mum asked softly, her voice kind but her eyes sharp as ever. She had that look, quiet and precise, as though she could see straight through me. She always could, even when I tried my best to hide it.

I froze for a second. There was a beat, a breath, when I almost told her, when it all nearly came pouring out. The Horcruxes, the way Harry flinched when he thought no one was looking, and the way Ron and I snapped at each other out of sheer exhaustion, frustration, and fear.

I wanted to say it. I wanted someone to know.

But I could not.

If I told her, she would never sleep again. She would worry herself sick. She might try to stop me, or worse, she might try to help.

Panic swelled in my chest, sharp and sudden. I swallowed hard, forcing a smile that barely reached the corners of my mouth. “Just tired from the trip,” I said lightly, though it sounded far too rehearsed.

She did not press, but her gaze lingered, and that was somehow worse. The weight of her quiet concern made the lies settle heavier in my throat.

I sat down at the table and picked up my fork, pretending to enjoy the meal I had always looked forward to. But the roast beef might as well have been parchment: dry, tasteless, and heavy.

The tension in the room was subtle. My parents kept exchanging glances, those loaded, silent looks only long-married couples could master. My stomach clenched. I could feel the unspoken questions hanging between them.

Their love was a comfort, but it made everything harder. If they loved me this much, how could I let them stay in the dark? How could I lie to them when I might be putting them in danger simply by being here?

But if they knew, they would be in far greater danger. You-Know-Who never hesitated to use families. He had done it before. He would do it again.

Mum’s eyes locked on mine again, calm, gentle, piercing. I looked away, pretending to focus on my dinner. The meat lay untouched; I could barely bring myself to move it around the plate.

Then her voice changed just enough to make me flinch.

“Is this about a boy?”

I blinked. “What? No, Mum!” My voice came out too loud, too sharp. I cleared my throat, trying to rein it in. “Why would you even think that?”

Her lips curved into a knowing smile. “Oh, Hermione. The way Ron looked at you at the station, he was practically glued to your side. That sort of thing does not just happen.”

I stared at her, my fork still mid-air. “Ron,” I repeated, my voice small.

I did not know what to say.

It was not that she was wrong. It was simply complicated.

I cared about him. Of course I did. He was frustrating and infuriating, but he was also loyal and brave, and he made me laugh when I thought I had forgotten how. He could be thoughtless, but his heart was always in the right place.

But love in our world was dangerous. You-Know-Who twisted love into weakness and turned it into leverage.

And I was not sure I could protect him.

Mum tilted her head slightly, studying me with that quiet, terrifying empathy she had always had, the kind that made you want to confess even if you did not know what you were guilty of.

I looked away again. The clink of cutlery faded. All I could hear was the pounding in my ears.

Then Dad spoke, his voice steady and soft. “You don’t have to talk about it, not if you’re not ready. We just want you to know we’re here.”

I glanced up. He was watching me with gentle eyes, the faintest furrow in his brow.

Mum reached out and touched my hand. “We’ve always liked Ron. And it’s obvious he cares about you. If anything happens between the two of you…” She paused, then smiled. “He has our blessing.”

Dad nodded beside her, managing a smile of his own. “He’s got a good head on his shoulders. Bit awkward, but… he means well.”

That almost made me laugh.

Almost.

But behind the warmth in their voices was something else, a flicker of unease. They did not know why Ron and I had grown so close or what we were preparing for, but I think they sensed it in the way only parents can.

“Uh… I…” I began, but the words stuck awkwardly in my throat. They felt clumsy and ill-fitting, like trying to speak with someone else’s voice. I attempted a smile, but it twisted into something uncertain, as though I could not tell whether I was about to laugh or cry.

Mum leaned across the table, her hand warm as she cupped my cheek. “Let’s not let dinner get cold, okay?” she said softly, brushing a kiss across my forehead.

That small, familiar gesture, so gentle and so normal, unravelled something tight inside me. For a moment, I felt safe again. Not completely, but enough to breathe.

Ron.

His name alone made something flutter in my chest, then sink sharply. What was this feeling? I knew fear, guilt, and frustration; I had lived with them for years. But this was something else entirely, something fragile and dangerous.

I lowered my head and began to eat, trying to calm the storm in my mind, but the thoughts kept spinning, unrelenting.

Ron made me feel seen. Even when he was being utterly insufferable. Especially when he was insufferable. He had never mocked me for being clever, or bossy, or opinionated, not really. He stood beside me when everything fell apart. He made me laugh when there was nothing to laugh about. And lately there were moments, fleeting, quiet, charged, when he looked at me as though I was the only thing that mattered.

And I did not know whether that terrified me more or thrilled me.

Because the truth was, it was not the idea of loving him that frightened me; it was the idea of losing him. You-Know-Who was still out there, watching and hunting, and love made you vulnerable. Loving Ron openly, in this war-torn world, felt like painting a target on both our backs, like handing our weakness to the enemy.

Could I afford to let myself feel this way when the world was still cracking around us? Was it selfish, foolish, or was it the very thing keeping us human?

I let out a slow, shaky breath. I did not have the answers, not yet. Perhaps I would not for a long time. But tonight, at least, I could admit the truth to myself:

I cared for Ron more deeply than I had ever cared for anyone.

And that terrified me more than anything else.

My heart thudded in my chest, far too loud for such a quiet room. The comforting scent of roast beef hung in the air, tied to so many memories of ordinary, peaceful evenings. Yet now that same comfort made the words harder to find. Speaking them felt like cracking something open, something I had been guarding for months.

The way he brushed against me, thinking I would not notice. The hours we spent talking by the fire. The softness in his eyes when he looked at me, as if there were no one else in the world.

It was not just friendship any more. It meant something, and I could not keep pretending it did not.

I cleared my throat, the words barely louder than a whisper.

“I care about Ron. A lot.”

Silence.

The words hung between us, delicate and uncertain, like a spell still finding its shape.

Then Mum beamed. Her whole face lit up as if someone had opened the curtains on a grey morning. “I knew it!” she said, eyes sparkling. She turned to Dad with barely restrained delight. “We must have him over for dinner. It’s about time we got to know him properly, don’t you think?”

The joy in her voice hit me like a slap. I had not expected disapproval; Mum was not like that, but I certainly had not expected enthusiasm. The image of Ron sitting awkwardly at our Muggle dinner table, Mum fussing over puddings while Dad asked him questions about his wand, was too much, too sudden.

The fork slipped from my hand, clattering loudly against the plate. “Wait, what? Hold on.”

But Dad was already nodding, his tone far too approving. “Seems like a fine idea to me. We’ve never had a proper conversation with the boy, have we?”

Mum leaned back, eyes distant, clearly already planning menus. “The last time we saw the Weasleys was that summer in Diagon Alley, wasn’t it? When we went to get your new robes and books.”

Dad chuckled. “Yes. They struck me as a very warm bunch. I rather enjoyed speaking with them.” He paused, brow creasing slightly in thought. “Although I did find the father a bit peculiar.”

He turned to me, his brow lifting with curiosity. “Arthur, is that his name?”

I nodded, a little more stiffly than I meant to. “Yes, that’s right.”

Dad smiled faintly. “When I mentioned we’re dentists, he looked completely baffled, as if I had told him we tame dragons for a living.”

A quiet laugh escaped me, brief but genuine. “He’s got this fascination with Muggle things—electric plugs, telephones, parking meters—but it’s all completely foreign to him. He grew up in the pure-blood world; it’s a very different kind of life.”

Dad nodded slowly, absorbing it in that careful, considered way he always did. “Muggles,” he said, almost to himself. “That’s what they call non-magical people, isn’t it?”

“Exactly,” I said, keeping my voice as even as I could. I could feel the conversation inching closer to something heavier, something I was not sure I was ready for.

Mum set her fork down gently, the clink against the plate unusually loud in the quiet. Her expression softened, eyes full of warmth. “I always thought the Weasleys seemed lovely, so kind. I think you and Ron would make a wonderful couple.”

I felt my face heat at once, the room suddenly too close and too bright. “It’s not official,” I said quickly, my words stumbling over one another. “We’re still figuring things out.”

But Mum was not letting it go. “Sweetheart, it’s obvious how much he cares about you. And I see it in your eyes too. Unless I’m wrong?”

I looked down at my hands, safe and familiar, something to focus on. I wanted to explain it; I really did. But there were no words that made sense, not without sounding frightened or foolish. And I was not sure I knew how to explain the way Ron made me feel, how something as ordinary as his laugh could make the whole world feel bearable again, if only for a moment.

The truth was, I did care. More than I had ever thought I would. And that was the terrifying part.

“I’m just trying to be careful,” I said at last, barely above a whisper. “With everything going on, I don’t know how to let my guard down.”

Mum reached across the table and wrapped her hand gently around mine. It was warm, solid, and familiar in a way that almost undid me.

“I know, love,” she said softly. “And I don’t blame you. The world feels heavy at the moment, but love still matters, especially now.”

I blinked quickly, trying to stop the sting behind my eyes from spilling over.

She gave me a small, steady smile. “You’re strong, and so is Ron, from what you’ve told us. I think the two of you will find your way, whatever that looks like.”

I did not answer straight away, but something in her words settled quietly inside me, like a tiny light I had not realised I had been waiting for, faint but steady.

“We could go to Australia!” Dad said suddenly, far too cheerfully. I blinked, startled by the change in tone. He must have noticed the tension still clinging to me. “You need a break, clear your head a bit, and we haven’t taken a proper family trip in ages. This could be just what we need.”

I stared at him, thrown. “Australia?” I repeated, uncertain.

Mum sighed, though there was affection in her voice as she glanced at him. “He’s been watching those programmes again, you know, the ones about dream homes by the coast,” she said with a shake of her head, lips twitching at the corners. “He’s been going on about it for weeks.”

Dad grinned, unbothered. “Can you blame me? The beaches, the sunshine… We’ve got a couple of weeks off coming up, so why not finally go?”

I stared at the two of them, still trying to process it all. “Wait, you both have time off from work?”

Dad nodded, his voice quieter now. “We were hoping you’d come with us, just the three of us. Some time away. We were meant to go skiing last Christmas, remember, but your exam schedule got in the way.”

A part of me wanted to say yes straight away, to get away, to escape the dread that clung to me every time I opened the Daily Prophet or overheard someone whispering in Diagon Alley. The idea of Australia, all sunshine, calm, and safety, sounded like something out of a dream. Too lovely. Too far away. Too unreal.

Because that was just it; it was not real. Not any more. Not now, with everything happening. Not with him still out there. You-Know-Who.

Could running truly keep them safe, or would it only place them in greater danger?

“What’s wrong, love?” Mum asked quietly, her eyes trained on me with that soft sort of scrutiny only mothers manage, gentle but unrelenting.

I looked at them both, so hopeful and so kind. I wanted nothing more than to tell them everything, to lay it all bare. But I could not. Not yet. Perhaps not ever.

“Could we maybe wait a little?” I asked carefully, trying to keep my voice steady. “Just until I’ve sorted a few things out.”

Dad gave a low chuckle. “What things? School’s finished till September.”

“I know,” I said quickly, already fumbling for something plausible. “They’ve given us prep work over the break. Research. Background reading, just to keep us going until term starts.” I paused, trying to sound as normal as possible. “I’d like to get it out of the way first. Then we can talk about going.”

Mum smiled, reaching across the table to squeeze my hand gently. “Of course, sweetheart. Just let us know when you’re ready.”

When they left the kitchen, Dad humming under his breath and Mum reminding him we still had not put the groceries away, I stayed where I was, still and silent.

The house felt too quiet all of a sudden.

I stared at the space they had just occupied, their voices still echoing faintly in my ears. A trip to Australia. Beaches. Sea air. Freedom. It sounded lovely and comforting but impossibly far away, like a memory from another life.

I stood and crossed the room, pulling the curtain aside to peer through the window. The street was quiet. A neighbour’s cat stretched lazily on the garden wall, tail flicking. Everything looked perfectly normal.

But I knew it was not.

Every day, another name appeared in the paper. Another disappearance. Another accident no one dared to explain. The Ministry said everything was under control, but we all knew better. Professor Dumbledore was gone, and You-Know-Who was gaining power by the hour.

I wrapped my arms around myself.

Mum and Dad had no idea. They could not. Not about how close the danger was. Not about how much I had already seen, what I had already done, and what I might still have to do.

Could I really take them with me? Would fleeing abroad make a difference, or would it simply draw more attention to them?

A lump formed in my throat, thick and unwelcome. I forced it down.

The safest thing, the most loving thing I could do, might be to leave them behind entirely.

I turned from the window, my chest tight, and sat on the edge of the sofa. The air pressed in, heavier than before.

For a moment, I let myself imagine it again: the three of us together, Mum’s freckles darkening in the sun, Dad in some ridiculous sunhat, the sound of the sea, laughter, peace, the kind we used to have before the world started falling apart.

But I could not stay there. I could not afford to.

War was coming.

Just a little longer, I told myself. I would keep them safe, even if it meant lying, even if it meant walking away.

I crept upstairs to my bedroom without a sound, needing the quiet more than I had realised. Not the suffocating kind I had been carrying lately. This was gentler still, and it gave me room to think.

Crookshanks was waiting for me, already curled near the foot of my bed, his tail flicking lazily. His amber eyes glowed in the low light like twin lanterns.

I knelt, and Crookshanks pressed himself against my legs, his warm, solid weight grounding me. I ran my fingers through his thick ginger fur, and he began to purr, a deep, steady sound that vibrated softly through me like a lullaby. Somehow, he always knew. He did not ask questions or demand explanations; he simply stayed, quiet and dependable, a small, living reminder that I was not entirely alone, even when it felt as though I was.

The thought of leaving him behind twisted something sharp inside my chest. I would be going to the Burrow soon, in just a few more weeks, and the idea of being without him for months filled me with unease. Who would curl beside me when the nightmares came? Who would listen without trying to fix things? I knew Ron and Harry would be there, and that was a comfort, of course it was, but Crookshanks was mine. He understood things no one else could.

I sat cross-legged on the floor and opened my trunk, trying to occupy my hands and push the thoughts aside. The scent of old parchment, ink, and worn leather greeted me. I lifted out my textbooks and robes, setting them aside with careful hands, but it was not long before the floor was littered again, towers of books toppling over, loose parchment spilling like autumn leaves, and half-folded clothes draped across the bed.

I considered casting a quick tidying charm, but when I flicked my wand, the spell fizzled, weak and tired, as I was. I stared at the wand tip for a moment, then lowered it, sighing. I cleaned the rest by hand, letting the quiet movements soothe me in a way magic could not just now.

Once the room was more or less in order, I sat on the edge of the bed and let the silence wrap around me. This time it did not feel peaceful. It felt too big, hollow. I stood abruptly and crossed to the window, needing something, anything, to fill the stillness.

Outside, the night glowed. Moonlight spilt through a break in the clouds, soft and silver, painting the garden in pale light. The grass, the old fence, and even the rosebush by the shed shimmered faintly, like something out of a dream. I pressed my forehead to the cool glass and watched the leaves dance in the wind. It looked like another world entirely: quiet, untouchable, and far away from everything that hurt.

For a little while, I let myself be still. The ache in my chest did not disappear, but it softened. The moonlight did not fix anything, but it reminded me that not everything had been lost, that somewhere, somehow, beauty still existed.

I slipped quietly down the stairs and stepped outside, the night air cool against my skin. I tugged my sleeves down over my hands and crossed the garden to the old swing beneath the oak tree. Its soft creak welcomed me.

Dad had built it years ago, before I was born, when Mum was pregnant. He had made it so she could sit and relax in the garden. I liked thinking of her here, gently swaying, her hands resting on her belly, dreaming about the future, about me.

I leaned my head against the rough rope and looked back at the house. Through the sitting-room window, warm yellow light glowed. There was Mum, curled up in her chair, a book open on her lap. She looked content, completely lost in the story. The sight steadied me in a way I had not expected.

I ran my fingers through my hair and closed my eyes as the breeze passed again, carrying the scent of warm leaves and freshly cut grass. I breathed in deeply and held it for a moment, then let it go slowly. Some of the tightness in my chest eased.

When I opened my eyes, the world had not changed, but it felt gentler, calmer, and full of possibility. The trees above rustled softly, their branches whispering secrets to one another in a language I could almost understand.

Then Crookshanks jumped up beside me, landing with a soft thump that barely disturbed the quiet. He gave a lazy stretch before curling neatly against my side, as if he had known, instinctively, that I needed him there. I reached out and scratched just behind his ear. His purr started at once, low and content, and I smiled despite myself.

“Ready for another summer adventure, Crookshanks?” I whispered, leaning back slightly in the swing, my shoulders finally beginning to ease. His warm presence, the cool night air, and the hush that settled over everything—it was the closest I had felt to calm in weeks.

The sliding door creaked open behind me. I heard Dad step out onto the decking, his footsteps soft, as though he did not want to disturb something delicate. The amber light from the kitchen spilt out and caught the edges of him, but when his eyes found me beneath the oak, tucked into the shadows, I saw it at once: the worry lining his face.

“Hermione? Is that you?” he called gently. There was a particular care in his voice, measured and cautious, as though he were approaching a bird with a broken wing. “What are you doing out there all alone?”

I tried to smile, though it felt small and far away. “Just needed some air,” I said, my voice thinner than I had meant. But I already knew they would come and sit with me. They always did. Nights like these had never been meant for solitude.

A moment later, Mum stepped outside, balancing two bowls of ice cream. She passed one to me wordlessly, her fingers lingering a moment longer than necessary. Her eyes met mine, soft and knowing, and something in me nearly gave way. I took the bowl with a murmured “Thanks” and shifted to make room as they joined me.

Dad settled himself with his back against the old oak trunk, gazing up towards the sky. For a while, we sat in companionable silence, the swing creaking softly beneath me, Crookshanks’ purr the only sound.

“I remember the last time you sat out here like this,” Dad said eventually, his voice low and distant, as though pulling the memory from somewhere long stored away. “You were eleven, and that letter had just arrived. You ran around the garden like a firework, shrieking with excitement.”

I smiled faintly, the memory bright and bittersweet. I could still feel the grass beneath my feet, the way my heart had thudded with something close to wonder. That letter had opened a door I had not known existed, a door into magic, into friendship, and into danger.

Into everything.

Sometimes I was not sure that girl, the one who had spun round the garden in utter disbelief, was even me any more.

Dad glanced at me again, something quieter in his expression now. “We knew, even then, that everything was going to change. We did not always understand it, and still do not really, but we have always been proud of you. You have always made us proud.” He paused, his brow furrowing slightly. “But you have been different lately. Quieter. As though something is weighing on you. Did something happen?”

His words struck harder than I had expected. I looked up towards the stars scattered across the dark sky. I wished they would offer something: clarity, courage, a sign. The truth pressed hard against my chest, but saying it aloud felt impossible. How could I explain the things I had seen, the decisions I had made, and the constant ache of fear that never quite left?

“Nothing’s wrong, Dad,” I said softly. My voice caught at the edges. I took a spoonful of ice cream just to fill the silence, but it tasted wrong—too sweet, too normal.

Dad did not answer straight away, but I could feel his eyes on me. Then he raised an eyebrow, that familiar, knowing look he always gave when he was not buying what I was saying.

“You always come out here when something’s bothering you,” he said gently. “When you need to think but do not want to talk.”

I looked down, letting the spoon clink quietly against the side of the bowl. My fingers trembled slightly as I set it on the ground beside me. The swing shifted beneath me with the movement. The truth was close, just below the surface, but I was not ready.

“You’ve been so quiet,” Mum said, her voice threading gently into the night. “You haven’t written much from school. Not about your lessons or your friends. Not like you used to. Is everything all right, sweetheart?”

Her concern struck deeper than I had expected. I looked down, fiddling absently with the spoon in my hand, trying to keep my face from showing too much. Part of me wanted, desperately, to tell her everything, to let it all spill out, every awful detail. But another part held tightly to the silence, to the secrets, to the fear. The war was drawing closer every day, pressing at the edges of everything. And I knew that once I said it aloud, it would become real in a way I might not be able to bear.

“I just don’t have much to say,” I murmured, keeping my voice carefully even. “I’ve been focusing on my N.E.W.T.s. It’s my final year at Hogwarts.”

The words sounded convincing, practised. And in a way, they were true. The exams were important, but they were not what kept me up at night, not really. It was the fear, the not knowing, stretching further with every passing day.

Dad looked at me over the rim of his glasses, his expression thoughtful. “Are those exams necessary for a particular career?”

I hesitated, then took the safer route. “Not for everything, but for a lot of jobs, yes. They’re incredibly difficult, and I want to do well.” I gave a small smile. “I’ll probably be living in the library until it’s all over.”

For a second, I imagined Harry and Ron rolling their eyes, muttering something about typical Hermione. The thought warmed me, just slightly.

Mum tilted her head, genuinely curious. “And what sort of career are you thinking of?”

That felt easier, something I could talk about without feeling as though the air was about to collapse in on itself. “I’ve been thinking about applying to the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. It’s part of the Ministry.”

They both blinked.

“Magical creatures?” Mum echoed.

I nodded. “Yes. I’ve had quite a bit of experience, actually. Dragons, unicorns, phoenixes, werewolves, even giants.” I paused, noticing the way her eyebrows lifted. “I know it sounds dangerous, but not all magical creatures are threatening. Some are misunderstood.”

Dad gave a low whistle, shaking his head slightly. “And you enjoy that sort of thing? It doesn’t scare you?”

A memory of Fluffy, the enormous three-headed dog from first year, surfaced, then Buckbeak, and Grawp, and even poor little Norbert. So many creatures. So many memories.

“Some of them can be frightening,” I admitted. “But not all. Flobberworms are harmless; they just lie there and eat lettuce.” I gave a small, tired laugh. “It’s about understanding them. That’s how you stay safe.”

Mum gave a faint smile, though her eyes were still slightly wide. “I always thought you might become a dentist like us. Looking after teeth, not taming dragons.”

I laughed, but there was a tightness to it. “I could never picture myself in a dentist’s chair, Mum. I want to do something that helps in a different way. Something that means something.” I paused, then added quietly, “Like helping house-elves.”

She tilted her head again, puzzled. “House-elves?”

“Yes,” I said, feeling my chest tighten slightly. “They’re magical beings. Most wizarding families have them. They cook and clean and look after the house, but they don’t get paid, and they’re not free. They’re bound to serve. It is like slavery, really, and hardly anyone questions it.”

Mum’s smile faded. “That’s awful. What are you doing about it?”

I felt something stir in my chest, pride perhaps, or guilt, maybe both.

“In fourth year, I started a group, the Society for the Promotion of Elfish Welfare, S.P.E.W., but no one really joined.” I tried to keep my voice light, though the memory still stung. “Just Harry and Ron, and honestly, I think they only signed up because I wouldn’t stop going on about it.”

Dad gave me a small, crooked smile. “Well, if they joined, it means they believed in you, even if they didn’t quite understand it all.”

I looked down again, brushing my thumb over the rim of the bowl. “Maybe. Or maybe they just wanted me to stop talking.”

He chuckled softly. “Even so, they stood by you. That says a lot, Hermione.”

Mum nodded, her voice very gentle. “It says a lot about you as well.”

I did not reply, but the words stayed with me, settling somewhere deep inside. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps that was the whole point.

Even when people do not understand you, the ones who stay are the ones who matter.

Mum reached out and placed her hand gently on my knee. That small touch, simple and grounding, made something in my chest loosen, just a little.

“Your heart is in the right place, Hermione,” she said softly. “Even if people do not always understand what you are doing, they feel it. That is why they stand by you.”

I gave her a shaky smile. “Thank you, Mum.” I hesitated, then added, “I have been leaving little knitted hats and socks around for the house-elves, in the common room, anywhere I think they will find them.”

Mum’s eyes softened, but I caught a flicker of surprise. “What do they do with them?”

“Well,” I said, shifting a little on the swing, “if a house-elf picks one up, it is considered clothing. It frees them.” I looked down at my hands, then back up again. “I know it sounds silly, but it works. At least, I think it does.”

Dad raised his eyebrows, clearly intrigued. “Just like that? A hat or a sock sets them free?”

I nodded. “Yes. It is symbolic, really. Freedom, wrapped in wool.” The words sounded strange spoken aloud like that, but they made me feel hopeful, a quiet, stubborn sort of hope.

Dad gave a low, thoughtful hum. “That is actually rather clever.”

“Finish your ice cream, darling,” Mum said gently, nudging me with her elbow. “Before it melts all over your lap.”

I scooped up a mouthful. The cold sweetness pulled me back into the moment, and for a few seconds, I let myself feel safe here with them, under the stars.

I pulled my gaze away from the whirlwind of thoughts in my head and happened to glance towards the window box. A splash of soft colour caught my eye.

“Mum,” I said, straightening slightly. “Are those the freesias I have been admiring lately?”

She followed my gaze, her expression brightening. “Yes, they are,” she said, clearly pleased. “I planted them a few weeks ago. I was not sure how they would take, but I have been checking on them every morning, keeping them watered.”

Dad looked impressed. “They are coming along beautifully,” he said. “Well done, you.”

Mum reached for his hand and gave it a squeeze. “Thanks, love. Even a few blooms would make me happy.”

“You will get more than that,” Dad said warmly, resting a hand on her shoulder. “With the way you have been fussing over them, they will be blooming like mad before long.”

We stayed out a while longer. The earlier tension, the talk of exams, of school, of things I could not say, faded into the quiet hum of shared memories. Mum and Dad began reminiscing, telling stories from before I was born, laughing over old holidays and the time Dad had tried to install a new shower and flooded the upstairs hall.

It felt normal, familiar, the kind of evening I had once taken for granted but now clung to with quiet desperation.

Later that night, curled beneath the duvet in the comfort of my room, Crookshanks nestled beside me, and my mind began to drift again. The worries were still there, of course they were: the N.E.W.T.s, the war, everything Harry and I had spoken about, the decisions I had yet to make, and the danger I had not told them about.

Yet beneath all of that, something else was growing, a steadiness, a kind of resolve.

I knew what I wanted. I wanted to fight for what was right.

That thought, quiet and determined, settled inside me, strong and still.

And eventually, in the hush of the dark, I let sleep take me.

The warm morning light streamed through the window, casting pale golden stripes across the floorboards. I blinked against it, reluctant to leave the cocoon of my dreams, though my thoughts had already surged ahead, darting from checklist to checklist, spells to memorise, and charms to perfect. I had packed and repacked three times this week alone. Potions, camping gear, spellbooks—nothing left to chance. It had to be right. We could not afford even one mistake.

I turned my head and looked at the stack of dog-eared books beside the bed, their spines worn and pages soft from overuse. They had been with me since first year, some even longer. Old friends, of a sort. Anchors. In a world that was rapidly unravelling, they reminded me who I was, or at least who I had been before the war demanded something colder, sharper.

But despite all the preparation, I already felt hollowed out, exhausted in a way that sleep could not touch. The real journey had not even begun, and still I was tired to the bone, tired of waiting, of worrying, and of pretending I was not scared.

I missed Harry desperately. He would have known what to do, what we still needed. He always had that strange clarity when things were at their worst. Without him here, everything felt heavier, less certain. And Ron, well, he was trying, but we both felt it, the absence.

With a long breath, I pushed back the covers and stood, my limbs stiff. The scent of pancakes wafted up from the kitchen, warm, sweet, and familiar. My stomach gave a small, uncertain rumble. One small comfort, at least.

When I padded into the kitchen, Mum was by the stove, humming softly, her dressing gown trailing behind her. She turned and smiled when she saw me, as though it were any other morning.

“Pancakes or waffles?” she asked, lifting the pan with ease.

“Pancakes, please,” I said quietly, taking a seat. My voice sounded strange in the bright, quiet room, thicker than usual, as though it did not quite belong.

She studied me for a moment, something unreadable flickering in her eyes. She had always been able to see more than I wanted her to. I glanced away, feeling the tightness return to my chest.

“Mum,” I began, tracing a small circle on the tabletop with my finger. “About the trip we planned, do you think maybe we could stay home instead?”

Her smile faltered, softening into something gentler. “Of course we can, sweetheart.”

I nodded, though guilt was already curling its way up my spine. “Do you think Dad will be upset?”

She set the pan down and crossed to the table, her voice low and certain. “I will talk to him. Do not worry about that.”

“But he was so excited about going to Australia,” I said, barely above a whisper. “He kept showing me those tourist spots.”

Mum let out a quiet, breathy laugh. “Oh, Hermione. Just because he saw a few nice places on the telly does not mean we have to drop everything and disappear across the world. Honestly, I think he was just trying to help. He saw how much was on your mind.”

I lowered my gaze. The weight of it all pressed down again. I leaned forward and let my forehead rest against the cool wood of the table, the solidity of it grounding me. For a moment, I did not say anything.

“I am sorry,” I mumbled.

She was beside me in an instant. “What on earth are you apologising for?”

I did not know how to explain. That I was sorry for lying. For hiding the truth. For the journey I was preparing to make.

Before I could answer, the shrill ring of the telephone split the morning stillness. My heart jolted. Mum looked towards it, puzzled.

Far too early for a casual call.

The clock on the wall read 7:14. Far too early for anything at all.

I stood abruptly, the chair legs scraping against the floor. A thousand possibilities rushed through my mind: Death Eaters, the Ministry, Harry.

Mum made no move to answer it, so I crossed the room and picked up the receiver, forcing my voice into something calm and capable.

“Hermione Granger speaking,” I said, as steady as I could manage, though my hand trembled faintly around the cord.

“Hey, Hermione!”

Ron’s voice hit me like a wave, familiar and sudden and too much all at once. For a second, I froze, caught between the comfort of hearing him again and the sharp jolt of surprise. It had been days since we had last spoken properly, real words, not rushed messages passed through Order members or scribbled notes by owls. Somehow, I had not realised how much I had missed him.

“Hello?” he said again, a little unsure.

“Hi, Ron,” I managed, the words escaping before I could compose myself. The relief in my voice was too obvious, tinged with worry I had not even realised I had been carrying.

“How is it going?” he asked, trying for casual. But there was something in his tone—tight, careful, forced.

“I am all right. Just surprised to hear from you so early,” I said, my heart already picking up pace. “Is everything all right?”

There was a pause.

“Well, that depends on how you look at it,” he replied vaguely.

A chill traced the base of my spine. I straightened, bracing myself. “Ron, what is going on?”

“There have been Order meetings,” he said, as if that explained everything.

“And?” I pressed, sharper now. “What has happened?”

“They want you at Grimmauld Place. There is a plan to get Harry out of Privet Drive.”

The words dropped like lead. My breath caught. It was happening, really happening. All the whispered plans, the contingency lists, and the endless hours of preparation were no longer some distant idea. It was now.

“What is the plan?” I asked, gripping the edge of the counter.

“Not sure yet. Mad-Eye would not say. He is being really secretive, properly paranoid.”

I frowned. “Did he give any indication of when they are going for him?”

“Near his birthday, that is all he said. Nothing exact. Just soon.”

My mind began spinning: logistics, supplies, concealment spells, protective enchantments. My thoughts went into that familiar overdrive, trying to get ahead of the situation before it swallowed us whole.

“When do they want me there?”

“Soon,” Ron said. “Maybe this weekend? You could stay at the Burrow until it is time. Mad-Eye reckons it is best to have everyone settled early.”

I nodded slowly, even though he could not see me. My eyes flicked to the small calendar on the kitchen wall. It was too soon.

“Hermione?” Ron’s voice dropped. “Are you all right?”

I hesitated. There was too much to say and nowhere to begin. “Yes, I am just—” But the rest caught in my throat.

“Just what?”

“Nothing,” I said quickly. “It does not matter.”

“Hermione.”

I swallowed. “I was hoping to spend a bit more time with my parents before we start looking for, you-know-what.”

There was silence on the line. Then, more gently: “Right. Sorry. I forgot.” A pause. “I get it. I will talk to Mad-Eye. He will understand.”

A quiet breath escaped me, half relief, half guilt. “Thanks, Ron.”

“Don’t mention it. I will see you soon.” Another pause. Then, more hesitantly: “And, Hermione?”

“Yes?”

“I—” He faltered. “I miss you.”

The words stopped me cold. I opened my mouth, but nothing came. A thousand things I could have said tangled somewhere behind my ribs. Before I could answer, the line went dead.

I stayed frozen, the receiver still pressed to my ear, the silence on the other end somehow louder than the words he had managed.

Across the kitchen, Mum looked up from the sink, concern etched across her face. “Was that Ron?” she asked softly. “Is everything all right?”

I nodded, too quickly and too stiffly, and lowered myself back into my chair. There was no way to explain it, not properly, not without unravelling everything I was trying so hard to hold together.

“How is he?” she asked, her voice quiet and careful.

I looked away. I wanted to tell her everything, but I could not. I could not even begin.

“He is fine,” I said, the lie barely more than a whisper. It stuck in my throat like a stone. “He told me about Bill’s wedding in August.”

I kept my gaze on the flowers in the window box, bright and utterly unaware of what was coming, of what I was about to do.

“Oh, that is wonderful!” Mum said brightly, her face lighting up, as though that one piece of news might lift whatever was weighing me down. But it did not. The pressure in my chest only grew, tight and heavy, as though I were holding back a tide no one else could see.

“Yes, there is a lot to get ready for,” I said quietly, the words sounding flat, unfamiliar. “And Harry turns seventeen soon.” I hesitated. “Ron invited me to stay with them this summer until school starts.”

The words hung there, strange and false. School. As if I would be going back. As if things were still normal.

Mum smiled, clearly touched. “That is really lovely of them. You should go.”

I looked away, my throat tight. I wanted to say yes, to smile and mean it, but all I could think of was the truth I could not speak, the plan we had made, and the mission we were about to begin. This was not a summer visit. It was a goodbye.

“What is it, sweetheart?” she asked gently. Her voice always softened when she knew I was hiding something. She always knew.

My heart thudded painfully in my chest. I had not lied, not exactly, but I had left so much unsaid. The idea of leaving, of not returning, of stepping into danger I could not explain made my stomach churn with guilt and fear.

“Hermione,” Mum said again, more quietly this time. “It is just a wedding and a birthday. You will be with the Weasleys. With Ron.” She hesitated, her eyes searching mine. “You are not doing anything that would break our hearts.”

The words cut deeper than she could have known. My breath caught. I felt as though I was standing on the edge of something vast and terrible. I wanted to be the daughter she believed I was: clever, careful, and safe.

“I am just overwhelmed,” I said, and my voice cracked. A tear escaped before I could stop it, slipping down my cheek. I brushed it away quickly, ashamed that I could not hold it together.

Silence fell. Not angry or cold, just full, full of everything I could not say. I could feel her eyes on me, and part of me wanted to break, to fall into her arms and sob and tell her everything. But I could not. If I did, I might never be able to leave.

She reached out and rested her hands on my shoulders. Her touch was warm and steady, comforting and terrifying all at once, a tether to a life I was about to sever.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asked gently.

I met her gaze. She was trying so hard to understand, to reach me through the fog of secrets I was carrying. But I could not let her in. Not now. Not when it might put her in danger as well.

I shook my head and gave her a small smile, fragile and forced.

She looked a little sad, but she nodded, accepting my silence. “Well,” she said, trying to sound cheerful again, “why do you not finish your breakfast? After that, I will show you the dress I thought might be perfect for the wedding. How does that sound?”

I nodded again, grateful for the shift in subject. I picked at my food, forcing down each bite, though I barely tasted it. Then I followed her upstairs, something flickering faintly in my chest. Not quite hope, but close.

The moment we stepped into their bedroom, my eyes went straight to the dress. It hung from the wardrobe like it belonged in a fairy tale, lilac silk, soft and fluid, with lace detailing along the neckline that shimmered in the light. For a moment, I forgot everything else.

Mum beamed. “You are going to have the time of your life in this dress,” she said, almost breathless with excitement. “Just wait until you try it on.”

“It is perfect,” I murmured. My chest gave a little flutter I had not expected. “Can I try it?”

“Of course,” she said, stepping aside and waving me towards the bathroom, her eyes bright with something pure and uncomplicated.

I hurried off, clutching the dress to my chest, my hands trembling ever so slightly. In the privacy of the bathroom, I took a steadying breath and slipped it over my head. The fabric was cool and smooth, sliding against my skin like water, light as air. It settled over my frame with an elegance I had not expected. I turned towards the mirror and paused.

It did not feel like me. Not entirely. And yet…

A thousand thoughts crashed into one another, spinning faster than I could stop them. What would Ron say when he saw me? Would he notice, really notice? My heart gave a ridiculous little lurch. I frowned at my reflection, my cheeks flushing with the sheer absurdity of it all. It was only a dress. Only Ron. Only—

I shook my head quickly, trying to steady my thoughts. This was not the time. Still, I could not deny the flutter in my stomach as I reached for the door handle.

When I stepped out, Mum’s eyes widened. Her expression melted into something soft and full of love.

“Oh, Hermione,” she breathed. “You look stunning.” Then, with a glint of humour, she added, “Honestly, if Ron does not trip over his own feet when he sees you, I will be shocked.”

I laughed, though my face was hot with embarrassment. It was such a Mum thing to say—sweet, hopeful, and mildly mortifying. But it warmed me too. The idea of being seen by someone I cared about was terrifying, but it was also thrilling.

Before I could respond, Dad appeared in the doorway, raising an eyebrow at the sight before him. “What is all this? Looks like a fairy tale has come to life.”

He crossed the room and sat beside Mum on the edge of the bed, then caught sight of the dress properly. His eyebrows shot up. “I have not seen that dress in years.”

Mum smiled fondly. “I wore it when we were dating. I thought it was time it had another adventure.”

Dad gave her that soft, sentimental look he reserved only for her. “You were breathtaking that night,” he said quietly. “I remember thinking, If she says yes to a second date, I am never letting her go.”

Mum rolled her eyes, though her cheeks coloured faintly. “Hopeless romantic.”

Then, brightening suddenly, she added with a mischievous glint in her eye, “Oh, and Ron called earlier. He has invited Hermione to his brother’s wedding. She will be staying at the Burrow through September.”

Dad turned, eyebrows raised further. “Really?”

I cleared my throat, willing my voice not to wobble. “What do you think of the dress, Dad?” I tried for casual. It did not quite land.

He looked at me for a long moment, then smiled with quiet pride. “You look beautiful, sweetheart. It is hard to believe you are all grown up.” He placed a hand dramatically over his chest. “One day, some charming young man is going to sweep you off your feet and leave me heartbroken and bankrupt.”

I could not help laughing. “Dad, honestly.”

Before I had time to recover, he caught my hand and gave me a playful twirl. I stumbled, laughing, nearly crashing into him as he grinned with delight.

“I demand the first dance,” he said solemnly, bowing as if we were at a grand ball. “Before some red-haired lad tries to steal the show.”

Mum giggled. “He has always been light on his feet.”

“You bet I have,” Dad said, striking an exaggerated pose that made us both collapse into laughter again.

Then Mum stood up abruptly, as though she had just remembered something important. “Oh, I nearly forgot; wait there.”

She crossed the room quickly and opened the top drawer of her dresser. From it, she pulled a small velvet box, her hands slightly unsteady as she held it out to me.

“Before you leave for the Burrow,” she said softly, “your father and I wanted you to have something for your birthday.”

I took the box carefully, the velvet brushing softly against my fingertips. Even before I opened it, I could feel the weight of it, not the box itself, but the moment.

I lifted the lid.

My breath caught.

Inside was a necklace, so delicate it looked as though it might vanish if I blinked. The pendant was shaped like a teardrop, perfectly clear, and within it, suspended as if by magic, were tiny freesia blossoms, glowing faintly where the sunlight touched them.

I remembered it. I remembered being small, curling on Mum’s lap, reaching for that necklace as it dangled near her collarbone, warm from her skin.

Now it was mine.

“It would look beautiful with your dress,” Mum said gently. Her voice trembled just slightly.

I could not speak. My throat ached, and my eyes stung. The necklace was not just a gift; it was a memory, a tether, a part of home I could carry with me, a quiet promise that no matter what came next, I would not be alone.

“Thank you,” I whispered, the words thin and fragile.

I stepped forward and wrapped my arms around them both, holding on, too tightly perhaps, but I did not know how many more hugs I would get like this. I did not want to let go.

“We are so proud of you,” Dad whispered, his hand drawing slow, comforting circles on my back.

When we finally pulled apart, his eyes were glassy. “Eighteen. It feels like only yesterday you were begging for bedtime stories about unicorns or dragging that little telescope around the garden, insisting we find Mars before tea.”

I tried to smile, but it wobbled. “It has gone so fast,” I said, and my voice cracked. “Too fast. Sometimes I wish I could slow it all down. Or go back.”

Mum’s head tilted gently. “Go back?” she echoed. “What would you change, darling?”

The question lodged itself in my chest. I dropped my gaze, blinking hard, but the tears came anyway, quiet and persistent. “I would spend more time with you,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “I would not take any of it for granted. I would linger at breakfast, ask more questions, and listen better.” I trailed off, struggling to swallow the ache rising in my throat. “I did not realise how much I would miss it until I started saying goodbye.”

The silence that followed was not empty; it was full. Full of everything I could not say aloud, full of the things we all felt but did not have words for.

Then Mum reached forward and cradled the back of my head, drawing me into her arms with that familiar gentleness. “Oh, Hermione,” she murmured. “You have never stopped being our little girl.”

I let myself cry then, properly, unguarded. I did not even try to stop it.

We stayed like that for a while, wrapped in the quiet, in each other, in the deep, aching sort of love that made walking away feel like tearing out part of your own heart.

When I finally lifted my head, I could tell they had both noticed. The weight. The distance. The worry I had not managed to hide.

“What is it, sweetheart?” Dad asked, and the tenderness in his voice broke whatever was left of my composure.

I opened my mouth and closed it again. How could I tell them? How could I explain that I was not just going to the Burrow for a summer holiday, that I was walking into danger, into something I might not come back from?

My fingers closed around the pendant. I remembered Harry, how he had felt when Professor Dumbledore kept things from him, and how that silence had cut deeper than any truth.

I could not do that. Not to them.

“I know I have been distracted,” I said at last, my voice small. “I have not written as often, and I have been so wrapped up in school and everything else. But it is not because I do not care.” I hesitated. “It is because I do so much that I do not know how to explain it all.”

Dad reached for my hand, his grip steady. “You do not have to explain everything,” he said softly. “Just remember we are here. Always.”

Mum nodded, brushing my hair gently behind my ear. “Whatever happens, Hermione, you will never be alone. You will always have us.”

Something inside me eased, just slightly. Not the fear; it was still there, but the loneliness. That horrible feeling of having to carry everything by myself.

Then Dad smiled, brushing a tear from my cheek with his thumb. “Besides,” he said, with a flicker of his usual humour, “I have another surprise for you, and I think this one might put a proper smile on your face.”

I blinked. “Another?”

“Come on, you will see,” he said, already leading the way.

Curious, I followed him out to the garage. He popped open the boot and pulled out a large, slightly battered box. As he handed it to me, I raised an eyebrow.

“Er, thank you?” I said, trying not to sound completely puzzled. “You did not need to get me anything else.”

He laughed. “It is not for you. It is for your organisation.”

Something in my chest fluttered. “Wait, you mean for the elves?”

“Of course. Who else?” he said with a grin. “I thought you were serious about helping them.”

“I am,” I said, my fingers tightening slightly on the box. “It is just, I did not expect it.”

He shrugged as though it were nothing. “Do not worry about it. I asked a few people at the clinic if they had anything to donate, and they were more than happy to. It is all for a good cause.” He gave me a quick wink and turned back towards the house, leaving me standing there, somewhere between startled and utterly overwhelmed with gratitude.

I lifted the lid of the box and stared down at the contents: neatly folded jumpers, scarves, and socks in a dozen cheerful colours. Freshly washed, carefully packed. All for the elves.

He had really done it.

A warmth spread through my chest, unexpected but welcome. Dad had always stood by me, even when others might have laughed or looked confused or told me I was being unrealistic. He never had.

I remembered something he had said to me once, back when I was little and had spent the afternoon trying to start a recycling campaign in the neighbourhood. “The measure of a person is not just what they say; it is what they give, what they are willing to do for someone else.”

My fingers brushed over a woollen hat with a crooked hem, and I felt something shift, quietly but firmly, inside me. Maybe I could help. Maybe it was not just an impossible dream. And with parents like mine behind me, maybe I was not as alone in it all as I thought.

I carried the box up to my room, cradling it like something precious, and set it carefully on the bed. I would sort through it properly later. For now, I turned back to packing, though even that felt strange, like pretending life would go on as it always had. Like I was still just going off for a visit, not everything else.

Then the phone rang downstairs.

I froze, my shoulders tightening before I could stop them. My mind leapt at once. Ron? Could it be about the Order, about Mad-Eye’s plan? No, it was surely too soon. Still, I held my breath until I heard Dad’s voice, calm and cheerful.

“Henry! What a surprise!”

Relief flooded through me. I did not need to listen in to know who it was. Henry Montgomery, one of Dad’s long-time patients: friendly, warm, and the sort of man who always remembered birthdays and sent handwritten thank-you cards.

I tried to focus on folding a few shirts, but I barely managed one before I heard quick footsteps on the stairs, and moments later Dad appeared in my doorway, bright as ever.

“Hermione! You will never guess who just rang!” he said, eyes dancing.

I looked up from the pile of clothes on my bed. “Henry Montgomery?”

He beamed. “Exactly! You remember him, do you not? Lovely bloke. He has a few bags of clothes he wants to donate, and I told him I would swing by to pick them up. Thought you might like to come along?”

I glanced around my room, the cluttered mess of books, letters, bits of parchment, and folded clothes. I still had a thousand things to do: Horcruxes to prepare for, goodbyes to hide inside trunks.

But I had not had time with Dad like this in ages. Not without something hanging over us. Not without pretending everything was fine.

“Yes,” I said, smiling. “I would love to.”

The air outside was heavy with heat, thick enough to cling to the skin, but the sound of children laughing in the distance, somewhere near the park, made it feel lighter somehow. As if the world had not completely shifted. As if some things were still simply ordinary.

We did not speak much in the car. The windows were down, letting in gusts of warm wind, and the hum of the tyres filled the space between us. Dad looked relaxed, humming absently along to the radio, his eyes bright in the late afternoon sun.

“They are going to be so pleased to see you,” he said at one point, glancing over with a grin. “Henry and Nancy always ask about you, you know. And you have not met the twins yet, have you?”

I blinked. “Twins?”

His smile widened. “Born in September. Honestly, they are the sweetest little things. A bit mischievous, mind you, but charming. You are going to adore them.”

I had not known they had children.

My heart lifted unexpectedly. I remembered how long the Montgomerys had been trying, how Dad used to come home and talk quietly about their patience and their hope. And now, here they were, a whole family. It felt like a patch of sunlight breaking through everything else.

“If anyone deserved a bit of happiness,” Dad added softly, “it was them.”

I nodded, swallowing around the lump in my throat. “They really did.”

When we pulled up outside the Montgomerys’ house, I stepped out and took in the scene. Roses lined the narrow garden path, soft pink and buttery yellow, nodding gently in the breeze. In the back, I spotted a small swing set, the paint slightly chipped but clearly loved. Everything about the place felt calm, familiar, and lived in.

On the porch, Mr Montgomery was arranging a few boxes on a table and gave a wave as we approached.

“Hello, Mr Montgomery,” I said, extending my hand. There was something reassuring about him, something steady, as though nothing could ruffle him, not even two toddlers and a box of donations.

He laughed and took my hand with both of his. “Mr Montgomery? Oh no, none of that, please; it is Henry. It is wonderful to see you, Hermione.”

“Good to see you too,” Dad said brightly, stepping forward with an easy smile. “How is life treating you?”

Henry grinned and tilted his head towards the front door. “It is a bit of a madhouse, to be honest. Two toddlers mean double the mess, bottles, blocks, and overturned chairs. I nearly tripped over a toy car this morning, so watch your step.”

There was a flicker of something in my chest as I followed them towards the house. Not quite nerves, something warmer. Anticipation, perhaps. Curiosity.

As soon as we stepped inside, a wave of sound met us: cheerful squeals, laughter, and tiny feet pattering across wooden floors. The living room was chaotic. Brightly coloured toys covered nearly every surface, blankets were flung over the arms of chairs, and a tower of picture books teetered dangerously on the coffee table. It was the kind of mess that came from real joy, from love.

And then I saw them, the twins.

They rushed at me without hesitation, arms flailing and babbles spilling from their mouths. One of them, dark-haired with Henry’s smile, flung himself at my legs, nearly knocking me over. I dropped to my knees instinctively, and both of them piled into me at once, laughing as though they had known me forever.

They did not. Of course they did not.

But they trusted me completely, and that tugged at something deep inside, something quiet and aching. It was so easy for them, so pure. That kind of trust did not exist in my world any more. Not really. Not without consequence.

“Boys, do not scare Hermione off,” a voice called from the sofa. I looked up to see a woman rising to her feet, brushing biscuit crumbs from her jeans. She was tired; I could see that straightaway, but kind. The kind of tired that comes from love, not burden.

She crossed the room with a smile and offered a bowl of biscuits. “I am Nancy. Help yourself. Sorry about the mess; these two might be small, but they are an absolute handful. I would have tidied up, but honestly, I am outnumbered. Some days, I wish magic were real. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

Dad laughed, light and warm. “No need to apologise; it is lovely.”

But when his eyes flicked to me, there was something beneath it. A small tension. The kind that comes with secrets. I knew it too well. It crept into everything, even the most innocent moments. The rules were unspoken but always present: do not slip up, do not reveal too much, and do not get too close.

The Montgomerys did not know what I was. What I could do.

And they could not. Not now. Not with the way things were shifting. It would not be safe, for them or for us.

Still, I found myself lingering on what Nancy had said.

I wish magic were real.

“Do you believe in magic?” I asked quietly, before I could stop myself. The question felt delicate, like walking a tightrope. A part of me already wished I had not said it.

Nancy hesitated, just for a moment. Then she looked down at the boy in her arms; I thought something flickered in her expression. Something like truth.

“Not at first,” she said. “But that changed when Finley…”

She trailed off and sat down with him cradled in her lap. She pressed a kiss to the top of his head.

“He did something I still cannot explain.”

I felt my breath catch.

Dad chuckled lightly, clearly trying to ease the weight of her words. “Let me guess,” he said, shooting me a glance. “He ended up on the roof?”

I froze. My eyes snapped to him.

That was not just a joke; it was almost exactly what Harry had said about his own accidental magic. I had told Dad that story once. Quietly. In confidence.

I tried to signal him to drop it, but the moment had already shifted.

Nancy did not laugh.

“He actually did,” she said, her voice low, almost stunned.

The air in the room changed.

I could feel it, like the pull of a spell cast in silence.

Even Finley stopped wriggling, settling against her shoulder as though he, too, understood that something important had just been said.

My heart pounded, loud and hollow. She was not joking. She remembered. She felt it. The wonder, yes, but also the fear. The need for answers.

Dad offered a gentle smile, still trying. “Well, children do strange things. Does not always mean magic.”

But I already knew.

It did.

And I was not sure what terrified me more, that she might be right or that I could not tell her so.

“But how else do you explain it?” Nancy leaned forward, her voice tight, trembling with the need to be believed. “It was just me and the boys. Quiet. No thumps, no shouts, nothing. I turned around for a moment, just seconds, and he was gone. I panicked. Looked everywhere. And then I heard this tiny sound, almost like a giggle. I looked up, and there he was. On the roof. Calm as anything. Smiling.”

Her voice cracked.

“There is no ladder. No way up. Not for a toddler. Not for anyone unless they were lifting him, and it was just us. Henry was not home. I did not imagine it.” Her hands twisted in her lap. “It just does not make sense.”

Her words hit like cold water—sharp, sobering, impossible to ignore. I wanted to tell her the truth. That she was not going mad. That she had seen something real. That what had happened to Finley was exactly what happened to magical children before they understood what they were. I knew, because I was one.

But I could not.

The temptation burnt in my throat, but it was too dangerous. Truth was not safe any more; it had not been for a long time. We were at war. You-Know-Who was back, and there were eyes everywhere, even in places we once thought safe. The Montgomerys did not know about magic, and that ignorance, painful as it might be, was their protection.

Nancy lowered her voice to a near whisper. “Henry says we should never mention it again. That people will think we are cursed. Or worse, that we are losing our minds.” She looked at me then, her gaze searching and intent. “But what do you think, Hermione?”

I froze.

The question struck deep, far too deep. I wanted to answer. I wanted to reach for her hand and tell her that Finley was not broken or dangerous or cursed. I wanted to tell her that he was special, that he might be like me. But to say that would put a mark on him, one that could never be taken away. And I could not, would not, be the reason he was hunted.

So I did not answer. Not directly. Instead, I looked at her, at the fear behind her eyes, at the fragile hope that was still alive there, and swallowed hard.

“Did anyone else see him?” I asked carefully. My voice sounded calm, but I could feel the tremor rising in my chest. “When he was up there, I mean. On the roof?”

Nancy blinked, startled by the change of question. She frowned, searching her memory. “I am not sure. I think a couple of neighbours were in their gardens. I was too busy trying to get him down. Thank Merlin he was not hurt.” She exhaled slowly. “They must have seen.”

My father spoke gently, his tone quiet but firm. “The important thing is that he is safe.” His eyes flicked towards me, only for a moment, but I caught it. We both understood what this could become if it spread.

I sank deeper into the settee, my hands curled tightly in my lap. The room, once warm and homely, now felt smaller. It was as if the walls were listening.

This visit had been meant to be simple. A short drive, a few boxes of clothes, a cheerful afternoon. Yet it felt like something else entirely. There was a heaviness in the air that was difficult to name, the quiet weight that lingers just before something happens.

Finley made a soft sound in Nancy’s arms, somewhere between a sigh and a yawn, and settled against her shoulder. His fingers twitched faintly, reaching for something invisible.

I watched him, my heart tightening. He had no idea. No understanding of what the world outside this room could do to children like him. What it had already done.

My fingers slipped into my coat pocket until they found the familiar shape of my wand. I did not draw it. There was no reason to, not yet. I only needed to feel it. To know that it was there.

I opened my mouth, ready to ask Nancy if she had noticed anyone suspicious near the house, anyone watching too closely, or anyone who lingered for too long. But then she looked down at Finley, rocked him gently, and brushed the hair from his forehead. He let out a small sigh, and she smiled, soft and tired and so completely human.

It did not comfort me.

The air seemed to shift again, almost imperceptibly, but I felt it. Like something unseen had stirred. I looked towards the window. Outside, the golden leaves drifted slowly to the ground. The light had changed, the shadows on the floor longer and thinner. There was nothing there. Yet still I felt it.

Something was wrong.

It was as if something ancient was moving beneath the surface of the world. Something dark and patient, drawing closer to this quiet little house. Waiting. Watching.

I looked at Finley again, so small and trusting.

And I thought of baby Harry. Alone in the wreckage. Marked before he could walk. Hunted before he could even speak.

The Montgomerys knew nothing of any of it.

But I did.

And suddenly, the charms and defensive spells we had learned at school, the theory, the counter-curses, and the careful incantations all felt so small. So fragile.

How do you protect innocence in a world built to break it?

I did not have an answer.

But I knew one thing. If the war came to this house, and it might, I would be ready. Because they would not be. Not unless someone stood between them and what was coming.

And if that someone had to be me, then so be it.

“Do not worry, Nancy,” Dad said quietly, his voice calm and even. “I am sure there is nothing to worry about.”

Nancy released a long breath, her shoulders slumping as though she had been holding them tense for far too long. “You are probably right. I do not know what has got into me lately, jumping at shadows and doubting myself over the smallest things. I suppose that is motherhood for you.”

She looked down at Finley and brushed her fingers through his soft, flyaway hair. There was so much tenderness in her eyes, and behind it, fear. Raw, deep, and fiercely protective. She did not even understand what she was afraid of. Not really.

But I did.

Because if anyone ever found out what Finley was, what he might become, if they even suspected it, that alone would be enough.

Muggles did not have magical protections. No wards, no charms, no concealed strongholds. Only gut instinct and love, the kind that drives people to throw themselves in front of curses they do not understand. And Nancy had that look. She would fight with everything she had, even if it was not nearly enough.

“My wife and I understand,” Dad said gently. “We worry too. Always have. If you ever need anything, anything at all, just say the word.”

Simple words, yet they carried a kind of magic of their own. Not the kind shaped by wands or carved into runes. A different kind. Quiet and old. Formed from love and desperation and the stubborn will to keep going, no matter what.

I wanted to believe that would be enough.

But deep down, I knew it would not be.

The weight pressing against my ribs was growing heavier each day. Secrets were slipping. Spells were fraying. The protections we had always trusted were no longer certain. Magic, no matter how carefully hidden, left traces behind. Residue. Like smoke after a fire.

A faint breeze moved through the room. I told myself it was nothing more than a draught from the hallway, but it carried a scent that did not belong. Not the familiar mix of soap and biscuits, but something darker. Bitter. Like ash after spellfire.

I went still.

No one else seemed to notice.

A moment later, Henry came in, his arms full of folded clothes. “Got everything sorted,” he said cheerfully. “Shall I take them to the car?”

Dad seized the moment. “Brilliant, thank you. Let’s get it packed up.”

The moment passed, though not for me.

I stayed where I was, eyes fixed on the doorway even after they had gone. My hand tightened around my wand inside my coat pocket, the smooth wood familiar and grounding. The room looked the same, safe and ordinary, but something had brushed through here. I could feel it.

And it had not come for second-hand clothes.

The drive home was quiet. The kind of quiet that sits heavy on your chest, thick and unyielding. Outside, the sun was sinking low, casting long golden shadows across the hedgerows. Dad kept his eyes on the road, calm on the surface, but I could sense it. His unease. It sat between us, a current of unspoken thought. We did not speak, because we did not need to. We were both thinking the same thing.

Something had changed.

I leaned my forehead lightly against the window, watching the countryside blur past. The stillness that once comforted me now felt false, like a thin veil ready to tear. Everything was changing, faster than I could keep up. The world I had grown up in, the one I had tried to balance with my place in the magical one, was slipping away.

A dull ache settled in my chest. Not fear exactly, but something heavier. Something final. Like a door closing.

Raising a witch in a Muggle household had never been easy for my parents. I had always known that. But now, with Death Eaters moving in the shadows, with people disappearing and fear spreading like a sickness, it felt unbearable. And the worst part was that I did not only have to protect myself. I had to protect them. All of them. Even people like the Montgomerys, who had no idea what they were caught in.

Nancy had done what she thought was safest. She had kept quiet and followed her husband’s lead. I could not blame her. She had chosen to protect her family in the only way she knew.

But later that evening, as I folded my clothes into neat stacks and slipped them into my beaded bag, my stomach twisted painfully.

Was silence truly the safest path?

Part of me thought yes. Secrets kept people safe. Kept them out of harm’s way.

Yet another part of me, smaller but steadier, whispered that silence might be its own kind of surrender. That saying nothing and doing nothing was simply letting darkness spread, unseen and unchallenged.

The sudden ring of the telephone broke through the stillness like a spell gone wrong. I jumped, startled, heart hammering, and hurried downstairs, trying to shake off the cloud of thoughts still clinging to me. Mum was waiting in the hall, receiver in hand and a small smile on her face.

“It’s Ron,” she said softly, passing it to me before heading back upstairs.

I pressed it to my ear. “Hello?”

“Hey, Hermione.” His voice was quieter than usual, hesitant, as if he wasn’t sure whether I wanted to hear from him. There was something unresolved in the way he said my name, some trace of the argument we still hadn’t properly mended. “How are you?”

I closed my eyes for a heartbeat. I wanted to tell him I was fine. I wanted to believe it. But all I could feel was the weight of what I hadn’t told him: about the Montgomerys, about Finley, about the fear that had taken root in the back of my mind and refused to leave. Was it fair to keep it all from him? Ron had always tried to be honest with me, even when it was difficult. Was I doing the same?

“I’m all right,” I said carefully. Not a lie, exactly. Just edited.

There was a pause, longer than it needed to be. I could sense him on the other end, trying to say something he hadn’t quite found the words for.

At last, he spoke. “I talked to Moody. He said no.”

Just that. Two words. Yet they landed like lead in my stomach.

“Oh. All right.” I forced my voice to stay calm, though disappointment burned beneath the surface. I had known it was unlikely, but I had hoped, just a little, that I might be allowed a few extra days. Time to prepare. Time to finish things properly. Time to say goodbye.

“I’m sorry, Hermione,” Ron said, his voice cracking at the edges. “I did try. I told him you should have a say in it, but he said you’re too important. Said you’re the brains behind the whole thing.”

I let out a slow breath. I understood. Of course I did. I always understood. But that didn’t make it easier. I hadn’t asked for this responsibility. I hadn’t asked to become part of a plan built on secrecy and sacrifice. I just wanted to help my friends. I just wanted to choose.

“I get it,” I murmured. The words felt thin in my throat.

He didn’t reply at once. Ron never liked silences, not really, but when it mattered, he let them sit.

“Just a few days left,” he said quietly.

“I know.” The words slipped out as little more than a whisper. Even as I said them, they didn’t feel real. I had imagined this moment for months: the packing, the goodbyes, the step away from everything familiar. I had thought I would be ready. Yet standing at the edge of it now, it felt like stepping off a cliff without knowing how far the fall was.

“Are you going to be all right?”

The question hung between us. Simple, yet impossible to answer. I wanted to be honest. I wanted to tell him that I was frightened, that I had never felt so unsure of myself, not even during the worst nights at Hogwarts. But then I thought of Harry, carrying his burden quietly. I thought of Ron, torn between his family and this impossible task. What right did I have to add my fear to theirs?

“I’ll manage,” I said. Even though I wasn’t sure that I would.

There was a short pause, then Ron spoke again, his tone shifting slightly, as though he sensed I needed something to focus on. “Anyway, we need to start planning, don’t we? Finding the Horcruxes. I don’t think Harry’s got the faintest idea where to start.”

“Neither do I,” I admitted. “Professor Dumbledore didn’t exactly leave us a map, did he? That cave took him years to find.”

“We’ll have to guess. Or get lucky.” He sounded frustrated, and I couldn’t blame him.

“We’ll work it out,” I said, trying to sound more certain than I felt. “We always do.”

“Harry mentioned Godric’s Hollow once. Maybe we will start there.”

I frowned, thinking it through. “It’s risky. If You-Know-Who is watching, that will be the first place he checks. He might already have people there.”

“So what then?” Ron asked, exasperated. “Do we just sit around waiting for something to turn up?”

“I don’t know yet,” I admitted. “We’ll have to stay alert. Keep looking for patterns, for anything that stands out.”

Ron gave a weary groan. “That could take months.”

I straightened my shoulders. “Then we keep looking for months. This isn’t something we can rush, Ron. We have to get it right.”

“Yeah,” he said after a pause. “You’re right.”

There was another silence, though this one was not heavy. Just thoughtful. We were both bracing ourselves: for leaving, for fighting, and for everything that would come next.

I took a deep breath, one that reached right down into my chest. The words I had been rehearsing all afternoon rose to the surface, thick and tangled. I had gone over them a dozen times, perhaps more. Yet saying them aloud, choosing to say them, was harder than I had expected.

And if I did not say them now, I might never get the chance again.

“Ron,” I began, my voice softer than I intended. “I visited some family friends recently. They’ve just had twins. And I think one of the babies might be magical.”

There was a short pause.

“Magical? At that age?” Ron’s voice came through uncertainly, carrying a hint of disbelief. “Isn’t that a bit early to tell?”

I gripped the edge of the kitchen counter, grounding myself. “Maybe. But they found the baby, Finley, on the roof. No one saw how he got there. He wasn’t hurt; he was just sitting there. Calm. Smiling.” I hesitated, letting the words settle. “It reminded me of Harry’s stories. The things that happened before he even knew he was magical. You remember, don’t you? The vanishing glass at the zoo, the roof at school…”

“Yeah, but Hermione, that sort of thing doesn’t definitely mean he’s magical. Could be a freak accident. Or someone mucking about.”

“Ron, they’re Muggles,” I said, perhaps a little too sharply. “They don’t do pranks like that. And there’s no way anyone could have put that baby on the roof without being seen. There was no ladder. No noise. It just happened. And I felt it, Ron. Something about him is different.”

He went quiet. I could almost hear him shifting on the other end of the line.

“I’m not saying you’re wrong,” he said eventually, more carefully now. “But it doesn’t necessarily mean he’s in danger.”

“Maybe not yet,” I replied, my voice low. “But what happens if someone else notices? What if the wrong people hear about it? They’re still tracking traces of accidental magic, especially in Muggle-born areas. He could be targeted before he even knows what he is.”

Another pause followed. Then Ron asked, gently, “Have they had anything strange? Any letters? Anyone hanging around?”

“No,” I said quietly. “Nothing obvious. But Nancy’s worried. And I can’t shake the feeling that something’s already moving underneath it all. Like it’s only a matter of time.”

“You might be overthinking it.”

I didn’t reply straight away. Maybe I was. But in our world, being wrong about that could cost lives.

“I know,” I said finally. “I just can’t help it. Everything feels fragile lately. Like the moment you let your guard down, something breaks.”

There was a soft sigh on the other end.

“You’re not alone in that,” Ron said. “The whole of Grimmauld Place is on edge. Moody’s worse than usual. Tonks accidentally blew up half a kettle yesterday. I think it was nerves.”

A faint smile touched my lips. “That sounds about right.”

“We’re all watching our backs,” he went on. “You included. But Hermione, you can’t carry everything. If you’re worried, tell someone. Moody, Kingsley, anyone. Don’t try to deal with it all by yourself.”

“I won’t,” I said, though we both knew it wasn’t true.

He hesitated, then continued, his tone shifting again. “They’re starting to plan how to get Harry out. It’s complicated. Can’t use the Floo, can’t Apparate. Not from Privet Drive. Too many risks. Too many eyes watching.”

I nodded, even though he couldn’t see me. “I thought as much. Once the Trace lifts, they’ll move him.”

“We just have to make sure he gets there,” Ron muttered. “We’ve come too far to lose him now.”

I closed my eyes for a moment, my fingers tightening round the receiver.

“I keep thinking about how much has already changed,” I said quietly. “How quickly everything’s slipping away. My parents. Finley. Us. It’s all coming apart, and I’m just trying to hold some of it together.”

There was a pause.

“Have you finished packing?” he asked at last.

“Almost,” I said, straightening a little. “Just double-checking a few things.”

Ron gave a small laugh. “Let me guess. You’ve got lists, haven’t you?”

I rolled my eyes, though he couldn’t see it. “Of course I’ve got lists. Don’t mock me. You’ll be grateful when we’re not halfway across the country without a single healing salve or a spare pair of socks.”

“Socks, right,” he said, amusement creeping into his voice. “That’ll save us from the Death Eaters.”

“I’m being practical,” I said, but there was warmth beneath it. “Which is more than I can say for you most days.”

Another pause followed, gentler this time.

“I’m glad you called,” I said softly. “Even if you don’t believe me about the baby.”

“I believe you,” he replied, almost serious now. “Just keep your eyes open, all right?”

“I always do,” I said.

And I meant it.

“Ron…” I paused, my fingers curling around the phone cord until it bit faintly into my skin. The words hovered at the edge of my tongue. “What do you think this weekend will be like?”

There was silence on the other end. I pictured him frowning, running a hand through his hair the way he always did when he was thinking. I wished I could see his face, just to know what he was holding back.

“Busy,” he said at last, his voice quieter now. “Everyone’s tense. But Harry will be there. That’s what matters most, isn’t it?”

I nodded, though he could not see me. “Yes,” I said softly. And for now, that was enough. The three of us, together again at the Burrow. However brief, however uncertain. It would be a beginning.

“I should let you go,” Ron said after a moment. “You’ll want to get some rest before everything starts. See you Saturday?”

“Yes,” I whispered. “I’ll be there, Ron.”

The line went dead. I stayed still, holding the receiver to my ear even after the dial tone began, as if I could somehow hold onto the quiet between us a little longer. Then I hung up and made my way back upstairs.

I checked my packing again, for the third time that evening. Everything was in its place: clothes folded neatly, books stacked in careful piles, and potion ingredients wrapped and labelled. I did not trust myself to leave anything behind.

At last, I opened the drawer beside my bed and reached for the small, worn handbag lying flat at the back. It looked ordinary, unremarkable even, but the magic inside it hummed faintly beneath my fingertips. The Undetectable Extension Charm had worked perfectly. Clothes, supplies, protective items and my carefully chosen books all fitted inside with room to spare.

I ran my thumb along the stitching, marvelling at how something so modest could hold so much. It was more than practicality; it was preparation. It was safety. In a world growing darker by the day, I could not afford to be caught without what I might need.

Everything was ready, or as ready as it could be.

Still, I stood there, clutching the bag to my chest, listening to the stillness of the house. The silence was no longer comforting. It only made what was coming feel more real.

Tomorrow I would wake up and pretend everything was normal. Pretend I was not carrying secrets too heavy to speak. Pretend I was not about to walk away from the people who had raised me, who still did not know what I had already done to keep them safe.

I sat on the edge of my bed, the weight of it all pressing in. Not the bag itself, but everything it represented.

Saturday would come. And I would be ready.

Even if I was afraid.

The next morning, rain tapped steadily against the windowpane, soft and unrelenting, as if it were trying to remind me of something I wanted to forget. I stayed beneath the duvet for as long as I could, my face buried in the pillow, wishing the warmth would protect me from the echo of last night’s conversation.

Ron’s voice still lingered in my mind: hesitant, uncertain, but honest. He had not meant to hurt me, at least I did not think so, but it stayed with me all the same. Things between us had never been simple. Not with everything else pressing in. Not with the war tightening its grip around all of us.

With a sigh, I sat up, the cold air biting at my arms. The sky outside was heavy and grey, pressing low over the rooftops and making the world feel smaller. Shadows pooled in the corners of my room, and for a while I stayed still, staring at the floorboards, unwilling to move. But I had to. There was no time for hesitation now.

Downstairs, the familiar scent of toast and coffee wrapped around me like a memory. Mum and Dad were in the kitchen. Dad was pacing slightly, waving a leaflet in one hand, while Mum stood by the stove, stirring her tea with quiet precision.

“Can you believe it?” Dad said, his voice bright with that particular wonder he always had when people did something unexpectedly kind. “The Montgomerys gave away their whole winter collection. Coats, boots, scarves, everything. I told them it wasn’t necessary.”

“But they did anyway,” Mum said gently, a smile softening her features. “They always do.”

Dad nodded, folding the leaflet carefully. “Well, I’m not having them go without. They’ll get free check-ups through spring. It’s only fair.”

I slid into my seat at the table quietly, watching them. Their kindness, their calm, made my chest ache. They had heard the murmurs, odd news items and disappearances whispered between headlines, but I had not told them the truth. Not the whole truth. How could I? How do you explain You-Know-Who to people who think the worst thing that could happen is a recession or a power cut?

I wanted to protect that innocence. The Montgomerys had it too, the quiet, hopeful belief that if you looked after others, the world would look after you. I knew better now.

“Morning, Hermione,” Mum said, glancing over. “Tea or coffee?”

“Tea, please.”

Something dark passed the kitchen window, too swift for a bird. My heart leapt. An owl.

“I’ll just be a minute,” I said, already halfway to the stairs before they could ask.

Back in my room, I opened the window and let a gust of cool air in. The owl landed neatly on the sill, a barn owl with bright amber eyes that watched me steadily. It gave a soft, expectant hoot. I untied the parcel from its leg—my Daily Prophet subscription—slipped it a few Sickles and watched it vanish into the grey sky.

My fingers were cold as I unrolled the paper, but it was not the chill that made them tremble. I skimmed the headlines first, heart thudding, searching for anything on Harry, the Order, attacks or disappearances.

Then I saw it.

Dark Mark Sparks Panic.

My breath stopped.

I read the article with growing dread. A Muggle family. No signs of struggle. No survivors. The Dark Mark hovering above the house, glowing green against low clouds.

My hands tightened around the page as I turned it.

There was a photograph. Four smiling faces.

The Montgomerys.

I could not breathe.

They stood outside their front door, the little one waving at the camera. Mrs Montgomery’s hand rested on her husband’s shoulder, and Finley had just begun to crawl. I had sat in that living room yesterday. I had eaten biscuits while the children played. Mr Montgomery had donated clothes and helped Dad load them into our car.

And now they were gone.

My throat closed. I reached out and touched the edge of the photograph with numb fingers, as if I could pull them back and undo what had happened.

They had not known what was coming.

They had not stood a chance.

A sharp, aching thing settled in my chest. They had trusted the world to be kind, and the world had failed them. The war was not distant anymore. It was here. It had found them. It would find more.

Every day You-Know-Who grew bolder. The Ministry insisted things were under control, but they acted as if order could be preserved by pretending chaos was not already at our gates.

And here I was, still living at home, trying to revise for N.E.W.T.s and plan for something that felt like a war on my own.

There was no balance left. Only the fight.

The paper crinkled in my hands as I folded it. The Montgomerys deserved better. We all did. I could not give them justice, not yet.

What I could do was prepare.

If I had learned anything, it was that there was no such thing as safe, not for people like us. Not now.

“Hermione!” Mum’s voice floated up the stairs, light and untroubled. “Your tea’s ready!”

I blinked hard and scrubbed the back of my hand across my eyes. “Coming, Mum.”

My gaze dropped to the paper lying in my lap. The Montgomerys were still smiling at me, frozen in that moment before everything went wrong.

This was what waiting looked like. I could not wait any longer.

There were no ordinary mornings now. Not when You-Know-Who was out there killing people for being Muggles, for existing.

I glanced down the hall towards the kitchen. I could hear Mum humming. Dad would be there too, probably still talking about the Montgomerys and proud of their generosity, still unaware that they had been murdered in their sleep.

Would he still smile like that if he knew?

A vision rose up so clearly it felt like a spell: the Dark Mark burning over our own house, its sickly green light bleeding through the windows. I could almost hear the screaming, see Mum reaching for me, and watch Dad trying to understand. I would be too late. I would not be able to protect them.

But perhaps I could make sure they were never targets to begin with.

I sat at my desk, and the thought slid into place like the final piece of a puzzle I had been resisting. I had read about the spell months ago, tucked away between complex theories of memory layering and irreversible enchantments in a book I should not have had access to.

I had not taken it seriously then.

I did now.

They would forget me. Everything. I would alter their memories and give them new names and new lives. They would move to Australia, somewhere warm and far away, where no one would know who they once were.

They would survive.

My throat tightened. My hand moved of its own accord to the drawer. I pulled it open and took out my wand, my fingers trembling slightly as they closed around the familiar wood.

There was no time to cry. Not now. There was too much to do.

They would not hate me if they ever remembered.

They would be alive.

I stood, my chair scraping softly against the floorboards. The street outside my window was slick with rain. Wet leaves clung to the pavement. Someone passed by with an umbrella, completely unaware that the world was coming undone.

I reached for my beaded bag. It felt heavier than usual. Everything did.

Downstairs, the sound of dishes clinking and laughter drifted up to me, light and warm and ordinary. For a heartbeat I let it wash over me. I wanted to bottle it somehow, to keep it safe inside me. But that was not how magic worked. That was not how war worked.

I stepped into the hallway, each footfall slower than the last. Every part of the house seemed sharper now: every creak, every picture frame, every familiar scent. As if the house itself knew what was coming.

I paused at the bottom of the stairs and pressed my hand against the wall for balance. In the kitchen, their voices carried on, soft and full of nothing in particular.

I stood there, listening, holding on.

Because I knew I would never hear them like this again.

The moment stretched. I thought, foolishly, about running back upstairs, about pretending I had not made this decision, that there was still time to change it.

But there was not. The Montgomerys were proof of that.

I gripped my wand tighter and stepped through the kitchen doorway.

They did not notice me. Mum was rinsing out a mug. Dad was searching through the cupboard for the marmalade.

Just an ordinary morning.

Just the last one.

I raised my wand.

My voice barely rose above a whisper.

“Obliviate.”

A soft light pulsed from the tip of my wand. The magic surged forward, unseen but unstoppable, weaving through the air between us. For a heartbeat, it felt as if something inside me had cracked open.

They paused, as though they had forgotten what they were saying halfway through a sentence.

And they had.

I lowered my wand, chest heaving, my heart hammering against my ribs.

They looked at one another, blinking, calm and unaware, already becoming other people. Already forgetting.

I turned away, gripping the doorframe as though it might hold me together.

Behind my closed eyes, the memories came flooding back, slow at first, then all at once. Birthdays. Bedtime stories. Mum brushing my hair before school. Dad spinning me clumsily round the kitchen, laughing as if the world were only ours.

And one memory rose above the rest.

I was seven. It was summer. The house was filled with golden light, and the windows were open to the breeze. I had just finished reading The Secret Garden and had burst into the kitchen, tripping over my words with excitement, talking too fast for Mum to follow.

She knelt beside me, brushing my curls back from my flushed face. “You loved it that much?”

I nodded, wide-eyed. “Mary was so brave. She brought the garden back to life. She made everything better.”

Dad chuckled at the sink, drying a plate. “Just like our Hermione.”

Mum kissed the top of my head and said, “You’ll do something amazing one day, darling. Something only you can do.”

I had not known then how true that would be, or how much it would cost.

Even that memory began to fade. I could feel it slipping away. The spell tugged at the threads that connected us, loosening them one by one. The love, the warmth, the certainty of belonging—all of it began to drift.

I swayed on my feet, my knees trembling, but I did not let myself fall. I had to witness it. I owed them that much.

Their faces were changing. Not outwardly, but in a way that ran deeper. The light in their eyes—the recognition—was fading. They looked around the kitchen as though they had never seen it before. As though they were strangers in their own home.

And just like that, they were no longer my parents.

I stumbled back a step, my hand covering my mouth. The silence pressed in around me, thick and heavy. My heart ached, truly ached, as though someone had reached inside my chest and torn something loose.

The tears came, silent and unstoppable, as the rain began again outside, tapping at the window as if it too wanted to be let in. I wanted to scream, to undo it, but I could not. It was done.

To protect them, I had erased myself.

They stood there, calm and unbothered, touched by the soft haze that powerful memory magic always left behind. They did not know who I was. They would not remember the girl who read ahead in every textbook, who cried in the car park the day she first left for Hogwarts, who still wrote home long after midnight.

I swallowed hard and stepped forward, my voice trembling. “Monica?”

Mum turned slowly, blinking. Her face was kind, but there was no recognition in her eyes. Only polite curiosity, as if I were someone she had met in passing.

I turned to Dad. “Wendell.”

He nodded faintly, then frowned at the window, as if trying to remember why he had come into the kitchen at all.

My fingers fumbled for the silver pendant in my pocket, a delicate enchanted vessel. I had poured their memories into it: every birthday, every scraped knee, every goodnight hug. I held it tightly for a moment before reaching up and fastening it around Mum’s neck. It glowed faintly, accepting the weight of what I had taken.

Inside that pendant lived our life.

I stepped back, brushing away the tears before they could fall again.

“You’re moving to Australia,” I said quietly. “You’ll start over. You’ll be safe. Just the two of you.”

I closed my eyes and whispered the final line of the spell, the one woven with intent and love. I imagined warm sand, sunlight on their faces, and laughter that came easily. A life without fear. A life they could live in peace.

Magic drifted from my wand like mist, curling around them in gentle spirals. Their expressions softened. Mum smiled faintly. Dad placed a steady hand on her back.

They had no idea what I had done. No idea what I was giving up. But they would live.

That was all that mattered.

I stepped forward and wrapped my arms around them both. I held on tightly, knowing it would be the last time. They did not move. They did not even flinch. But I needed it. I needed to feel them close, even if I had already become a stranger in their eyes.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered into the fabric of Mum’s cardigan. “This is the only way. I love you. I love you so much.”

They did not answer. They could not.

I let go.

“You should start packing,” I said softly.

They nodded and left the kitchen together, climbing the stairs with calm, unhurried steps, preparing for a journey they did not remember choosing. Their footsteps faded, leaving only the hum of the refrigerator and the soft patter of rain against the windowpane.

I did not follow. I could not.

Watching them disappear felt like watching a part of myself vanish up those stairs with them, something deep and vital that I would never recover.

I pressed my back against the wall, my hands trembling, my chest tight. At last the tears came, hot and silent. They were safe now.

But I was no longer whole.

The silence in the house was not empty. It was full. It filled the corners of the room, pressing against me until the air felt heavy and my lungs too small to hold it. It was the kind of silence that demanded grief, the kind that settled into the bones.

I moved without thinking, just a few steps forward, though even that felt wrong. Like trespassing in my own home. Or what used to be my home.

The living room looked the same as always. The cushions were uneven, Dad’s armchair slightly askew. Photographs lined the mantel, smiling out at a world that no longer existed. The three of us on the beach at Brighton. Me in my school uniform, grinning through missing teeth. Mum in the garden, sunhat crooked, laughing at something Dad had said.

I raised my wand.

My hand shook.

With a whispered incantation, I began erasing myself from what remained. One by one, the photographs shimmered, then blurred. The colours bled away until nothing was left. Holidays vanished. Birthdays disappeared. Every ordinary, perfect moment dissolved like watercolour in rain.

Each one left a hollow space inside me. A wound that would never quite heal.

My knees gave way, and I sank onto the sofa. Our sofa. The one where Mum used to sit with me on Christmas Eve, brushing my hair while I read aloud from whichever book had captured me that week. The fabric still smelt faintly of her—freesia and warmth and home.

I clutched a cushion to my chest and wept quietly, afraid even my grief might disturb the stillness that had settled here.

They were safe. That was what I kept telling myself, over and over, like a charm to hold myself together. But it did nothing to stop the ache spreading through my ribs.

What kind of daughter erases herself?

I had no answer.

Only grief.

Only the hollow ache of a goodbye that only I would remember.

Then I heard it.

Footsteps on the stairs.

I looked up, eyes wide, hope rising where it should not. My heart leapt and broke in the same breath.

They stood in the doorway, their luggage in hand, calm and composed. Smiling gently.

They did not know me.

They had no reason to stop. No reason even to glance back.

I wanted to speak. Needed to. My throat burned with the words I would never say.

I love you.

Please remember.

Please, just once, say my name.

But they did not. They could not. The magic held fast, and they were already gone.

They stepped through the front door, and it closed behind them with a quiet click that struck like a curse. That was it. The last chapter was written. They would leave for Australia and live their lives—safe, hidden, untouched by war.

Free of magic.

Free of me.

I rose slowly, my feet dragging, and crossed to the window. My hands pressed against the cold glass. I watched them walk away down the drive, small against the rain and the world beyond.

I did not blink.

I could not afford to miss a single second.

Outside, the rain had stopped. A break in the clouds allowed sunlight to spill across the garden, casting long shadows over the wet earth.

And there, nestled in the flowerbed, stood a single freesia. Mum’s favourite.

She planted them every spring. She used to tell me what they meant: innocence, trust, remembrance. She would tuck one behind my ear while I sat in the garden reading, smiling at me as if I were the best part of her world.

Now she would not remember the flowers. Or their meaning. Or me.

My eyes fixed on that one bloom, violet and fragile, standing tall despite the cold. It had no right to be there, not at this time of year. And yet it was.

Defiant.

Like her.

Like me.

My breath caught, and the word slipped out before I could stop it. “Mum.”

It cracked as it left my throat.

There would be no reply. No soft answer. No familiar voice telling me I had done the right thing.

Just a girl alone, arms empty, heart full of ghosts.

I pressed my forehead against the windowpane. The glass was cool beneath my skin. The sunlight was golden. But neither could reach me, not truly. Not where I had gone inside myself.

It was time.

I turned. The air behind me felt heavy and still. I looked around one last time, burning everything into memory. Every corner. Every shadow. Every absence.

The couch.

The blank photo frames.

The freesia blooming against all odds.

I wanted to remember it all. Even if it broke me.

I lifted my wand, my breath uneven, the words silent on my lips.

The colours shifted. The world turned.

And then I was gone.

The house was empty.

The memories had vanished.

But my love would never fade.