Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Harry looks around the auror’s headquarters, observing his co-workers as they go on with their days, focusing on small little tasks that his boss gave to them to make it seem like they’re actually doing something that matters.

Six months have passed since the war, and he’s an auror now.

It doesn’t feel real.

He watches as people walk away, their black ministry trench coats practically floating behind them with each step they take.

It awfully reminds him of Snape.

These people are so cocky that Harry doesn’t doubt for a second that they might have actually enchanted their coats to be this way.

He feels suffocated under the tight tie and vest. He took the coat off as soon as he sat down on his desk, wanting nothing more than to take off this damn tie and vest as well. But he doesn’t. He has to keep up with appearances.

After all, no one can know that Harry Potter, who has been an auror for almost two whole weeks now, already hates his job.

Someone slams a stack of books on a desk nearby, causing little trinkets to tumble down. Harry doesn’t bother looking at who that was. Slamming things on desks seems to be a daily occurrence at the headquarters.

Unlike his co-workers, Harry only has two pictures on his desk. One of his parents, and one of him, Ron, and Hermione back in their first year. What’s the point of decorating the damn thing with trinkets anyway?

His thoughts were interrupted when he spotted Ron leaving their boss’s office, a satisfied grin on his face.

Unlike Harry, Ron seems to be loving the auror life. Harry doesn’t know what to think of that.

“Hey mate. Robards wants to see you in his office.” Ron says, looking very pleased with himself.

“Thanks,” Harry replied, trying to muster some enthusiasm as he made his way to Gawain Robards’ office. His boss always struck him as half afraid and half thrilled by his presence.

Harry knocked and stepped inside, nodding at Robards before taking a seat across from him.

“We want you as one of our lead aurors.” Robards said, diving straight into it, his feet resting on the polished wood of his desk.

Harry raises an eyebrow at him, the air thick with disbelief.  “I literally just finished auror training.”

“So? You’re the best we have.” The man continues, fiddling with a small trinket, the clinking sound punctuating the tension. Harry studies him, noting how the man’s fingers twitch whenever he needs to speak, how he pales at the sight of him.

He wonders if he makes him nervous.

“You aced auror training.” Robards insists, his voice a mix of authority and uncertainty.

“Which wasn’t a hard thing to do, considering you reduced a three-year program to six months,” Harry retorts, his arms crossed tightly.

“You can’t blame me. We lost over half of our department in the war. Those who weren’t killed, went to the dark lord’s side and are now in Azkaban.”

Harry stares, unbothered, the silence hanging like an unspoken challenge.

“You know, it bothers me when people keep calling him ‘lord’ .” Harry deadpans, his voice low and firm. “It gives him a sense of superiority, which is exactly what he wanted. Just call him by his name.”

“Well, he’s long gone now. Thanks to you.” Robards smiles, but it feels strained. “I don’t think it matters anymore, does it?”

“It does.” Harry's tone is final, his posture resolute.

Robards clears his throat, discomfort evident in his shifting gaze. Harry eyes him suspiciously.

Yeah, he definitely makes him nervous.

“Well, about the offer…” He glances at Harry, who watches him carefully. “There’s been a ton of… doubts, I’d say, over the new administration.”

Silence stretches between them, heavy and loaded, making Robards fidget even more.

“People are not… well, they’re not really trusting us yet.”

“Kingsley is the new minister. He fought at the frontlines in the battle.” Harry counters, frustration bubbling beneath his calm. “He’s been an active member of the Order for years before Voldemort was brought down. I don’t get this.”

“We haven’t caught over half of the Death Eaters that escaped,” Robards explains, his voice dropping. “People need… reassurance. They need something to show them that we’re doing the best we can.”

“Ah.” Harry sighs, a wry smirk flickering across his face. “So you think putting me in a higher position would make people regain their trust in the ministry?” He chuckles, exasperated. “After all, there’s no higher endorsement than the ‘Boy Who Lived,’ huh?”

“Actually, people are calling you ‘The Man That Conquered’ now,” Robards corrects, but he falls silent under Harry's piercing glare.

“Great. Fucking great.” Harry lifts his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose, frustration evident in his posture. “I’m not ready for that shite. I literally just got here. I graduated from the academy two weeks ago, for fuck’s sake!”

“This isn’t about you. It’s about bringing reassurance to the people. It’s not like you’ll actually be in charge. You’ll only have your name signed as the ‘Lead Auror’.”

“Oh yeah, that makes it much better,” Harry snaps, venom lacing his words.

“We need you. What’s the big deal? You’ll just speak to the press once or twice per month to explain how the investigation on the missing death eaters is going,” Robards pleads, desperation creeping into his tone.

“Because the press fucking loves me, huh? It’s not like they spent the majority of the last year spreading Voldemort’s stupid fucking propaganda.” Anger flares within Harry, his famous temper bubbling to the surface. Robards takes a deep breath, his fingers trembling as he drops the trinket he was nervously fidgeting with.

“If they didn’t do that, they’d die.” Robards argues, a hint of exasperation in his voice.

“They did that long before Voldemort took over,” Harry counters, memories of Rita Skeeter’s atrocious articles igniting his fury. He thinks of Hermione, the hate she endured, the unjustified venom poured over her by the media. He had to watch as his best friend, the one person he cared about most, was mocked and attacked everywhere she went.

And for what? For supposedly dating him?

He takes a deep breath, the weight of it all pressing on his chest. Hermione never deserved any of that; the thought churns in his stomach, a bitter reminder of how cruel the world can be. Of how cruel the world is .

Robards sighs, his voice softening. “Kingsley personally begged me to ask you, Harry.”

“We’re not on a first-name basis, Robards,” Harry barks, irritation sharp in his voice.

“Fine, Potter . Whatever.” Robards runs a hand through his thinning hair, agitation creeping into his demeanor. “Just… think about it. Here’s everything you need to know.” He hands Harry a large roll of parchment, his expression a mix of hope and resignation.

Harry takes a deep breath, working to rein in his temper. He grabs the parchment roll, the weight of expectation heavy in his hands, and leaves Robards’ office, the door clicking shut behind him.

As he crosses over to his desk, his gaze catches on the cover of the Daily Prophet from that morning. A bitter chuckle escapes him as he reads the glaring headline:

HARRY POTTER: THE MINISTRY'S NEW FACE OF HOPE!

Fucking twats. All of them.

Harry doesn’t bother reading Robards’s parchment for now. He won’t be able to focus anyway, not with how angry he is and all the noise around him.

Sure, he could cast a silent spell around his desk, but they haven’t made any spells to reduce someone’s temper yet. If they did, he’d be the first person to try them.

Merlin knows how much he needs it.

“Someone ate shite for breakfast today.” Ron says, breaking into his thoughts as he leaned against Harry’s desk. “What’s with the long face?”

Harry sighed, slumping back in his chair “Nothing. Just stressed, like always.” 

“You need a good wank.” Ron suggested with a cheeky grin “Or better, a hot girl bouncing her cunt on you”

Harry raised an eyebrow, annoyance creeping in. “Seriously?”

“What? You’ve been in a shitty mood since you broke up with Ginny in September.” Ron argues “Come on, mate. You can have literally anyone you want! You should get your dick wet every once in a while.”

“I’ll hex you if you keep up with this.” Harry says seriously, looking at Ron, annoyed.

Ron has no right to say any of this stuff. Not when he’s dating Hermione of all people. He’s got the best girl in the whole world by his side, and the way he’s talking is not only disrespectful to her, but also extremely revolting.

“Fine.” Ron said, hands raised in mock surrender “I’ll stop! Let’s just… Let’s go to the Leaky Cauldron tonight, huh? Just you and me, drowning our sorrows in booze. How does that sound?”

“Now you’re talking some sense.” Harry replied, managing a small smile.

“Brilliant! See you there at seven?”

“Yeah, see you.” Harry says, nodding.

He sighed again, feeling the weight on his chest lighten just a bit. Maybe getting shit-faced wouldn’t solve his problems, but it would definitely help him forget, even if just for a night. And that sounded like a good deal for him.

‘Fuck!’

Harry internally curses as he glances at the large grandfather clock on the makeshift study he made for himself at Grimmauld’s Place. He’s been living there since he broke up with Ginny, wanting to get away from the grief-stricken Burrow and Ginny’s constant attempts to manipulate him.

The place still needs a major renovation, but it’s his home now. He doesn’t have the heart to abandon it, not after everything he’s been through.

Sirius hated this place, but… It’s the only thing Harry had left of him.

It’s seven thirty now, and Ron is going to kill him for being late. He’s worse than girls when it comes to these things, even though he’s always late for every single event he attended after Hermione left for Hogwarts.

Harry abandons the parchment his boss gave him on the dark wood desk, resting his bottle of ink and quill over it so it stays in place.

The parchment is filled with a bunch of bureaucratic crap, it’s basically a fancy way of saying: we’re promoting you, but you won’t actually have to do anything other than look good for the cameras.

Harry’s nostrils flared in anger at each paragraph he read when he got home from work.

He doesn’t know what makes him the angriest: if it’s the fact that he’s completely unqualified for the job and they’re handing it to him on a platter, or if it’s how they won’t let him actually do anything.

Not to mention how they want to use his name to manipulate people into thinking that they’re actually doing something regarding the missing death eaters.

Harry knows for a fact that the ministry doesn’t give a single shite about that, because most of the death eaters’ families donated a wealthy amount of galleons that may or may not have ended up in the DMLE’s pockets.

He hurriedly grabs his coat and goes out the door, until he reaches the alley behind the building, apparating to the Leaky Cauldron.

He immediately searches for one specific red-haired man, but doesn’t find him anywhere. giving up, he sits down at the bar, nodding at Tom, who immediately rushes to him.

“Hey, Tom,” Harry says, fatigue seeping into his voice. “Firewhiskey. Double it, please.”

“Right away, Mr. Potter.” Tom moves quickly, and Harry lets his gaze wander around the bar, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. Ron was late – again. He had rushed here, only to sit alone with his own thoughts.

He sighs again, trying to keep his irritation at bay. The whole point of this thing is to make him less annoyed, not more.

But Ron’s irresponsibility is not helping him at all.

At least there isn’t anyone annoying him, asking for pictures or autographs. That kind of stopped after he sent someone to St. Mungus when he felt them touching his shoulder at Diagon Alley.

The Prophet milked the situation for a whole week, and he went from ‘The Boy Who Lived’ to ‘The Tortured War Hero with PTSD’.

“Here you go.” Tom sets the glass in front of him, and without hesitation, Harry downed it in one go.

“Have you seen Ron?” he asked, forcing himself to keep his tone steady despite the anger simmering just below the surface.

“Oh, Mr. Weasley, yes.” Tom says “He went to the bathroom before you got here. It’s been a while. You might want to check up on him.”

Harry nodded curtly, his irritation flaring. He didn’t want to deal with a drunk Ron tonight, especially when that meant facing Molly’s wrath if he had to haul him back to the Burrow.

As he approached the bathroom, he was surprised to find the door locked. He frowned, shaking his head at the oddity of it. With a quick flick of his wand, he muttered a quick ‘alohomora’ and pushed the door open, stepping inside.

It doesn’t take long for Harry to find him.

The idiot is currently snogging a blonde woman senseless, her legs wrapped around his waist, his disgusting, pale and freckled arse moving as he thrusts inside of her.

Harry felt a wave of nausea wash over him.

The moron hasn’t even bothered on closing the fucking stall or casting wards, choosing to lock the main door instead. Anyone could’ve walked in on him and caught him in the act, which would make Hermione, the sweetest person he knows, be humiliated again for the whole world to see.

The Prophet would have a field day with such a scandal in their hands.

Harry’s fists clenched, knuckles turning white as fury boiled inside him. He wants to yell, to punch Ron until he feels his bones breaking under his fists. How dare he?

He has Hermione , and he’s cheating on her? After pining over her for so long and practically annoying her into being with him?

He’s always known that Ron isn’t the brightest person, but he never thought he would actually be so stupid to do something like this.

It’s like having filet mignon and trading it for a canned sausage.

He resists every single instinct he has of pulling Ron from the random woman and punching him into he’s nothing more than ground beef in his hands. 

Instead, Harry turns around and leaves, casting a repelling cast at the door on his way out. He’s not giving Ron the satisfaction of humiliating Hermione. No, Harry will be the only person who’ll know about this.

At least until he tells Hermione.

“Harry?” Hermione’s voice, laced with confusion, breaks through his swirling thoughts. He sighs, noting her big smile. She’s lovely, and he hates to be the one to wipe that joy from her face.

“Hey, love.” He forces a small smile, tucking the Marauder’s map back into his pocket. He arrived via floo a few minutes ago, after a heartfelt plea to McGonagall to let him see Hermione. It didn’t take too long to convince her.

He has a feeling that the headmistress always hoped he and Hermione would be something more.

Harry opens his arms and engulfs her in a very tight hug. God, he missed her. Living on the run with someone for almost a whole year creates a whole feeling of codependency. And despite going to multiple mind healers, none of them can find a way to erase that from him.

He and Hermione spent months alone in that tent, sharing a bed for warmth, only having each other for company. It’s not easy to just let go of her. He’s been living in torture since she left for Hogwarts again.

He’s been so angry, so confused, so bitter about everything going down at the ministry, but as he buries his nose in her curls, he feels all the tension fading away, leaving him with a strange feeling of peace.

Odd. He’s forgotten what peace felt like.

“What are you doing here?” Hermione asks, her smile wide and welcoming as she squeezes him tighter. A year ago, such closeness might have made him uneasy.

But now? He can’t imagine being anywhere else.

“I missed you. I can’t visit my best friend anymore?” 

“Of course you can.” She pulls back slightly, her hands resting on his shoulders, her eyes searching his face. “But you look like you’re about to be sick.”

“I feel sick.” He lets out a heavy sigh, the weight of everything pressing down on him. Memories of this week’s events flood back, reminding him why he’s there.

To crush Hermione’s spirit, to strip away her joy. It gnaws at him.

Harry learnt over the years that life is unfair, and that, sometimes, you have to stoop lower than your enemy in order to win. He knows he killed several death eaters back at the war, and honestly? He never felt a hint of remorse over it. In fact, he kind of enjoyed it, in a sick, twisted way.

One less corrupted soul in the world. Another target disappearing from his and Hermione’s back.

Why should he feel bad over the death of those who wanted nothing more than to kill him since he was a baby?

But this? Telling Hermione about Ron’s betrayal will break her heart, and he feels sick at the thought of it. He hates that she’ll cry, he hates the fact that he’ll have to comfort his best friend as she crumbles over the actions of someone who might be the most stupid person he’s ever met.

Yet, he also knows that this is for the best. That she’ll thank him in the end, and that after some time, some of the heavy weight on her shoulders will disappear.

Because even though neither of them will ever say this out loud, Ronald Weasley is a burden. And has been since he ran away on them last year.

“What’s wrong?” Hermione’s hands find their way to his face, her fingers brushing against the stubble he hasn’t bothered to shave. Her brown eyes, filled with concern and understanding, pierce right through him “You’re keeping something from me. What is it?”

That’s one of the things that has changed between them. They’ve always had a knack for reading each other, but after the months they spent alone in the tent, it’s as if they can communicate with just a look. It’s a kind of unspoken bond that feels surprisingly comforting.

It doesn’t bother him in the slightest. He doesn’t like keeping things from her anyway. After all, it’s why he’s here, even though every single nerve in his body is screaming at him, begging him to leave the place.

If he closes his eyes, he can still smell the blood. See the dead bodies scattered everywhere.

He knows Hermione can see them too, that she feels the same way. But she decides to come back anyway, even after he begged her not to.

Harry admires her for that.

As he scans the surroundings, he notices the chill in the air. Most students are out enjoying Hogsmeade, according to McGonagall, and he feels a pang of relief. “Can we go somewhere more private?” he asks gently. “Preferably somewhere warm.”

Hermione smiles and takes his hand “Come on. Most of the students are in Hogsmeade. The ones that aren’t, are in the common rooms warming up.”

Harry raises an eyebrow at that “Why aren’t you?’

Her sheepish smile makes his heart ache “I… Being alone with my own thoughts in the dorm was… daunting. So I decided to walk the bad thoughts away.”

He nods, wrapping his arm around her shoulder. “Lucky for me.”He presses a kiss on top of her hair, feeling the familiar comfort of her presence. Reaching into his jacket pocket, he pulls out the invisibility cloak.  “Come on, get in. I want to see that fancy new dorm of yours.”

Hermione shakes her head, chuckling, but lets him cover them with the cloak.

Harry ignores the sudden hardness pressing against his thigh as he brings her closer, holding her tightly so the cloak would cover both of them, careful as to not touch his hips with hers.

He curses himself as they walk inside the castle. Is he really having a hard-on right before delivering one of the worst news Hermione would ever hear in her life?

‘ Bad Harry ’ he thinks angrily, forcing his mind to conjure the most unpleasant images he can things he’s ever seen ‘ Umbridge, Mrs. Weasley’s sweaty apron, Ron, Voldemort’s noseless fucking face… ’

Yeah, that did the trick. 

They reach the hallway with the Fat Lady’s portrait, but Hermione walks right past it. She mumbles the password at the portrait of an angelic-looking woman, and they step into the head boy and head girl’s quarters. The common room, adorned in Gryffindor’s colors, is cozy but small. Hermione leads him to a door near the window, and suddenly, they’re in her room.

“Wow. I thought you were exaggerating when you mentioned how big the room is in your letters.” Harry says, impressed as he takes in the space. He takes the cloak off of them and throws it over Hermione’s vanity.

Hermione chuckles, settling onto her large four-poster bed. The nightstands are cluttered with piles of books, and he can’t help but smile fondly at the sight. “I was impressed too when I got here,” she says softly, patting the mattress beside her. “Neville’s in Hogsmeade, so he won’t bother us. But you can cast a few silencing spells if that makes you more comfortable.”

He smiles and nods, raising his wand to cast the silencing wards he became adept at using during their time in the tent. Once done, he sits beside her on the bed, taking a deep breath, steeling himself for what he must do.

Fuck. He really doesn’t want to do this.

“Mione, I…” Harry starts, scratching the back of his neck, a nervous habit he can’t shake “You’re my best friend. You know that, right?”

“I know, Harry.” Her smile is soft, but concern flickers in her eyes, “I know Ron and I are your best friends, but what’s…”

Harry interrupts her, his tone firm “No. Not Ron. You.” The weight of his words hangs between them “I like Ron, but you’re way more important to me than he is. You never left my side once, and…” He sighs, running his fingers through his hair nervously.

Hermione takes his hand, her warmth grounding him as she holds it gently in her lap. The gesture only amplifies his anxiety; she senses his turmoil, and yet, she offers comfort. Even though she’ll be the one needing comfort after what he says what he have to say.

“Ron hasn’t been my best friend since he ran out on us back at the tent. Yes, he came back, but… it doesn’t erase what he did.” Harry’s voice trembles slightly, each word weighted with unspoken feelings between them, “You, on the other hand, you…”

He raises his hand to her face, his thumb brushing lightly against her cheek. “You stood by me. Through everything – the tournament, the Department of Mysteries, the tent, the battle… Can’t say the same for Ron, can I?”

Hermione’s gaze drops, and she nods slowly, her expression pained yet understanding. “I guess you can’t.”

In that moment, the silence between them is heavy, filled with unspoken truths. Harry feels the burden of what he’s about to reveal, anger simmering beneath the surface. He hates Ron for betraying Hermione, for putting him in this impossible position.

For making him be the one to break her heart.

“Ron and I went out for drinks earlier this week,” he begins, his voice cracking. He’s going to make Ron swallow his own balls when he comes back. “He was trying to help me because… you know I’ve been stressed lately.”

Hermione nods softly, her hand squeezing his in support. 

“I was busy with paperwork – I’ll tell you all about that later – so I got to the Leaky Cauldron late. I couldn’t see Ron anywhere, so I assumed he was late too. But then Tom told me Ron had been in the bathroom for a while. I thought he’d drunk himself sick, so I went to check on him.”

“He was screwing some random woman. I’m so sorry, Hermione, I…” The words tumble out of Harry’s mouth, heavy and raw. “He doesn’t know that I know. I turned around and left because I was genuinely afraid that I’d end up killing him.”

Hermione listens attentively, her expression unreadable. There are no tears, no screams – just a quiet acceptance. She shifts on the mattress, and Harry braces himself for the incoming storm. He came prepared this time.

But instead of crying, she leans over to her nightstand, pulls out a large Honeydukes chocolate bar from the drawer, and bites straight into it. Harry watches, surprised, as she chews thoughtfully, her demeanor oddly calm.

He was expecting tears and yelling, not… not that. Whatever this is.

Hermione looks at him as she eats her chocolate, and sighs when she notices the way he’s looking at her.

“Want some?” she offers, waving the bar in front of him.

Harry laughs, the tension easing slightly as he takes a bite. The sweetness is a welcome distraction.

Once the chocolate bar is reduced to nothing more than the wrapping foil on the nightstand, Hermione looks at Harry again, knowing he’s just waiting for her to say something.

“Look, I’m not going to cry or yell,” she begins, her voice steady. There’s no anger in her eyes, just a weariness that seems to lighten the air around them. “I’m not angry or sad. I know you’re worried about me, Harry. But honestly? I’m fine.”

Harry swears he can see relief in her eyes.

He stares at her, incredulous. “So I just brought two whole boxes of tissues for no reason?”

She giggles, the sound brightening the moment. “You can use them to wipe the chocolate from the corner of your lips.”

She leans forward to him on all fours, then, she wipes the chocolate away from his lips and goes back to where she was originally sitting.

‘Trolls, buggers, Filch…’ 

Hermione smiles brightly, oblivious to his thoughts as she licks the chocolate from her finger.

Fuck!

‘Snape’s hair, the crumbs on Hagrid’s beard, Dudley’s wet socks…’

“Honestly, I’ve been wanting to break up with him for a while,” she says, her expression shifting to one of contemplation. “I don’t even know why we got together in the first place. It’s probably some sort of trauma bonding from the war. Muggles have interesting theories about this.”

“Uh-huh…” Harry mumbles, slowly taking one of the many pillows on Hermione’s bed and placing it over his lap, praying that she doesn’t notice it.

“It’s just… God! He’s so cocky!” Hermione’s frustration spills over, her frown deepening. “He loves the fame, the attention, the paparazzi taking photos of us, people congratulating us for saving the world…” She rubs her temple, and Harry instinctively wraps an arm around her shoulder. “Deep down, he’s always been desperate for fame and money. We would never work.”

She looks up at him, searching his eyes. “But you knew that all along, didn’t you?”

Harry sighs, burying his free hand in his hair. “Yeah, I did.”

“You never said anything,” Hermione notes softly. “Why?”

“I… I felt bad for him,” Harry confesses, guilt creeping in. “I wanted him to have one good thing. And you… You’re the best thing anyone could ever have.”

Before Hermione can respond, Harry continues, his voice firm. “But he fucked it up. So fuck him. That’s why I’m here, why I told you. You deserve so much better…”

Hermione stares at him for a few seconds, her gaze dropping to his lips. He notices her pupils dilate, the hitch in her breath sending a jolt through him. Tentatively, he moves his hand from her shoulder to her face, rubbing his thumb against her smooth cheek.

She closes her eyes, and without thinking, he leans closer, caught in the moment. He’s been wanting this for so long.

But then he halts, his breath catching as reality crashes back in. Cursing himself for giving in to temptation, Harry’s thoughts whirl. She’s his best friend. She’s off-limits. He’s supposed to love her like a sister...

But that thought stings. No, Hermione is anything but a sister to him. If she were, someone should take him to Azkaban right away because the thoughts swirling in his mind are far from brotherly.

Hermione, sensing his hesitation, gently removes the pillow from his lap. Her hand, soft and warm, brushes against the hardness in his pants, sending an electric jolt through him.

“Why did you stop?” she whispers, her lips so close to his that he can feel her breath, warm and inviting. Her eyes, half-lidded with desire, are filled with an intensity that he's never seen before.

“Fuck, Hermione…” Harry groans, his heart thundering in his chest, torn between lust and guilt. “You haven’t even broken up with Ron yet…”

“Serves him right for cheating on me…” she retorts, her voice low and sultry as she bites her lip, her hand stroking his erection through the fabric. Harry’s body betrays him, a low moan escaping his throat as he throws his head back, overwhelmed by the sensation.

He’s frozen, unable – or unwilling – to stop her. It’s too much. Too good.

“Mione…” he practically whimpers as she begins undoing the button of his pants. “I don’t want to be your rebound…”

“Ron was the rebound,” she counters, her hand slipping beneath his waistband. Her lips brush against his ear, sending shivers racing down his spine. “You know…” she whispers, her breath hot against his skin. “I’ve touched myself so many times thinking about you…”

The confession nearly undoes him. Harry releases a helpless, guttural sound, lost in her touch, his world narrowing down to the intoxicating feeling of her hand on him.

“I really thought you didn’t like me that way,” Hermione murmurs, her lips trailing down the line of his jaw. “Ron always said you saw me as a sister…” She pulls back slightly, her eyes searching his face. “Do you, Harry?”

“Fuck no,” he breathes, his fingers diving into her hair, tugging her closer. His control is hanging by a thread, but he finds the strength to speak, his voice low and gravelly. “Brothers don’t wank off thinking about bending their sisters over a tree…” His lips brush her neck as he starts to take control, his words slow and deliberate. “Or against the grass… or in a tiny cot in a tent…”

Hermione’s soft moan spurs him on, and Harry shifts their positions, his body pressing between her legs. He kneels before her, gently guiding her to lie back, her body sinking into the bed as he opens her legs with one hand, his eyes dark with desire.

“Do you really want this?” he asks, his voice strained, searching her face for any hesitation. “We’re about to cross a line, love. There’s no turning back.”

“I’ve been wanting this for years,” Hermione whispers breathlessly, grinding against him, her need palpable. “Please, Harry…”

His resolve snaps. “Fuck, ‘Mione…” Harry growls, biting her bottom lip as he leans in for a kiss. “If we’re going to cross the line, I won’t settle for just one quick fuck.”

“Good.” She smirks, her fingers running through his hair. “Our lives were getting too boring anyway.”

Harry smirks before capturing her lips in a deep, hungry kiss. There’s no hesitation in him now, no lingering thoughts of guilt – just pure, unadulterated need. He pries her mouth open with his tongue, tasting her as though he’s been starved for her all along. As she grants him access, he shifts his weight, pressing his knee between her thighs, earning a moan from her that echoes in his ears like a symphony.

Their tongues meet in a desperate, frenzied dance, each kiss growing hotter, more intoxicating. Harry grips her hair tighter, pulling just enough to make her yelp. He grins at the sound, his heart thundering in his chest, and she grinds against his knee, seeking relief from the unbearable heat building between them.

When her hands reach for his face, trying to remove his glasses, he catches her wrists in one swift motion, pinning them above her head with a low, commanding growl. He trails his lips down her neck, nipping at the sensitive skin there, making her squirm beneath him.

“You’re crazy if you think I’m taking these off,” he whispers against her ear, biting her lobe gently. His breath is hot, the promise in his voice sending shivers down her spine. “I need to see every inch of you naked, love. I’ve waited too long for this.” His fingers tug at her hair again, just enough to make her moan. “And you… you keep moaning for me, understand?”

Hermione nods, a whimper escaping her as she arches into him, her body already trembling with anticipation. When he captures her lips again, it’s rougher this time, his grip on her wrists tightening as though he can’t bear to let her go.

With his free hand, Harry slowly slides it under her sweater, his fingers brushing over her soft skin in a tantalizing tease. She’s warm, and he revels in the feel of her beneath his touch. His hand trails higher, ghosting over her ribs, and she trembles in response.

“Harry, please… touch me…” Hermione’s voice is a desperate plea, her eyes glassy with unshed tears, her body aching for him. “Please, baby…”

He pauses, grinning down at her, eyes dark with lust. “Look at you,” he teases, his fingers slipping beneath the waistband of her knickers, barely grazing her most sensitive spot. He groans when he feels how wet she is, struggling to keep his composure. “You’re so snarky when you want something… but all it took was one kiss and you’re already falling apart in my hands…”

She shudders at his words, her breath hitching as he teases her further, his fingers exploring her slowly, deliberately.

With one wandless spell from him, Hermione's clothes vanish, appearing on top of her dresser, folded and clean. Only in her bra and underwear now, she whimpers, moaning as his fingers start to run through her inner thigh. 

“You feel so good, love…” Harry whispers, his lips brushing hers as he slips a finger inside her, his voice ragged with desire. She clenches around him, her body responding instantly, and he nearly loses it right then and there. “So perfect…”

Hermione moans, her hips moving of their own accord, trying to take more of him, her need growing unbearable. Harry adds another finger, thrusting deeper, watching her come undone beneath him.

“You’re so fucking tight…” he murmurs, his forehead resting against hers as he watches her with half-lidded eyes, his fingers curling inside her, hitting just the right spot. “Are you sure you’re not a virgin?”

She shakes her head frantically, unable to form coherent words as she moans louder, her hips bucking against his hand. Harry smirks, pausing just long enough to make her whimper in protest, waiting for her answer.

“I’m not…” she gasps, her voice barely a whisper. “Ron had a tiny cock…” Another moan escapes her lips as Harry thrusts harder, her body arching in response. “Really tiny…”

Harry chuckles darkly, his lips curling into a satisfied smile. “Huh. So I really am better than him in every possible way, aren’t I?” His lips find her neck again, and he bites down gently, just enough to leave a mark.

Hermione yelps, her nails digging into his arms as she clings to him, completely lost in the moment. “Yes… yes… you are. You always were…” Her voice is shaky, breathless, but her words come out in a rush as his fingers keep moving inside her, his pace quickening.

“Oh, Harry! Fuck!” she cries, her legs trembling, pulling him closer, needing more. Every thrust sends a wave of pleasure coursing through her, and she’s teetering on the edge, so close to unraveling in his arms.

Harry’s eyes darken with lust, watching her, knowing full well that he’s the one pushing her to this point. He quickens his pace, his thumb pressing down on her clit in rhythm with his fingers. His breathing grows ragged as he leans down, his lips brushing her ear. “I want to hear you scream my name when you come, love,” he whispers, his voice dripping with desire.

Hermione’s breath catches, her body tightening around him as she lets out a broken sob, her orgasm crashing over her like a tidal wave. She trembles violently beneath him, crying out his name, just as he commanded, her hands gripping him desperately as she rides and cums all over his hand.

Harry groans at the sight and feel of her falling apart beneath him. It’s almost too much for him to handle. He vanishes his clothes by murmuring a quick, wandless spell, and without giving her a moment to recover, he swiftly tears away her bra and knickers, discarding them carelessly on the floor. His hands find her breasts, kneading them hungrily before he takes one nipple into his mouth, sucking and nibbling at the sensitive flesh.

Hermione moans, her back arching off the bed as he works her body like a man possessed. He positions himself, and with one smooth motion, he sheathes himself inside her. She gasps, her walls clenching tight around him, and he lets out a low, guttural moan as he begins to move, her slick heat enveloping him.

Merlin, she really is tight. It’s absolute perfection.

Harry looks down at her, captivated by the sight of Hermione’s flushed face, her cheeks burning with pleasure, sweat dripping from her brow. She’s biting her lip, her body trembling beneath him, and he gently tilts her chin up with his hand, capturing her mouth with his in a fierce, desperate kiss.

His thrusts start slow, deliberate, but as Hermione’s body responds, her hips meeting his eagerly, he picks up the pace. 

Harder, faster.

The room fills with the sound of their bodies colliding, and he’s grateful for the silencing charm he cast on the door. Otherwise, the entire castle would hear their moans and the unmistakable sound of his balls slapping against cunt.

“So fucking hot…” Harry mumbles between ragged breaths, his thrusts becoming erratic. “So perfect… So beautiful for me… Oh, fuck! Hermione… Fuck!”

“Harry!” Hermione moans, trying to kiss him once more. It’s messy – teeth, lips, and tongues clashing – but neither of them care. They’re too lost in each other, too consumed by their shared pleasure, and it feels like the most perfect thing in the world.

Harry groans, feeling Hermione’s legs trembling around his waist again, her body tensing beneath him.

“I’m cumming!” Hermione gasps, her voice hoarse from the strain. “Cum with me, Harry… Please!”

Harry’s thrusts grow erratic as Hermione reaches her peak once more, her body shuddering violently around him. With a few more deep, powerful thrusts, he follows her over the edge, burying himself as deep as he can inside her, his body shaking with the force of his own release. He moans her name, his voice rough and filled with emotion as they come together.

For a long moment, they lie there tangled in each other, their breaths heavy, their skin slick with sweat. Harry’s heart is still pounding in his chest as he gently brushes a stray strand of hair from Hermione’s flushed face. His thumb caresses her cheek softly, his gaze filled with something deeper than just lust.

“You’re mine now, Hermione,” he whispers possessively, his voice still hoarse from their shared exertion. “There’s no going back.”

Hermione smiles up at him lazily, her body still trembling from the aftershocks of her release. She presses a soft, tender kiss to his lips, her fingers tracing patterns along his back. “Good,” she whispers back, her voice soft but filled with conviction. “You’re never getting rid of me.”

Harry chuckles, pulling her even closer, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. For the first time in weeks, a deep sense of peace settles over him. The storm that had been brewing inside him – the rage, frustration, and helplessness – seems to have vanished entirely, replaced by this unexpected but undeniable certainty.

“We should’ve done this a long time ago…” he murmurs, the weight of all that pent-up emotion lifting. He looks down at Hermione, his heart swelling with affection as a small smile tugs at his lips. “You’re bloody brilliant, you know that?”

The witch smirks, her fingers idly playing with the thin layer of hair on his chest. “I’ve been told,” she teases, her eyes twinkling with mischief.

Harry’s lips curve into a playful grin. “I’ve learned a few interesting spells back home, you know,” he says, his tone turning suggestive. “You wouldn’t believe the kind of books Sirius’ family kept lying around in that dusty old place.”

Hermione, instead of chastising him as she normally might, just raises an eyebrow and smirks knowingly. “Oh?” she replies, intrigued.

“And,” Harry continues, his grin widening, “I’ve learned a particularly interesting spell involving fireplaces and Floo travel.” He nods towards the fireplace in the corner of the room, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “We could see each other every day until you graduate.”

Hermione’s smile softens at his words, her heart warming at the idea of never having to say goodbye to him. She leans in to kiss him, slow and sweet, before reaching over to grab both of their wands from the nightstand.

“Then what are we waiting for?” she says with a playful glint in her eyes.

Harry’s grin deepens as he takes his wand from her hand, feeling a surge of excitement at the prospect of their shared future. They might have just crossed a line, but it was one he had no intention of ever going back from.

Chapter Text

two years later

The sunlight filters through the curtains, casting a soft, golden glow over the master bedroom on Grimmauld’s Place that Harry and Hermione now share. It had been two years since the day he went to visit her at Hogwarts. Two years since they threw away all of their inhibitions and became a couple, and yet, the Wizarding World is as turbulent as ever. 

Inside their room, though, it’s quiet. Peaceful, almost.

Hermione traces Harry’s chest with her fingers, watching him with a small smile. She’ll never get tired of seeing how handsome he is, of running her fingers through his messy dark locks, of lying down on his chest and listening to his heartbeat.

His eyes are half-closed, one arm draped lazily around Hermione’s waist, his other hand playing with the now short strands of her hair. Her smile brightens, and she practically purrs in his arms. Her hair is shorter than his now, and Harry’s been obsessed with it since she returned from the muggle salon a few weeks prior.

They hadn’t moved since waking up that morning, too comfortable and content to be wrapped up in each other’s warmth, enjoying what would probably be the only moment of calm they’d have for the next two weeks.

“I don’t want to go,” Harry whispers, his voice barely audible. Hermione sighs, hearing the weight of his words.

Hermione raises her head to look at him, her fingers still running through his chest, not trusting herself to speak right away. She doesn’t want him to go either, but she knows he has to, or they’ll make his life – their life – a living hell for at least a month.

“You’ll be back before you know it,” She murmurs, a knot forming on her chest, and he presses a kiss to the top of her head. 

The mission in the United States wasn’t something he could walk away from.

Harry pulls away slightly to look at her, his brows furrowed in concern “Two weeks, Hermione… that’s a long time.” 

His emerald eyes search hers, a mix of fear and frustration swirling beneath the surface.

She hates this – hates that they’ll be apart just when they’d begun to carve out some twisted version of happiness for themselves. For most people, two weeks might not seem like much. But for them, it felt like an eternity.

They hadn’t spent a night apart since that first time at Hogwarts, when they began to use an altered fireplace to sneak into each other’s beds every single night. The day she graduated, he asked her to move in with him, and she didn’t hesitate. In over two years, not one night had passed where she didn’t fall asleep with her face buried in his neck, soaking in the possessive warmth of his love.

She’s not delusional – Hermione knows they are dangerously codependent. She sees it clearly and feels the strain of it in every moment they’re apart. But she doesn’t care. The mind healers wouldn’t understand anyway. None of them had been through what they had, none of them had faced the horrors of the world they now stand against.

"I got you a Muggle cellphone. That'll help, right?" Hermione suggests, forcing a smile, but they both know it’s a flimsy solution. Between the two of them, Harry has it worse. He practically breaks when she isn't around, his fingers twitching for her touch, his mind spiraling into dark places the longer they are apart.

His temper had always been volatile, but over the past two years, it had transformed into something far more dangerous. 

He snaps at anyone who wastes his time, time he could be spending with her. Work had become unbearable for both of them – corruption ran rampant, and the Ministry doesn’t even bother hiding it anymore. Every week, they watch wealthy families bribe the Department of Magical Law Enforcement to get away with anything. Every Auror in the headquarters was a sellout. Even Ron.

Ron.

Harry’s biggest trigger. Hermione has to talk him out of hexing him almost every single day.

He’s been bitter ever since he caught the moron cheating on Hermione two years prior. He eventually learned how to ignore him, because Ron’s betrayal is what allowed him to be with her in the first place.

But then the idiot not only took a bribe, but tried to talk Harry into taking one as well.

According to Harry, that was the first time he truly considered using the Killing Curse on the man who had once been his best friend.

Hermione kind of gave up on stopping Harry after that. If Ron wanted to be stupid, then he’d deal with the consequences on his own.

After all, he doesn’t deserve anything from her. And he needs to be knocked down a peg every once in a while.

“It’s not the same” Harry’s voice cuts through her thoughts, his fingers trailing back to her hair as he softly speaks “You know that.”

Hermione sighs and nods. He’s right. Ever since she started working at the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, the Ministry had been on her case. Prejudice, which she had hoped would vanish after Voldemort’s fall, remained entrenched. She had been fighting against it since she entered the wizarding world, and it showed no signs of relenting.

Harry had become her fiercest protector since she got the job. He drops by the office every day, dropping her off when they arrive, and picking her up when it’s time to leave. They also eat their lunches together, hiding from the judging eyes of the people they loathe.

Saying that he intimidates her coworkers would be an understatement. The glares he sends their way every time he comes around are enough to make even the most seasoned wizards quake with fear.

After all, Harry Potter is still the man who defeated the most dark wizard that has ever existed.

“I can be on my own for two weeks, love,” Hermione says softly, though her tone was far from convincing. Harry shakes his head, his expression hardening.

“I’m scared of them trying something while I’m gone,” Harry confesses, the words edged with frustration. “This mission… it's pointless. We could have the MACUSA handle it, and they’d jump at the chance. But it feels like a trap.”

Hermione raises an eyebrow, her curiosity piqued. “What do you mean?”

“I don't think they’ll come after me. They wouldn't dare – I've become too useful, and they fear me. They’ve been using my name to promote their sick agenda for a long time,” Harry’s voice lowers, his fingers absently tracing patterns on her arm. “But it’s you I'm worried about. This feels like a setup, something aimed at you.”

A cold smile spreads across Hermione's lips. She strokes his chest, her voice laced with confidence. “I'm not some helpless damsel, Harry. If they try anything, they’ll regret it. You know I can handle myself.”

“I know,” Harry mutters, his tone defensive but still burdened with anxiety. “It’s not about you being weak, Mi… Hell, we both know what you're capable of. But if they send a whole group after you…”

“Then I’ll apparate away,” Hermione cuts him off, her voice soft but resolute. When she notices him about to object, she silences him with a finger to his lips. “And if they ward against apparition, I’ll carry a portkey with me at all times. That should put your mind at ease, shouldn’t it?” She gazes into his eyes, searching for what he isn’t saying “There’s something else in your mind. Tell me.”

She watches him closely, reading every small tell. The way his jaw tightens, the way his gaze shifts away from hers, and how his breath hitches as he tries to control it.

Harry doesn’t lie to her; he never has. But he does have a habit of omitting things – things he thinks might put her in danger.

“Umbridge.” Harry confesses with a low snarl. His hatred for that woman rivals even his loathing for Tom Riddle “She’s friends with your department head. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

Hermione exhales deeply, trying to stay calm “Harry… She can’t try anything. She’s in a building full of aurors. She can’t hex me or try to kill me.”

“No.” Harry says, his gaze growing darker “But she can set up an ambush. You know that very well.”

“She can. But I’m smarter, and way more powerful than her.” Hermione responds, her voice firm, her confidence unwavering. “I was the one that brought her down in Hogwarts. Me.”

Harry frowns, clearly wrestling with the thoughts spinning in his mind. After a few long minutes, his body relaxes, and he presses a kiss to the top of her head. “I want to try that spell.”

Hermione’s eyes darken as she pulls back to look at him. She knows the spell he’s referring to – the dark magic that could link their senses. If something goes wrong, it could be catastrophic, but Harry has always had a reckless thirst for control, especially when it comes to her safety. 

She can't blame him for wanting to try.

“You know what that spell could do,” Hermione says, her voice a shade more serious. “If it backfires, it’ll...”

Harry interrupts her, “But it won’t.”

Hermione sighs, her gaze softening “It could hurt you.”

“I don’t care about that,” Harry snaps, his voice growing colder. He tightens his grip around her, burying his face in her hair. “I don’t give a damn about myself. You’re the only thing that matters.”

She can feel his breath shaking as he tries to rein in his emotions. This side of him – the raw, obsessive protectiveness – is something she'd grown to rely on as much as he did. She strokes his back, letting him gather himself.

“I won’t go on this mission unless we try it,” Harry continues, his voice now unwavering. “If something happens to you, I need to know right away.”

Hermione hesitates for a moment, her rational mind warring with the darker part of her that had grown comfortable with Harry's intensity. “You can't apparate from one country to another,” she points out.

“So what?” Harry scoffs, his eyes narrowing. “We’ll create another illegal portkey. We stopped caring about laws a long time ago.”

She sighs. He’s right. They’d crossed too many lines to pretend they were still the good guys.

“If the spell fails, it could destroy us,” Hermione whispers. “It could destroy you .”

“I don’t care,” Harry repeats, his voice harsher this time. “Not if it means keeping you safe.”

The thought of losing her has brought Harry to tears many times. Unfortunately, ever since she started the job at the ministry, it's not unusual to see him like this.

“I keep thinking about you at Malfoy Manor,” Harry’s voice cracks, the memories flooding back. “I’d die a thousand times before I let that happen to you again.”

“Harry…”

“I know I was... useless at showing emotions back then,” he breathes out, his eyes closing as if to block the pain. “But I died inside every single time I heard you scream that night. That… that was when I realized I could kill. I wanted to kill every single one of them in that room, love.” His voice trembles, raw with emotion. “And I would’ve done it. If we hadn’t been outnumbered and wandless, I swear to Merlin, I would’ve tortured and killed them all.”

She nods softly. She knows. Something in Harry had shifted after that day, something dark and irreparable.

“I killed at the Battle of Hogwarts,” Harry confesses, his hand caressing her face with surprising gentleness. “I used Sectumsempra on at least ten Death Eaters. It tore them apart… beheaded them, gutted them – hell, I think I even cut a bloke in half.”

Hermione doesn’t flinch. She had long known the truth of what had happened that night. She had seen it. And back then, it scared her. Not what he did, but... the fact that she didn’t care at all.

When Harry had cast those spells, when he’d cut through the Death Eaters like they were nothing, part of her had expected to feel horrified. But she hadn’t. Not even for a second. She had stood there, watching as the blood spilled, and all she had felt was relief. Relief that they were finally fighting back the way they needed to. Relief that the people who had taken so much from them were getting what they deserved.

It hadn’t shocked her then, and it didn’t now.

“The Ministry knows,” Harry continues, his tone dark. “They pretend they don’t, but they do. And good. Let them fear me. I don’t care anymore. Actually, it feels kind of... satisfying.”

He looks into her eyes, his intensity unwavering. “But I know that their fear is the only thing stopping them from coming after you. And no one even knows we’re together – they think we’re just best friends. Sometimes I wonder if they're deliberately blind to it.” He sighs, his hand drifting to hers. “But you – you’re the only muggleborn left in the Ministry. They can barely stand half-bloods, but you... you’re a target every day, and as soon as I leave, I know they’ll try something.”

“If you don’t go, they’ll fire you,” Hermione points out softly, her voice steady. She understands the danger better than anyone.

“They fear me too much to fire me,” Harry scoffs. “And if they do, then fine. I don’t give a damn. I’m only there because you are. That and the fact that if I stayed at home with nothing to do, I’d go mad.”

Hermione chuckles at his bluntness, and for a brief moment, Harry allows himself a small smile. But the tension doesn’t leave him.

“The spell will let me feel your pain, your distress, everything,” Harry continues, his voice a low murmur. “If something happens to you, I’ll know instantly. I’ll call you, and if you don’t answer… I’ll use a portkey, we’ll enchant it so it’ll bring me straight to you, no matter what. I don’t give a damn about the mission.”

Hermione sighs, sensing the inevitability of it all. Once Harry made up his mind, there was no stopping him. And the truth was, part of her knows this isn’t a terrible idea. Dark magic comes to him naturally, as if it had been waiting for him all along.

“I can do this,” Harry says, his voice firm, reading her hesitation. “And I won’t go until you agree. I know there’s a chance it’ll go wrong, but it won’t. You need to trust me.”

Hermione looks at him, her eyes pleading. “I care about you just as much as you care about me, Harry. You know that… If you get hurt…”

His eyes soften, and he pulls her closer, holding her like she was the last real thing in the world. “I know, Mi. But I know I can do this. I could cast the spell in my sleep.”

Hermione gently cups his face in her hands, her thumbs brushing over his cheeks as she looks into the desperate, determined eyes of the man she loves. And even though it scares her, she found herself nodding.

“Alright,” she whispers, her voice barely audible. “If it makes you feel better, I’ll do it.”

Harry’s lips curl into a slow, satisfied smile. He presses a long, deliberate kiss to her lips, his fingers tangling through her short hair. The kiss deepens, their tongues tangling in a dance that is as intoxicating as it is familiar. The intensity between them will always take her breath away.

Hermione smiles into their kiss. She’ll never get over this. She’ll never get over how much she craves him, how twisted their love has become. She doesn’t care. It fuels her.

“Thank you…” Harry whispers against her lips, peppering her with soft kisses between his words. “I love you.”

Hermione’s smile grows darker, her fingers brushing the wild strands of hair away from his face as she leans in to press a kiss just above his scarred brow. "I love you too, Harry."

“The spell is reversible,” Harry murmurs. “I’ll reverse it as soon as we’re together again. I promise.”

Hermione raises an eyebrow, her smirk playful but laced with irony. “Convenient how you want to cast the spell the day after my period ends. You trying to avoid period cramps, love?”

Harry actually laughs, low and warm, his lips grazing her temple. “You know I’d take every ounce of pain from you if I could. Any time, any place.” His tone lowers, a dangerous edge creeping in. “And make anyone who dares to hurt you pay for it.”

Hermione's eyes soften as she listens to him, but there was no mistaking the undercurrent of darkness in his words. She knows Harry has changed. Hell, they both had. But the way he speaks about the Dark Arts stirred something deep within her. Something that felt... right.

Her eyes stare right into his, showing nothing but love and adoration. She could stare at him all day.

“So… how does the spell work?” she asks softly, her fingers now gently threading through his hair, grounding him.

Harry smirks, his usual teasing glint in his eyes. “Oh, how the roles have reversed…”

Hermione laughs, playfully smacking his chest. “Hey! I’m not a natural in the Dark Arts like you are. Those books… they’re dangerous.”

“They’re fascinating,” Harry corrects, eyes gleaming. “If the books at Hogwarts had been this interesting, I’d have gotten way more OWLs.”

“All books are interesting,” she argues, the familiar spark of her intellect flashing behind her eyes.

He presses a gentle kiss to her forehead, his gaze softening “You’re extremely cute.”

“And you… you’re changing the subject,” she points out with a sly grin.

“Sorry,” Harry mumbles, though there’s no real apology in his tone. His hand moves to brush her short hair back as his expression grows more serious. “The spell isn’t as complicated as it sounds. It’ll temporarily bind our senses. But I’ve modified it. It’ll only bind pain and distress – nothing else.”

Hermione’s brows furrow slightly, her curiosity and caution battling within her. “How can you be so sure it’ll work?”

Harry’s smirk returns, but this time it holds a deeper meaning. “Remember what Bellatrix told me when I tried using the Cruciatus curse for the first time?” Hermione looks confused for a moment, and he continues, “Oh, right, you were unconscious… Well, she said that you can’t just cast an Unforgivable Curse. You have to mean it. Turns out that applies to all Dark magic.”

He pauses, his eyes darkening as the memories flood back. “Back then, I was too young, too brainwashed by Dumbledore to mean it. But now?” His voice drops, his tone dangerous. “Now, I mean it when I cast. Every curse, every spell, every death I’ve caused. I mean it. And when I say I’m going to bind our senses, I mean that too. To protect you. To keep you safe. There’s no one in this world I love more than you, Mi.”

Hermione feels her chest tighten at his words, but not with fear. It’s something else entirely – an overwhelming sense of power, shared power. A smile creeps onto her face, a darkness flickering in her eyes. She sits up on the bed, the oversized shirt of Harry’s draping over her as always. She notices the way Harry looks at her, that endearing expression softening his features.

“Then let’s do it,” she says.

Harry sits up beside her, pressing a tender kiss to her forehead before reaching for his wand on the nightstand. He gently takes her left arm, brushing his lips against it before turning her forearm upward, exposing the pale skin.

“You’re not even going to consult the book?” Hermione teases, raising an eyebrow.

Harry smirks, his love for her clear in his gaze. “I memorized the spell months ago. Figured it would come in handy one day. Don’t worry, love, I’ve got this.”

“I know you do,” Hermione replies softly.

“It’ll hurt, but just for a few seconds,” he warns, his fingers tracing her forearm. “The spell will mark a rune on your skin. If it works, the same rune will appear on my arm too. It’ll burn for a bit, but that’s normal, okay?”

She nods, her smile never fading. She loves this side of him – the vulnerable, loving side that only she ever gets to see.

“You ready?” Harry asks, pointing his wand at her arm. Hermione holds his gaze, giving him a nod.

“ Dolor anima vinculum ,” Harry murmurs, his grip on his wand firm. Dark, thick tendrils of smoke emerge from the wand’s tip, curling through the air before they settle on Hermione’s skin, piercing it. She gasps softly at the sharp sting, and Harry immediately places his free hand on hers, comforting her.

The ancient runes begin to appear on her forearm, and the burning sensation intensifies, bringing tears to her eyes. It’s brief, but intense. Then, just as quickly as the pain came, it fades away, leaving intricate symbols etched into her skin.

Hermione glances at Harry and notices the same runes now carved into his forearm.

She giggles softly. “Matching tattoos,” she murmurs, finding the whole thing both cute and disturbing at the same time.

Harry chuckles, cupping her face in his hands and kissing her forehead tenderly. “We can be quite adorable, can’t we?” he teases, his thumb gently grazing her cheek.

Before she can reply, his lips press softly against hers, their kiss warm and familiar. When they finally break for air, matching grins spread across their faces, Hermione’s gaze falls back to the runes on their forearms.

“Should we test it? To see if it works?” she asks softly.

“I know it did. But it can’t hurt to be sure, right?” he says, his voice just as gentle. He grabs one of the many pillows from their bed, and with a quick flick of his wrist, transforms it into a pin needle. Handing it to Hermione, he gives her a small smile.

“Here. Pierce your finger. If the spell worked, I’ll feel it.”

Hermione nods, taking the needle and pricking her left index finger. A small frown crosses her face at the brief sting, but Harry’s smirk grows as he transforms the needle back into a pillow and sets it aside.

“It worked, didn’t it?” she asks, her smile returning.

Harry nods, pulling her into his arms and guiding her onto his lap. “It did,” he says before kissing her again, his lips lingering on hers. “I still don’t want to go, though.”

Hermione chuckles, her fingers stroking his messy hair. “I know… But now you can know if anything happens to me.”

Harry rests his forehead against hers, their breaths mingling in the quiet room. "I’ll always know," he murmurs, his voice filled with both love and resolve. His arms tighten around her, as if trying to imprint the moment into his memory before he leaves. Hermione leans into him, closing her eyes, letting the warmth of his embrace and the weight of their connection fill the silence. The runes on their arms may have bound their senses, but it was their love, fierce and unwavering, that had truly bound them. No matter the distance, no matter the dangers ahead, they would always find their way back to each other.

‘Hey. Just checking in. You ok? Miss you and love you’

Hermione’s heart gives a soft, familiar flutter as the words flash on her phone screen. Even with the miles between them, Harry always knows how to reach her. She smiles fondly, the warmth of his message cutting through the dull atmosphere of the office. She glances around, catching the judgmental stares of her co-workers, their expressions twisted in disdain at the sight of her using a muggle device. It’s almost amusing how their prejudice extends to something as trivial as a phone. She quickly types a reply.

‘I’m fine. Go to sleep. Love you too.’

A quiet chuckle escapes her as she tucks the phone back into her pocket – right next to a golden snitch Harry enchanted to be used as an emergency portkey – savoring the brief moment of connection. Her fingers brush the fabric where it rests, as if keeping him closer that way. But the moment is fleeting, and reality tugs her back into the here and now. As she heads to her office, the familiar weight of paperwork awaits her, an endless stream of bureaucratic nonsense she’s been assigned ever since Harry left for his mission.

It’s strange, she muses, settling into her chair. The office is quiet, almost peaceful in its isolation. Her own space, a rare kindness from her boss, though she suspects it was more to get her out of everyone else’s sight than an actual favor. Either way, she can’t complain. At least here, behind closed doors, she’s spared from the sneers, the whispered insults about her blood status that still clings to her like an ugly shadow, no matter how much she proves herself.

She sighs before focusing on the endless rolls of parchment on her desk. The task she’s been handed, filing reports on the rising tensions between wizards and goblins, feels trivial. A conflict rooted in ignorance, she thinks bitterly, dipping her quill into ink. Why shouldn't goblins have wands? They’re just as powerful, just as capable, and yet, the wizarding world clings to its prejudices. But she’s not allowed to have opinions here, only file away the paperwork that could, in her mind, easily be avoided with some decency and common sense.

Seven days. That’s how long it’s been since Harry left for his mission in the United States, but it feels like an eternity. The emptiness in their shared bed is a stark reminder of his absence, and no matter how hard she tries, she can’t sleep. Hermione’s certain Harry feels the same – his late-night texts and the rare phone calls they manage between their schedules make that clear. If it weren’t for the different time zones, she knows they’d fall asleep listening to the sound of each other’s breathing, trying to bridge the distance through the phone.

Her quill scratches across the parchment, but her mind drifts back to their last phone call. His voice had been thick with frustration, practically crackling through the connection.

“No. They’re trying to segregate you! They don’t think you’re good enough to even share a space with them!” Harry’s anger had been so palpable, she could almost feel it through the phone, forcing her to hold it away from her ear. “I’m going back. Fuck this.”

It had taken half an hour to soothe him, and one whole hour to convince him to stay. Not because she was afraid of what he might do, but because she needed him to trust her, to trust that she could handle this. Harry’s protective instinct was as endearing as it was overwhelming, but Hermione wasn’t fragile. She never had been.

The day passed in a blur, the stacks of paperwork consuming every ounce of her focus. Line after line of bureaucratic drivel that, in her heart, Hermione knows is rooted in outdated and bigoted thinking. But she did her part, eyes scanning over each page, quill in hand, making sure no detail slipped through the cracks. By the time she signed off on the final parchment, a heavy sigh of relief escaped her. Thank Merlin. She doesn’t think she can endure reading one more line of this rubbish.

She sends a quick memo to her boss, letting her know that after a whole week of tireless work, she was finally done. Satisfied, Hermione took out the heavy cellphone from her pocket, intending to text Harry and give him the good news. But before she could begin typing, a memo appeared before her in pale green parchment, her boss’s neat handwriting asking her to meet in her office.

As she stepped out of the small, stuffy office she’d been confined to all week, she realized most of her co-workers had already left. The quiet halls were a stark contrast to the usual hustle of the Ministry. Glancing down at the delicate gold watch Harry had given her for Valentine’s Day, she noticed it was almost 8 p.m. Weird. Her boss was always gone by five sharp, never one to linger after hours. Something about this unsettled her.

Hermione pauses, taking a deep breath, her mind screaming at her that something’s wrong. But she knocks softly on the heavy mahogany door anyway, her fingers trembling with a mix of anxiety and irritation. She already has an idea about what is about to happen. The door creaked open on its own, revealing her boss seated at her desk, the familiar scowl plastered across her face.

"Mrs. Burke, you wanted to see me?" Hermione keeps her tone steady, polite. She knows anything she says can and will be twisted and used against her, especially by a woman from one of the most notorious blood supremacist families in the country. Despite her best efforts to remain composed, Hermione can’t shake the loathing that bubbles just beneath her skin. She hates the way Mrs. Burke looks at her, as if she was nothing but something stuck to the bottom of her shoe. It didn’t matter that Hermione was the most competent person in the entire department. It didn’t matter that she’d fought in the war and helped save their world. None of that mattered to people like Agnes Burke. To them, Hermione would always be pure scum.

Her eyes scan the room, and a fresh wave of fury surges through her as she notices the usual chair in front of the desk was missing. Of course. Mrs. Burke doesn’t even think she’s worth offering a place to sit. Hermione’s fingers curled into fists, hidden in the pockets of her coat. She could feel her nails digging into her palms, the sting grounding her. 

‘Stay calm,’ she reminds herself. ‘You’re not Harry. You can control your temper.’

Though sometimes, she truly wishes she didn’t have to.

The smirk on Mrs. Burke’s face is thin, victorious, as if she already knows the power she holds over Hermione. And that makes Hermione want to scream. She swallows the rage that was clawing at her throat, forcing her voice to remain neutral. But deep down, she can feel the trembling undercurrent of something darker – a resentment that had been festering for years.

“You’re fired.”

The words hit Hermione like a curse, sharp and cold, but she doesn’t flinch. She refuses to give this woman the satisfaction of seeing her break. She stands rooted to the spot, her mind racing. She’d always feared hearing those words, always dreaded the day they would decide she wasn’t worthy. But now that it’s happening, a strange sense of calm washed over her.

Harry had been right. They’d been waiting for him to leave. The moment he was gone, they struck, ensuring she’d never step foot into the department again.

But of course, they couldn’t fire her without making her fill out months worth of paperwork for them. No, purebloods can’t be bothered with something as silly as reports, can they? Best to leave it all to the annoying mudblood before she leaves.

Mrs. Burke’s voice pierces through her thoughts. “A couple of weeks ago, a dear friend of mine overheard you talking to Mr. Potter about an illegal organization called S.P.E.W. It came to my attention that this acronym refers to some nonsense about giving rights to house-elves.” Her lips curl in disgust, as though the very idea of equality was beneath her. “We did some research, and we found out that this illegal organization is not only real but led by you. An employee of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. My department.”

Hermione’s heart pounds in her chest, but her face remains impassive. She could feel her control slipping, anger threatening to spill over as the pieces clicked into place. 

This wasn’t about S.P.E.W. This was about punishing her for daring to challenge the status quo. For being a "Mudblood" in a department that had never wanted her in the first place. They never cared about her efforts to help creatures; they’d cared about how her very presence tainted their precious pure-blood reputation.

But she won’t give them the satisfaction of knowing how deeply they cut her.

“Miss Granger,” Mrs. Burke continues with an air of dismissiveness, “I see no need for formalities. You’re fired and forbidden from ever stepping foot in this department again.”

Hermione’s fists tighten further in her coat pockets, her knuckles white from the pressure. She takes a deep breath, staring straight into Mrs. Burke’s eyes, refusing to back down. She wasn’t shocked, she was enraged. But not the kind of rage that scares her, or even worries her – no, this was a cold, calculating fury. She won’t cry. She won’t crumble.

She’ll survive this, just like she’d survived everything else.

And those people are going to pay for everything they’ve been doing one day.

“Why?” she asks, her voice sharp and steady, though every part of her wanted to scream.

Mrs. Burke’s smile is thin, patronizing. “Because you don’t know your place, Miss Granger. It’s high time someone reminded you where you belong.”

Hermione almost laughs. Deep down, she knows the truth. Pure-blood wizards despise anyone who doesn’t fit their narrow worldview because they’re terrified. Terrified of being ordinary. And that’s exactly what they are – ordinary, hiding behind their lineage because they fear being outdone by someone who didn't inherit their magic but earned it. Hermione had outsmarted every single one of them, including Mrs. Burke. That was the real reason for this smug charade.

“But I am kind, Miss Granger. To spare you from further humiliation, I’ll even let you use my fireplace to floo back home,” Mrs. Burke says, her voice dripping with false magnanimity as she gestures to the fireplace.

Hermione’s fingers twitch, itching for her wand. The temptation to use the spells Harry had taught her – dark, powerful magic designed to strike back – is overwhelming. She can feel the raw energy pulsing beneath her skin, begging for release. But she resists. 

‘Now is not the time,’ she reminds herself, though it takes every ounce of her willpower.

She walks towards the fireplace, each step a quiet act of defiance. Reaching for the Floo powder, Hermione pauses, locking eyes with her former boss. A small, dangerous smirk creeps onto her lips.

“This won’t be the last time we see each other, Mrs. Burke,” she says, her voice low and steady, a silent promise laced within her words. She winks, savoring the flicker of uncertainty in the older witch’s eyes before turning towards the fireplace.

Just as Hermione steps inside, her eyes catch movement at the door. Her heart clenches as Walden Macnair entered the office, his smirk as vile as ever. In his hands, he was holding his old, familiar scythe, the same tool of death he had once wielded as an executioner. His gaze locked onto hers, filled with malice. Hermione’s breath hitches, but before she could process the fear that surged through her, she threw the Floo powder – only to find herself crashing.

The world spun violently, her body slamming onto the cold, dirty ground of a narrow alleyway. The sudden impact jarred her senses, pain shooting up her limbs. She tries to catch her breath, but the air was thick with the stench of decay and grime.

A familiar, chilling cough echoes behind her, and the blood drains from Hermione’s face. She knows that sound. She had been haunted by it in her nightmares. Her stomach twists in revulsion as the unmistakable scent of mothballs fill her nostrils.

Dolores Umbridge.

It has been almost five years, but trauma doesn’t just go away. Hermione’s body reacts before her mind could catch up, and tears prick at the corners of her eyes. The memories don’t belong to her, but they might as well have. The images of Harry's suffering at the hands of this woman flashed behind her eyes, a sickening wave of guilt and helplessness washing over her. 

She hates herself for the fear that still grips her, hates that Dolores Umbridge – a woman so small and pathetic – can still reduce her to this. But that was the nature of true evil. It lingers. It latches on to your soul and refuses to let go, long after the physical wounds have healed.

Hermione isn’t stupid. She knows exactly how Umbridge had crawled her way back into the Ministry’s favor. Her boss – former boss – is close to the toad-faced witch, part of the same corrupt circle. They had pulled the right strings, greased the right palms, and somehow managed to drag Umbridge out of Azkaban. The thought makes Hermione's stomach turn.

Dolores Umbridge had slithered away from justice, claiming she had been under the Imperius curse, coerced by the horcrux she had worn around her neck for ‘years.’ That disgusting woman had twisted Harry’s truth, his honest recount of the war, and used it for her own gain. It was the kind of monstrous manipulation only someone like Umbridge could master. 

Hermione knows better. Umbridge had only worn that necklace for a few months, at most. But The Department of Magical Law Enforcement, as usual, believed what was convenient.

No, Hermione corrected herself, not convenient. Profitable. That’s the right word. They don’t care about truth or justice, only about what could be gained. And in a world where people like Umbridge thrive, truth has a way of being rewritten to suit the highest bidder.

“Incarcerous!” Umbridge’s voice rings out, and thick ropes wrap around Hermione, binding her painfully tight. A sharp pain shoots through her side, and she curses. She probably fractured a rib when she fell.

She tries to move her hands in an attempt to grab the portkey she promised Harry she’d carry in her pocket at all times, but she can’t move.

She winces but suppresses a cry. Pain is temporary. This situation? Temporary.

The faint tingling from the runes Harry had etched into her skin is a quiet promise. He’s close. And the surge of warmth that follows is all the comfort she needs.

Let her gloat. Let her think she's won. Hermione can endure this because she knows what’s coming, and it won’t be the fate Umbridge has in mind.

Hermione represses the urge to smile. If she plays along with Umbridge’s little plan, she might not be knocked unconscious to see all the awful things that are going to happen to her. 

She feels herself being suspended in the air, and opening her eyes, she can see the evil cunt staring at her, a victorious smile on her face.

Hermione meets Umbridge's sickening smile with a steady gaze, resisting the urge to laugh outright at the twisted glee in the woman's eyes. “It took me a while to find out how to turn a fireplace into a Portkey,” the hag gloats, her voice syrupy sweet, but dripping with malice. “But my dear friend Agnes was more than glad to help. And with Mr. Potter gone, well… I couldn’t waste the perfect opportunity, could I?”

Hermione does laugh then – softly, darkly. The irony of it all is almost too much. She’s not scared. Not anymore. How can she be? This wasn’t five years ago. She wasn’t that girl anymore, trapped, helpless, watching as Harry was tortured by Umbridge’s sadistic hand. No, things had changed.

And Umbridge has no idea what kind of storm she’d just invited into her twisted little game.

“I always said… Why allow such filth like you into our world?” Umbridge sneers, her voice sharp with contempt. “And I was right… Clearly, your muggle blood is starting to make you go mad.” Her face twists into a grotesque imitation of concern. “I certainly wouldn’t be laughing if I were about to be tortured and killed.”

"Incendio!" The spell comes quick, flames licking across Hermione’s clothes, searing her skin. She grits her teeth, feeling the fire eat into her shoulder, the pain almost blinding. But even through the agony, she feels it – the sudden, violent flare of rage. And it’s not hers. It’s Harry’s, and it fills her like a tidal wave, crashing over her with raw, protective fury.

Her lips curl into a knowing smile, even as her skin sizzles beneath the burn. The moment is coming. She can feel it, and it gives her strength.

“Now… Why are you still smiling?” Umbridge’s voice is tinged with suspicion, her gleeful cruelty faltering for just a moment. She eyes Hermione’s bound hands, clearly puzzled. “Is it a thank you? For burning instead of cutting? Because, dear…” She leans closer, her voice dripping with venomous pleasure. “I only burned you because I didn’t want to smell your filthy blood.”

Hermione lets out a dark, humorless laugh that echoes through the narrow alleyway. That hag has no idea what is coming.

But before Hermione can speak, a loud pop cuts through the air. The sound is sharp, ominous, and Hermione’s heart leaps.

Harry.

“I’d say nice seeing you again,” Hermione says, her voice dripping with dark amusement, “but you’re not a pleasure to be around.”

In an instant, the atmosphere shifts, the alley falling into a sudden, oppressive silence.

And then she sees him.

Harry moves like a shadow, dark and lethal, swift and deadly, his presence suffocating the air around them. His glasses glinted in the dim light, but it was the fury in his green eyes, the storm of raw, untethered emotions, that sends shivers down Hermione’s spine – not out of fear, but awe.

She has seen this look before, but never this intense. This wasn’t just Harry. This was vengeance incarnate. He was pure, unbridled wrath.

A satisfied smile appears on Hermione’s face at the witch’s confused expression, and her smile only gets brighter when she sees her man standing right behind the old cunt.

Without a word, Harry’s hand shoots out, his fingers wrapping around Umbridge’s throat with terrifying precision. He slams her against the cold brick wall, and the sharp gasp that escapes her lips is cut off by his wandless silencing spell. Her awful beady eyes widen, bulging in panic as she tries to claw at his hand, realizing too late that no one could hear her screams.

“You know…” Harry’s voice is low, seething with barely restrained rage as his grip tightens, making Umbridge’s pudgy face turn an alarming shade of purple. “I’ve always wanted to do this.”

Hermione’s binds vanish in an instant, and she wastes no time. Her fingers find Umbridge’s wand, and she wrenches it from the hag’s hand, savoring the crunch of bones as she snaps a few of Umbridge’s fingers in the process. The fear in the older woman’s eyes was almost satisfying, but it isn’t enough. Not nearly enough.

“Looks like a good-for-nothing mudblood outsmarted you once again,” Hermione spits, her voice dripping with venom. She snaps the wand in half, the sound echoing through the alleyway like a final verdict.

Umbridge’s eyes, once filled with gloating malice, now shimmered with sheer terror. She’s utterly powerless, and she knows it. The tables have turned, and Hermione savors the sweet taste of revenge. But this isn’t the end. This is only the beginning.

Chapter Text

The steady drip of blood echoes in the silence of 12 Grimmauld’s Place ensuite bathroom, each drop splashing against the porcelain sink, staining it crimson. For a moment, the thick, dark red liquid pools around the drain, unmoving, before the faucet’s stream begins to wash over it. Slowly, the water dilutes the blood, swirling it down into oblivion.

Harry watches motionless, his eyes cold, detached. The blood isn’t his. It doesn’t feel like it belongs to him at all.

The gentle stream of warm water keeps flowing over his hands. At first, it seems like the blood is fighting to hold on, threatening to taint him forever, but the water is persistent. Harry keeps scrubbing, even after the blood is gone. His skin is raw beneath his fingers, but he doesn’t stop, not until his hands feel clean. Not until every trace of her is gone.

Umbridge’s blood is thick, clinging. Dirty.

She had always claimed that Hermione’s blood was the tainted one, but standing here now, Harry feels disgusted. There was nothing more filthy, more repugnant, than the blood that had poured from Dolores Umbridge’s veins.

And though the blood itself is vile, though it makes his skin crawl to touch it, nothing has ever been more satisfying than watching it pour from her body.

Killing Umbridge had been easy, disturbingly so. There was a sick kind of pleasure in it, a dark satisfaction that scratched at a wound so deep inside him that when the life finally drained from her and her hateful eyes went glassy, Harry felt lighter. As if a weight he'd been carrying for years had lifted from his shoulders.

He hadn’t shown mercy. Some people didn’t deserve it, especially not someone who had tortured children for amusement and spent an entire year persecuting and arresting muggle-borns. People like Hermione. His Hermione .

The moment he felt the crack of her ribs through their connection, all the way from his mind-numbingly dull hotel room in America, he used the portkey without hesitation. The mission they had sent him on was pointless anyway. Nothing but endless stakeouts, watching innocent muggles go about their lives while they waited for a sign of… what, exactly?

“We have intel that the people we’re after are disguising themselves as muggles with polyjuice potion,” Robards had told him before Harry left for the States. “They’ve done some nasty—” But Robards had refused to say who exactly they were after or what they’d supposedly done. It was maddening, the lack of transparency.

Harry had thought that at least in America, away from the weight of his name and his past, he might find some peace. No constant reminders of Voldemort, no constant praise for things he didn’t want to be remembered for.

He’d been a fool.

The US Aurors weren’t obsessed with blood status the way the Ministry back home was, but they were just as annoying. There was always someone looking to kiss his ass over the things he’d done, over defeating Voldemort. He had hoped for something different. Instead, it was the same old story in a new setting.

Every single minute during seven whole days, Harry daydreamt about going back to Hermione. The more he stayed in the US, the more his suspicions grew about this whole thing being a sham.

And he was right. He hated that he’s right.

He hadn’t told anyone he was leaving. Let them find out in the morning, when he didn’t show up for another pointless stakeout. Let them realize they had sent him away for nothing.

Harry sighs, reaching for his wand to clean the blood splatters that had made their way onto his glasses. A simple spell, and the crimson drops vanished, leaving the glass clear. He places them back onto his face and stares at his reflection for a moment longer, as if searching for something in the depths of his own eyes—some sense of absolution, some sign that he was still the foolish boy he once had been. But there was nothing.

He grabs the muggle pain medication Hermione had asked for from the medicine cabinet and slowly makes his way back to their room, the weight of the evening still heavy in his chest. His breath hitches when he sees her, the bruises blooming across her skin, the burn on her shoulder covered in a thick, orange salve. 

If he could, he would kill Umbridge all over again.

Carefully, Harry sits on the bed beside her, his fingers slipping through her short strands of hair, each touch gentle, reverent. He presses a kiss to her temple, the warmth of her skin grounding him in a way nothing else could.

“You doing better?” he asks softly, leaving the muggle pills on the nightstand. He guides her carefully to sit between his legs, letting her lean back against his chest.

“You’ve asked me that a thousand times,” Hermione replies, a tired but genuine smile tugging at her lips. “I’m fine, love.”

“You have a nasty burn and broken ribs,” he says, his voice stern, though the concern in his eyes softened the edge. “And you asked for muggle pain pills. That doesn’t exactly scream ‘fine’ to me.”

“The pills are for the burn,” she explains gently, her tone patient, affectionate. She opens the pill bottle carefully and pops two white pills inside her mouth, swallowing them with some water “The salve will heal it, but it won’t take away the pain for the night. And I’m not in the mood to brew a pain relief potion right now.”

“I can brew one for you,” Harry offers quickly, his eagerness to help clear in his voice.

Hermione shakes her head gently, her lips brushing against Harry’s cheek in a feather-light kiss. “No, I need you right here. Holding me. Making me feel cozy and loved.” Her voice is soft but firm, a quiet reassurance that slips past the walls Harry has built around himself.

His heart softens, the tension that’s been coiled in his chest since he left for the US finally begins to ease. The words seep into him, melting away some of the darkness. He tightens his arms around her, careful not to press too hard against her bruised ribs, as though she’s something fragile, too precious to risk shattering. “Alright, love,” he whispers, his lips brushing against the top of her head. He inhales deeply, the scent of her hair comforting him like a tether, pulling him back from the edge. They sit in silence for a while, her body warm against his, his fingers occasionally combing through her short strands, each stroke calming him further.

But his mind, restless and burdened, can’t quiet down. The weight of the past few hours presses heavily on him. The sight of Umbridge’s blood, thick and dark, clinging to his hands—as disgusting at it was, he hadn’t minded it. In fact, he had relished it. That thought twists something inside him. He had enjoyed it. Too much.

“What’s wrong?” Hermione’s voice breaks the quiet after a few minutes. Her hand slips into his, her touch gentle but grounding. She squeezes his fingers as if to draw him back to her, from wherever his mind had wandered.

Harry looks down at her, studying her face. The freckles scattered across her nose, the warm brown of her eyes that always seem to see straight through him. There’s a crease between her brows now, a quizzical look mingled with worry. She raises her eyebrows at him, waiting, her expression patient but concerned.

She’s so beautiful, he thinks. Beautiful, and somehow, still here. Still with him, despite everything. But as he looks at her, an unsettling thought creeps in. What if she’s afraid? What if she’s seen too much now? The monster he’s kept buried for so long—he’d unleashed it. Completely. What if this changed everything between them?

“I’m…” He falters, taking a deep breath, the words catching in his throat. Merlin, she’s beautiful. “Aren’t you scared of me?”

Hermione’s head snaps up, her brow knitting in surprise, then concern. “Oh, Harry… I could never be afraid of you.” She lifts her hand to cup his face, her touch soft, even with her injured arm. Her thumb brushes lightly against his cheek, and her eyes soften as she looks at him. “She deserved it. Every single thing you did, she deserved it.”

Harry’s gaze drops, his voice low, almost ashamed. “I know I lost control. I know it wasn’t pretty…” His shoulders sag slightly as the words slip out, a heavy confession. “I’m not going to lie to you and say I didn’t enjoy it. I did. Quite a lot, actually.” He hesitates, his voice dropping to barely a whisper. “I don’t want you to be afraid of me. I’d never hurt you. You’re the only person that makes the darkness fade away.”

“Harry…” Her voice is a soothing balm, gentle and warm, the way only she could be. He wishes he could bury himself in that sound, lose himself in it and forget everything else. “It’s okay that you enjoyed it. That woman, she was... she was awful. You were a kid when she did those things to you, and—”

“What she did to me wasn’t the reason why I killed her.” Harry’s voice turns firm, resolute. His jaw clenches as he remembers the sight of Hermione—battered, bruised, lying on the floor, barely conscious. “It was what she did to you. Mi, when I saw you hurt like that, I lost it. I snapped. I know it was brutal. I know it was gory. And it’s okay if you got scared. I’ll learn how to control myself if I have to, but—”

“But you don’t want to because it felt good,” Hermione finishes for him, her tone steady and sure. There’s no accusation in her voice, only understanding. Harry nods, his eyes dropping as shame creeps up his spine. Before he can turn away, Hermione gently reaches for his chin, wincing slightly from the movement. She forces him to look at her, her gaze unwavering despite the pain she’s in.

“Don’t, love. You’ll get hurt,” Harry pleads softly, his hand moving to cradle her arm, his touch tender and full of concern.

“Then stop looking away from me,” Hermione replies, her voice serious but full of love. Her eyes bore into him, seeing straight through the shadows he tries to hide. She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away.

Harry sighs, nodding slowly as he looks back at her.

Harry exhales shakily, nodding as he relents. “Alright. But be careful, or I’ll stun you.” He says it with a weak attempt at humor, but the fear in his eyes is real. He adjusts her carefully, guiding her to lie back in his arms. “Just… don’t move too much, okay?”

Hermione’s gaze softens, her expression filled with an almost overwhelming tenderness. “See, Harry? How… How could I ever be scared of you when you treat me like this? When you love me so much?”

Her words hit him like a blow, his breath catching in his throat. He stares at her, the shock of her words reflected in his wide eyes. For a moment, he doesn’t speak, his throat tight with emotion. He blinks rapidly, fighting the sting of tears that threaten to fall. She’s right. He loves her—so much it feels like it could consume him.

“I don’t care if you liked killing Umbridge,” Hermione continues, her voice steady and resolute. “I liked seeing her die too. The world is a better place without her.” There’s a hard edge to her words, a darkness that matches his own. “She deserved everything she got. My only regret is not being able to help more.”

Relief washes over him in a wave, and he pulls her a little closer, his arms tightening around her as if afraid to let go. “You broke her fingers, and you took my dagger to stab her a few times before you collapsed.”

“It wasn’t enough,” Hermione mutters darkly, her voice laced with a hint of bitterness. “After everything she’s done… to us, to you… I wanted to watch her die.”

Harry leans down, pressing another kiss to her temple, his voice low and intimate as he whispers, “I can share the memory with you later if you want. We can watch it together.”

A dark chuckle escapes her, tinged with the same grim humor they both seem to have embraced. “That wouldn’t be a bad idea. Let’s save it for when we need a little encouragement.”

The silence that follows feels dense, charged. It wraps around them like a second skin, neither comforting nor familiar, but something they've grown used to, something that fits them now.

Hermione’s eyes flicker up to his face, tracing the lines of exhaustion and the residual tension still simmering beneath his skin. She inhales deeply, bracing herself for what comes next. “So… what are we going to do now?”

Harry doesn’t hesitate. “Wait until someone finds the body. Bullshit our way out of this, like we always do, and see what the Ministry tries next.”

Hermione’s brow furrows, a sliver of concern creeping into her expression. “You think they’ll blame me?”

Harry shakes his head, his tone resolute, almost protective. “They’d have to be insane to go after you, love.”

Her lips press into a thin line, eyes narrowing as she thinks of what to say next. “Well… they sort of already did,” she murmurs with a grimace, her voice soft, almost apologetic. “I guess I didn’t have the time to tell you earlier, but… I got fired today. Mrs. Burke fired me.”

The words hit Harry like a punch to the gut. His breath catches, and for a moment, the room feels smaller, the air thicker. Fury—hot, molten, and relentless—floods his veins, spreading through him like wildfire. His hands twitch, his fingers itching with a need to do something , to fix this.

“She fired you?” His voice drops to a dangerous low, each word seething with barely contained rage. His eyes burn with a feral intensity as they lock on hers. “Burke fired you today?”

Hermione nods, her expression weary, as though the day’s events have taken more out of her than she’s willing to admit. “After I finished all the goblin paperwork,” she says, her voice tightening with bitterness. “She told me I should know my place.”

The room goes deadly quiet. For a moment, all Harry can hear is the pounding of his own heart in his ears, drowning out reason, drowning out everything but the raw, blinding anger consuming him.

"She said what?" The words are a growl, guttural and primal, like the growl of a beast just before it strikes. His hands tremble, and he grips the edge of the bed, knuckles white, trying to keep himself grounded.

“She found out about S.P.E.W,” Hermione continues, her voice brittle, like glass on the verge of shattering. “Said that giving house-elves rights was nonsense.”

Harry’s jaw clenches so hard it aches, and he inhales sharply through his nose, fighting to rein in the rage that's bubbling to the surface. “You haven’t touched S.P.E.W since before the war. It’s not even active anymore. She can’t fire you over something that doesn’t even exist.”

“Does it matter?” Hermione’s voice is soft, resigned, as though the weight of the day is pressing down on her too hard to fight back. “She wanted an excuse to fire me. She was just waiting for the right time.”

Harry’s face twists in fury, a cold, calculated fury that has become far too familiar. His voice lowers to a dangerous whisper. “The right time being when I’m out of the fucking country and you’re alone?”

She sighs, nodding slowly. “Yeah.”

A heavy silence follows, and the air between them is thick with unspoken tension. Harry’s hand twitches again, this time with a barely controlled urge to reach for his wand. His mind races, thoughts tangled in a web of anger, frustration, and a need for retribution.

“She’s friends with Umbridge,” Harry mutters, his voice low and venomous. He stands abruptly, pacing the room like a caged animal, his movements sharp and agitated. “She helped that fucking cunt get her hands on you.”

“Harry—” Hermione begins, her voice gentle, but he’s too far gone, lost in the fury that’s been simmering beneath the surface for far too long.

“I should’ve seen it,” Harry spits, his voice raw with self-loathing. His hand drags through his hair, pulling at the strands in frustration. “I should’ve known the moment I felt it—when I felt the crack in our connection. Burke knew I was away. She knew you’d be vulnerable. She used it to trap you. It all makes sense now.”

Hermione watches him, worry etched into the lines of her face, but there’s something else there too. An understanding. She knows what he’s feeling because she’s feeling it too. The need for justice. The need for revenge.

"She did," Hermione confirms quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. “Umbridge said Agnes turned the fireplace into a portkey. She… she has to pay for what she did.”

Harry’s fists clench at his sides, his breath ragged, as he meets Hermione’s gaze. Her eyes are filled with the same cold determination, the same fire that’s burning inside him.

“I’m not going to let her get away with it,” he vows, his voice dark and resolute. “Burke’s not walking away from this unscathed.”

“She won’t,” Hermione agrees, her voice steady, though there’s a cold edge to it now. “But we need to be smart about this. If we act now, they’ll be watching us too closely. We need to make them believe she did it.”

Harry stops pacing, his eyes snapping to hers. A flicker of understanding passes between them, and slowly, a dangerous smile spreads across his lips. “You mean—”

“We blame her,” Hermione says simply, her tone chillingly calm. “She’s already fired me. She’s connected to Umbridge. All we need to do is leave a trail that leads straight back to her.”

The realization settles over Harry like a cloak, his fury morphing into something colder, more focused. His smile grows darker as the plan begins to take shape in his mind. "We plant evidence. Make it look like Burke turned on Umbridge. That she was behind the whole thing."

Hermione nods, her expression hardened. "Agnes has always been teetering on the edge of scandal. With her friendship with Umbridge, it’ll be easy to paint her as the culprit. We’ll leave behind letters, correspondence from Umbridge, and then… make it look like Burke panicked when things went wrong."

Harry sits back down beside her, his earlier anger now tempered into a dangerous focus. He takes her hand, squeezing it gently, though there’s nothing gentle about the storm swirling beneath his skin. “We’ll make sure the Ministry finds Umbridge’s body with Burke’s name all over it. They’ll never know it was us.”

Hermione leans into him, her head resting against his shoulder. “And when it’s done,” she says, her voice soft but firm, “we’ll be free.”

“Together,” Harry murmurs, pressing a kiss to her forehead, his anger melting into something fierce and protective. “We’ll finish this together.”

“Always,” she whispers back, her voice like a promise. A dark, unbreakable vow.

In that moment, they both understand what they’ve become—something darker, something more dangerous—but neither of them care. This is the path they’ve chosen, and they’ll walk it together, no matter the cost.

“I fucking hate this,” Harry mutters, his lips brushing against Hermione’s as he kisses her again. He’s already in his auror robes, his briefcase clenched in one hand while the other softly strokes the back of her neck, trying to savor every second before they part. “Let me go with you…” His voice is low, almost pleading, as if he could hold her longer with just one more kiss.

Hermione smiles softly against his lips, though the weight of what they're doing lingers between them. “You need to work, love. Keep up with appearances.” Her voice is calm but resolute, their shared secret hanging in the air. “The world can’t know that we’re murderers, at least not yet.”

Harry groans, frustration bubbling up. “But spying on the Burke family sounds way more interesting than dealing with Ron and fucking Robards.” He pulls back just enough to meet her eyes, the edge in his voice clear. “Come on, let me go with you. I’ll pretend I’m sick…”

Hermione’s expression softens. “You’ll be needed when I’m done with my part. And I only have one hair for one more Polyjuice Potion, love.” She hesitates for a moment before adding with a slight grimace, “Plus, I don’t want you to see me turning into a man. That’s way too weird.”

Harry chuckles despite himself, the tension easing for just a second. “So? It’ll still be you.”

“Nope. Too weird,” Hermione frowns, crossing her arms with exaggerated annoyance, though the corners of her lips twitch. Her attempt to lighten the mood works, the shared humor a brief escape from the darkness looming over them.

Harry shakes his head, smiling as he presses a kiss to her forehead. “You got the quill?” His voice dips back into seriousness, eyes flickering with something darker.

Hermione nods and pulls the black quill from her coat pocket. The sight of it sends a chill through both of them. The blood quill, still intact, a twisted reminder of Umbridge’s cruelty. Harry feels the back of his hand twinge, the phantom scar burning, as if it knows exactly what this quill was made for.

“The second it’s on display, you’ll know,” Hermione says softly, her fingers brushing against the back of Harry’s hand, grounding him. “From what I’ve seen so far, Mr. Burke isn’t the brightest person. He’ll put the quill on display right away, and then all we have to do is send the anonymous tip.”

Harry smirks, but it’s cold, his eyes dark. “I’ll make them bring a team immediately. Everyone knows no one other than Umbridge has those quills. I’ll use the Imperius curse on Burke, make him sell his wife out. Easy.” His voice carries an eerie calm, as if the plan is already set in motion.

Hermione smiles faintly, her lips brushing his again. “Yeah, easy.” But there’s no joy in her voice. Just the weight of what they’ve become.

Harry pulls back slightly, his eyes narrowing as he stares at her. “I want you to text me every hour,” he says, his tone leaving no room for argument. “I’ll be damned if anyone tries to trap you again.” His jaw tightens, the memory of Hermione’s near capture still raw, his anger simmering beneath the surface.

Hermione strokes his hand again, a small gesture that speaks volumes. “They won’t.” Her voice is steady, though the unspoken danger hangs between them. “Now go, before Robards sends a search party after you.”

Harry groans one last time, his hand sliding from her neck as he presses another kiss to her lips, softer this time. “Love you.” His words are a whisper, filled with the weight of everything they’ve done, everything they’ve yet to do.

Hermione smiles, her eyes softening. “Love you too,” she says, watching as he steps toward the fireplace.

As he throws the Floo powder into the flames, the fire roars to life. Just before he vanishes into the green flames, he hears her voice, quiet but certain.

“I’ll see you soon.”

As soon as Harry steps out of the fireplace into the Ministry’s gleaming corridors, his face hardens into a familiar scowl. The moment his boots touch the polished floor, the vibrant buzz of chatter fades like a distant echo. All around him, footsteps quicken, and heads bow slightly, eyes darting away as if looking directly at him might burn them.

The tension in the air is palpable—thick, suffocating. It crackles like the static before a storm, a reminder of the power that walks among them. No one dares to meet his gaze. They know the stories. They whisper about him behind closed doors, unable to forget what he’s done.

Harry Potter. The man who killed Voldemort. The man who survived the killing curse—twice. The hero who, despite everything, remains untouchable. The one person they can’t control.

His strides are long and purposeful, his coat billowing slightly behind him as he navigates the sterile hallways. The usual murmurs die off as he passes, replaced by the faint shuffling of papers and the hurried clacking of heels on marble. But then, a whispered name drifts through the silence, barely audible but unmistakable.

"Hermione."

The name cuts through him like a shard of glass. His head snaps toward the sound, green eyes sharp as knives, narrowing into a glare that could slice through steel. The witch who dared to mutter her name freezes in place, while the other witch she was gossiping with runs off, her eyes widening in terror as the blood drains from her face. For a moment, her lips part as if to apologize, but the words never come. Instead, she bolts behind her friend, practically tripping over her own feet in her frantic attempt to escape his line of sight.

Cowards. Every last one of them.

He shouldn’t be surprised. The day after Hermione had been sacked, Agnes Burke had made sure the entire Ministry knew about it. To Burke, watching Hermione Granger become the latest bit of Ministry gossip was nothing short of satisfying. A personal victory. But to Harry, it was just another name to add to the long list of people who would pay for underestimating her.

Now, though, the air in the Ministry is different. Darker. There’s a new weight to the whispers, a more ominous edge that follows him wherever he goes. It’s been a week since Dolores Umbridge had disappeared, and the news had finally broken in the Daily Prophet.

The whispers are no longer just gossip—they are riddled with fear. Everyone knows what he thought of Umbridge, and now, they all wonder the same thing: Did he do it?

But no one dares to ask. Not out loud, at least.

The Ministry had made a grave mistake when they’d held Harry up as their savior. Their hero. They’d turned him into the untouchable figure that, even now, shielded him from any real scrutiny. Even if they suspected him, they were powerless to act. Accusing Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, of murder? That would be political suicide.

After all, the public adored him. Harry Potter wasn’t just a man—he was a symbol. The war hero. The savior of the wizarding world. Any hint that he’d fallen into darkness would shake the very foundations of what they’d rebuilt after Voldemort. And the Ministry wasn’t prepared to face that storm. Not now. Not ever.

Reaching the Auror’s office, Harry yanks off his coat and tosses it onto his chair with more force than necessary. The leather hits the seat with a sharp slap, echoing through the quiet office. He can already feel the familiar tension building behind his eyes, a dull ache forming at his temples. The thought of spending another eight hours surrounded by these people, pretending to be one of them, grates on his nerves.

But the thought of Hermione waiting for him at home keeps him steady. She’s likely already at Knockturn Alley by now, meticulously working through the details of their plan with that brilliant mind of hers. Soon, if all goes well, everything they’ve set into motion will fall into place.

By tonight, he’ll have blood on his hands again.

Harry's gaze drops to the Daily Prophet someone —probably Ron— left on his desk, the article about Umbridge’s disappearance staring back at him in bold, black ink. His lips twist into a smirk as he scans the final sentence:

“Agnes Burke, one of Dolores’ closest friends, has refused to issue a statement, claiming to be too heartbroken to do so.”

Lies. Every word of it. Burke isn’t silent out of grief—she’s silent because she’s terrified. She knows that if she says anything, if she so much as opens her mouth, she’ll have to explain herself. She’ll have to admit how she and Umbridge conspired to send Harry on that wild goose chase across the ocean. How they’d plotted to have Hermione killed, to make it look like an accident.

But Burke isn’t talking. Not yet. Fear is keeping her quiet.

A voice cuts through his thoughts, pulling him back to the present.

“Potter.”

Harry doesn’t look up. He knows who it is before the man even speaks. Robards stands in the doorway, arms crossed, his expression stern but betraying a hint of nervousness. “Got a minute?”

Suppressing a groan, Harry pushes himself out of his chair and follows his boss into the office. Robards sits behind his desk, fidgeting with one of his many trinkets, while Harry drops into the chair opposite, already disinterested.

“What is it?” Harry asks, his tone flat, doing little to hide his boredom.

“You came back a week early from your assignment,” Robards begins, his eyes fixed on the trinket in his hand. “Why?”

Harry feels a flicker of annoyance but keeps his expression neutral. Only now you noticed?

“It was a waste of time,” Harry replies, leaning back in the chair. “I spent a week watching innocent muggles live their lives. Nothing out of the ordinary. I came back the muggle way. Bought a plane ticket.”

“Plane?” Robards blinks, clearly confused.

Harry can’t help the roll of his eyes. “It’s like a muggle bus, but in the sky. You’re the Head Auror—you should know this by now.”

“We have Arthur Weasley’s department for that,” Robards mutters, brushing it off with a wave. “You left the day Umbridge disappeared.”

Harry’s expression doesn’t falter. “Yes. But I didn’t get back to England until the next morning. It’s an eight-hour flight.”

Robards frowns. “It takes muggles that long to cross countries?”

“Well, they don’t exactly have access to apparition and portkeys, do they?” Harry retorts, raising an eyebrow.

“So you arrived the morning after she vanished?” Robards presses, his tone edged with suspicion.

Harry’s patience snaps. “Are you asking me if I had anything to do with that cunt’s disappearance?”

Robards flinches at Harry’s crude language, and Harry almost laughs at the sight. Grow a fucking spine.

“She was a cunt, and you know it,” Harry continues, his tone harsh. “And no, I didn’t have anything to do with it.”

Robards pales but presses on. “Are you sure?”

Harry leans forward, his gaze cold and unforgiving. “I think I’d remember if I killed someone, Robards. No horcruxes in my head anymore, in case you’ve forgotten.”

“Right.” Robards swallows, visibly nervous now, a bead of sweat forming on his brow. “It’s just… you and Umbridge had some… disagreements, and—”

“Disagreements?” Harry interrupts, his voice cold. “Every student who wasn’t in Slytherin hated her. If you’re questioning me, you might as well question every Hogwarts student from ‘95 to ‘96.”

Robards hesitates for a moment, then nods, looking as if he’d rather be anywhere else. “Auror Weasley said the same thing.” He clears his throat, shifting uncomfortably. “You’re free to go. Just… one last thing. Keep an eye on the fireplace. The Prophet mentioned in their article that anyone with information on Umbridge could send us a tip. If you see anything useful, bring it to me.”

“Of course,” Harry says, standing up, barely concealing his smirk. “Will do.”

Hermione stares down at the flask in her hand, her stomach churning in anticipation. The thick, murky liquid swirls like poison, and she grimaces before forcing the last drop past her lips. The Polyjuice Potion is as revolting as ever, tasting like spoiled metal and rotting earth. Almost immediately, the familiar nausea hits her like a punch to the gut, and she doubles over, clutching the edge of the sink as her body begins to change.

It’s agony. She feels her bones creak and shift, her skin stretching and rearranging itself over a frame that is no longer hers. Her hair—the short and delicate strands—retracts painfully back into her scalp, and a rough, wiry beard bursts forth from her chin, scraping against her face like steel wool. She suppresses a gag, her throat burning from the effort. As her body grows taller, broader, and heavier, she catches sight of her reflection in the cracked mirror above the sink.

Her heart sinks, and her lip curls in disgust.

The stranger staring back at her is unrecognizable. His—no, her—face is rugged and harsh, with a crooked nose and sallow skin that clings too tightly to the bone. She runs a hand over the bristly beard, shuddering at the unfamiliar coarseness against her fingertips. Her usually soft hands are now calloused, stained, and large. Masculine. The sight of herself, transformed into some brutish, bald man, makes her feel sick all over again.

“Ugh. Disgusting,” she mutters under her breath, voice thick and low, no longer her own.

The urge to vomit rises again, but she swallows it down, her mind drifting bitterly to Harry. He had convinced her—persuaded her—that this disguise was necessary, that Mr. Burke would never take a woman seriously. Especially not her. And unfortunately, Harry, as always, was right.

But that didn’t make this any easier. 

She despises this part of the plan, and hates how the wizarding world’s blood-purity obsession was intertwined with its ingrained sexism. To most of the pure-blood families, a woman was either a pawn or a tool, but never a threat.

The fact that women are still so easily dismissed, even in the magical world, boils her blood. Whether in the wizarding or the Muggle world, it seemed like their lives are written in ink that men hold the quill to.

Still, she thinks darkly, couldn’t Harry have at least chosen someone less… revolting?

She traces her new reflection’s bare scalp and winces at the sight of the shiny bald head. The man whose hair Harry had stolen was bald, and Hermione comes to the realization that Harry probably took the hair out of the man’s beard.

Bloody typical.  

She knows he didn’t do this to annoy her. It was merely practical thinking, the smartest thing to do in this position. But still, she might refuse to sleep with Harry for a few days just out of spite.

With a resigned sigh, Hermione turns away from the mirror and steps toward the old wardrobe. Inside hangs a set of regal, dark robes—far too grand for either of their tastes, but necessary now. The deep green velvet fabric is stiff against her skin as she slips the garments on, the weight of the attire pulling her even further into her disguise. These robes once belonged to Orion Black, salvaged from Grimmauld Place's attic shortly after she graduated and moved in with Harry. He found them too pompous, but now they were just the right amount of arrogance needed to make her disguise believable.

Finally, she pulls a beret over her head, shielding her face just enough to hide the discomfort twisting her features. When she picks up the blood quill—the cursed object that had once scarred Harry's hand so deeply—its cold metal makes her skin crawl. She slips it into her pocket, shuddering at the bitter memories tied to it. The quill itself feels like a bridge between the horrors of their past and the future they are creating.

Taking one last steadying breath, Hermione steps outside into the grimy alleyway, and after checking once again that the quill is still in her pocket, she apparates away.

Knockturn Alley greets her with its usual filth and stench, a world apart from Diagon Alley’s bustling charm. Shadows cling to the narrow streets, and the few people loitering about barely glance in her direction. Here, she is invisible, a faceless client wrapped in the same layer of grime and malice that taints the air.

For once, she’s grateful.

Her new body, despite the discomfort, fits perfectly into this scene. The weight of the robes grounds her, and she lifts her chin, walking with a newfound arrogance that isn't entirely foreign to her. Harry had chosen the right man, after all. She was blending in.

As she approaches Borgin and Burkes, her gaze flicks over the objects on display—warped skulls, cursed trinkets, and sinister relics. There’s a part of her, deep down, that can’t help but wonder. Maybe she and Harry could do a bit of shopping once all of this is over. Dark magic had its uses, after all, and they aren’t exactly playing by the rules anymore.

The bell chimes as she steps into the store, the musty air wrapping around her like a shroud. The man behind the counter—Mr. Burke—lifts his eyes from a cursed necklace, giving her a once-over. His suspicion is palpable, but Hermione doesn’t flinch. She strides forward, pulling the blood quill from her pocket and placing it on the counter between them.

Burke’s eyes widen, his curiosity piqued. “What’s this?”

“A blood quill,” Hermione says, her voice thick and foreign in her throat.

The man’s reaction is immediate. His beady eyes light up with greed as he snatches the quill, inspecting it with eager hands. “A what?” he whispers, half in disbelief.

Hermione resists the urge to gag. “A blood quill,” she repeats, her words measured, emotionless. “I’d like to sell it.”

Burke studies her face for a moment, eyes narrowing before turning his attention back to the quill. “Is it real?”

“Oh, it’s very real,” Hermione says, her heart thumping wildly in her chest as she maintains her steely expression. “Are you Borgin or Burke?”

“Burke,” he says, still transfixed by the cursed object. His fingers tremble with excitement as he examines it closer. The smirk that twists his lips is predatory, his teeth yellowed and crooked.

She forces herself to remain calm, though every fiber of her being recoils at the sight of him. “I worked with your wife years ago at the Ministry,” she lies smoothly. “She gave me this as a gift. Said it would put my unruly step-son in his place. But now… well, I have no use for it anymore.”

Burke’s eyes gleam with malice. He knows exactly what this quill can do, and he’s practically salivating over it. “Does it work?”

“Oh, it works,” Hermione says, her voice low and dangerous. “The scars it leaves… nothing can erase them.”

“How much?” he asks, already pulling open the register.

“Nothing,” Hermione says quietly, her face impassive. “Consider it a return to the person who gave it to me in the first place.”

Burke’s greedy smile widens as he nods, understanding the unspoken implication. “I’ll make sure to tell her you stopped by.”

“I’m sure you will,” Hermione replies coldly, her eyes burning with contempt as she turns away, the thick beard hiding her smirk.

She walks away, and once outside, she slips into the shadows, pulling Harry’s invisibility cloak tightly around her, letting out a breath in relief as the polyjuice starts to wear out. From her hidden vantage point, she watches as Burke rushes to place the quill in the front display, a satisfied grin spreading across her face.

‘I’ve seen Mrs. Burke apparating somewhere with Dolores Umbridge the night she disappeared’ she scribbles on a piece of parchment. ‘It appears that she gave her husband one of Umbridge’s possessions, and he’s now selling it at his store.’

With a flick of her wand, she sends the note to the auror’s quarters at the Ministry. She’ll apparate away once Harry and his team appear.

Her job is done. Umbridge’s body is already hidden in the Burke’s basement, small pieces of evidence were placed all over the house, and now, Burke fell into her trap.

All she has left to do is to wait.

Harry's eyes flicker as the familiar scroll of parchment materializes with a soft pop on the fireplace at the Auror’s office, slowly floating until it reaches his desk. He wastes no time in unrolling it, recognizing Hermione’s neat handwriting immediately. As he reads, a slow, dangerous smile creeps across his face.

“Got you,” he murmurs under his breath.

He rises from his chair, folding the note into his pocket before going out to Robard’s office.

“This just came out from the fireplace.” Harry says, handing the small roll of parchment to his boss. The man reads it carefully, and after a few seconds of consideration, he looks at Harry and nods,

“Go. Take Weasley with you.” Robards says curtly. “Send me a message if it goes somewhere and I’ll bring a team.”

Harry nods, walking out of the office and going over to Ron’s desk. His former best friend is currently napping on his desk, his cheek stained with parchment ink.

Pathetic.

“Ron!” Harry calls sharply as slaps the back of Ron’s head.

Ron wakes up, startled “What?”

“Put down whatever you’re doing. We’ve got a lead on Umbridge.”

Ron’s expression changes instantly, his eyes sharpening with interest. “Finally, some action!” He stands up, grabbing his wand from the table, and follows Harry toward the exit. “Where are we headed?”

“Borgin and Burke’s,” Harry replies, his tone clipped and businesslike. “Got a tip that one of Umbridge’s cursed quills is being sold there. We need to pay Mr. Burke a little visit.”

Ron nods, but his eyes narrow. “The same quill she used to torture us?” 

Harry nods. “Yeah. And we both know how Umbridge never let those things out of her sight. Mr. Burke’s wife was friends with her.” He says smoothly, “They probably had a falling out, she did something, and tried to dump evidence.”

Ron doesn’t argue, though Harry notices the skepticism lingering in his old friend’s gaze. It doesn’t matter. Hermione’s plan is already in motion. All Harry has to do is ensure Burke plays his part.

He reluctantly grabs Ron’s arm and apparates them to Knockturn Alley, winking at the alley he knows Hermione is hiding into with his cloak. A faint popping sound can be heard, and Harry knows that Hermione just got home to wait for him.

When they enter the store, the bell above the shop door chimes, and the dusty gloom of Borgin and Burkes swallows them as Harry and Ron step inside. The musty scent of decay clings to the air, the shelves lined with sinister trinkets and cursed objects. Dark magic thrums just beneath the surface, a palpable tension hanging in the room like cobwebs.

Mr. Burke stands behind the counter, his fingers twiddling with a cursed necklace. His eyes flick toward the new arrivals, his expression immediately guarded. “Aurors,” he says, his voice thick with feigned politeness. “What brings you fine gentlemen to my humble establishment today?”

Harry steps forward, his gaze locking onto Burke’s. “We’re investigating Dolores Umbridge’s disappearance.”

Burke stiffens, a flash of recognition crossing his face before he quickly masks it with a tight-lipped smile. “I see. I’ve read about that in the Prophet. Terrible business, truly. But I’m afraid I have no knowledge of her whereabouts.”

Harry takes a slow step closer to the counter, ignoring the man's obvious discomfort. “You wouldn’t happen to have any items of hers in your possession, would you?”

Burke’s fingers twitch nervously, but he keeps his voice steady. “No, no. Can’t say I’ve ever dealt with anything belonging to her.”

Ron steps up beside Harry, his eyes scanning the shelves with exaggerated curiosity. “Interesting collection you’ve got here. Lots of dark artifacts. Bet you’ve seen your share of nasty customers, haven’t you?”

Burke swallows, his eyes darting between the two Aurors. “I run a legitimate business. All legal, of course.”

Ron nods and walks off, looking at all the objects on a shelf nearby.

Harry takes advantage of Ron’s distraction and slowly takes his wand out under his coat, pointing it at Mr. Burke’s chest as he whispers the curse.

“ Imperio. ”

Burke’s expression immediately slackens, his body going rigid, and Harry steps closer, his voice low and controlled. “Now, Burke,” Harry says smoothly, “I’m sure you’re forgetting something. You’ve got a very special item on display, don’t you?”

Burke nods slowly, his face blank. “Yes. A blood quill.”

Ron turns around and glances at Harry, but doesn’t interrupt.

“Bring it here,” Harry orders.

Without a word, Burke turns and retrieves the cursed object from the front display case. He places it carefully on the counter between them, his hands trembling ever so slightly under the curse.

Harry leans forward, his eyes narrowing. “Now, tell me, Burke. Where did you get this?”

“My… my wife gave it to me,” Burke says, his voice distant, mechanical. “She said it belonged to Umbridge.”

“And where is your wife now?” Harry presses.

Burke’s eyes glaze over further, the weight of the Imperius Curse pressing down on his mind. “She’s at work.”

“You lookin’ kind of nervous, Mr. Burke,” Ron says, approaching them with a smirk. Harry resists the urge to scoff.

“I’m not…” The man stutters, and Harry smirks.

“Where’s Umbridge, Mr. Burke?” He asks with a cold and satisfied smile.

“At my house…” The man replies, showing all the signs of nervousness someone could show, just like Harry told him to.

“Oh. Can you get her for us?” Harry asks

The man just shakes his head, his face growing pale.

“Why not, Mr. Burke?” Ron asks, pointing his wand at the man.

“She’s dead.” Mr. Burke whispers, his hands shaking as he places them over the counter “Agnes brought her corpse home last week. I couldn’t… I couldn’t sell her out!”

“Ron,” Harry says with a low and serious voice “Get Robards. Looks like we have a corpse to find.”

Ron nods, his face growing green before he walks out the store to get their boss.

And quickly, Harry raises his wand again, silently placing false memories on the man’s mind, the way Hermione taught him to.

He smirks as the man’s eyes start to look haunted, knowing that now, not even veritaserum can save Agnes Burke from her fate.

The night clings to Harry and Hermione like a second skin, its cold seeping into their bones as they navigate the jagged cliffs around Azkaban. The prison rises before them, a towering fortress of misery, its walls stretching upward into the black sky like the skeletal fingers of a dead giant. The air is oppressive, thick with the foul stench of despair, while the distant, haunting whispers of dementors swirl in the darkness like circling vultures waiting for their next meal.

Hermione leads the way, her breath steady but shallow, each step deliberate. The tension sits in her chest like a coiled spring, though she's long since accepted the darkness that comes with the life they’ve chosen. Still, the suffocating aura of Azkaban is something she doubts she’ll ever grow accustomed to—the feel of death and waste mingling in the air, the occasional groan of a prisoner that pierces through the cold silence.

A shiver runs down her spine, but before she can fully acknowledge the dread rising in her throat, she feels Harry’s hand gently squeeze her waist. His warmth grounds her. Despite the horrors that surround them, despite the twisted path they’ve chosen, Hermione knows—here, with Harry by her side, they are untouchable.

As the wind howls in the distance, the invisibility cloak drapes over them, shrouding their every movement as they slip closer to the high-security section of the prison. Each step is measured, soundless. The guards stationed at the outer perimeter don’t react, their minds muddled by the confundus charm Harry cast earlier. To them, the night remains undisturbed.

Inside, the labyrinth of stone hallways is damp, the walls slick with condensation that smells faintly of mold and rot. A sense of decay permeates the prison, and Harry’s face hardens with each passing cell. Here, the light barely penetrates the dark, and shadows flicker in the dim torchlight like specters, adding to the dismal atmosphere.

"She's in here," Hermione whispers, her voice barely more than a breath in the echoing silence. Her hand gestures toward the heavy, rusted door at the far end of the hall. Beyond it, in a tiny cell, sits Agnes Burke, broken and defeated.

Harry’s jaw tightens. His eyes are sharp, reflecting the cold glint of the flickering flames as they approach the door in sync. Hermione catches his gaze, offering a silent nod of understanding. She raises her wand, the movement fluid, almost casual, and with a soft whisper, the door creaks open.

The cell is suffocatingly small, its walls damp and cracked. In the far corner, Agnes Burke huddles against the cold stone, her once-imposing figure now little more than a trembling shadow. Her face is hollow, gaunt, her eyes wild and rimmed with dark circles, evidence of sleepless nights filled with terror. She stares ahead, unfocused, until the invisibility cloak drops from Harry's shoulders and the dim light falls on his features.

"You," she rasps, her voice brittle from neglect, barely more than a dry whisper. "You did this."

Harry steps forward, his presence filling the small space, and the smile that curls his lips is far from kind. "It’s been only two days, Agnes," he remarks with a cold amusement. "And look at you—already falling apart."

Hermione watches silently, her own pulse quickening as she observes Harry’s demeanor. He radiates control, fury barely contained beneath his skin. Her heart beats louder. She should find this terrifying, she knows, but instead, there’s an unbidden thrill that runs through her veins. She shouldn’t find this sexy, she shouldn’t feel heat pouring in between her thighs, but she does.

Harry is willing to become a monster to defend her honor. And damn it if it isn’t the hottest thing she’s ever seen.

Agnes stirs, trying weakly to stand, but her legs falter beneath her. She crumples back to the floor, eyes flashing with desperation. "You won’t get away with this," she hisses, her voice trembling with rage. "They’ll know—"

"You’ll rot here," Hermione interrupts, her voice steady, a low hum of menace that matches Harry’s. "By the time your husband buys your freedom, it’ll already be too late." She steps closer to Harry’s side, slipping her hand into his. His arm finds her waist instinctively, and she allows herself a brief moment to lean into him. "We’re not here out of the kindness of our hearts, Agnes."

The panic sets in Agnes’s eyes, her breath hitching as the weight of her situation fully dawns on her. She’s alone, trapped. There will be no escape.

Harry kneels beside her, his expression now devoid of the earlier smirk. His voice drops to a whisper, lethal. "You set Hermione up. You handed her over to Umbridge like a lamb to the slaughter. You thought no one would know."

Agnes opens her mouth to protest, but with a flick of Harry’s wand, her body freezes. Her eyes widen, but her voice is silenced, her terror laid bare.

"You thought you were clever," Harry continues, his voice tight, anger simmering beneath each word. "You thought I would leave her unprotected. That I would leave her behind."

His grip tightens on Hermione’s waist, pulling her closer. She feels the raw tension thrumming through him, the barely-contained fury that had been building for days, perhaps longer. It spills out now, and the sight of Harry standing over this broken woman, ready to unleash his wrath, sends a shiver through Hermione’s spine. But she doesn’t stop him. She knows this is necessary.

With a soft kiss to her temple, Harry releases Hermione and stands tall, his wand hovering over Agnes’s trembling form. 

" Legilimens ," he whispers, his voice as cold as the cell they stand in.

Hermione watches as Agnes’s eyes glaze over, her body jerking violently as Harry forces his way into her mind. The air grows thick with tension, the very walls of the prison seeming to hold their breath as Harry plunges into Agnes’s worst memories, her deepest fears. His face is impassive, unreadable, but Hermione knows he’s savoring each moment, every scream of agony that plays out in Agnes’s fractured psyche.

Agnes twitches, her face contorting in pain as Harry’s magic twists through her mind, tearing apart her sanity thread by thread. The once-sharp woman is reduced to a quivering mess, her body convulsing as Harry strips away the layers of her consciousness, exposing every trauma, every horror she’s ever buried.

And Hermione stands by, watching, unflinching. Her pulse races, and a part of her knows she should feel disturbed, repulsed even. But instead, she feels a fierce satisfaction settle deep in her chest. This is justice—justice the Ministry could never deliver.

Finally, when Agnes is little more than a husk, her body limp, her mind shattered, Harry pulls back, breathing heavily. The flicker of a smile dances on his lips, but his eyes are dark, haunted.

Hermione steps forward, placing her hand on his shoulder, grounding him. "It’s done," she whispers, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek.

Harry exhales, leaning into her touch as they turn to leave, the shattered remains of Agnes Burke left behind. Beneath the cloak once more, Hermione feels Harry wrap his arm tightly around her, his breath warm against her neck as they slip into the night, his tension finally melting away.

And as they walk through the cold corridors of Azkaban, she smiles. Because they’ve done it. They’ve won.

Chapter Text

The world outside is silent, but in their bedroom, the air is thick with heat and passion, a cocoon of shared desire. Hermione’s breath catches in her throat, her body arching as Harry's tongue explores her with a precision only he possesses.

“Oh… Harry,” she moans, her voice ragged, trembling with need. Her fingers thread through his dark hair, tugging just hard enough to keep him grounded in her, the feel of him so familiar, so intoxicating. His tongue moves with serpentine grace, faint whispers slipping between his lips in parseltongue—a language that once chilled her blood, now drives her wild with pleasure. His words ripple through her core like magic, each stroke of his tongue sending her spiraling into a deeper, more raw kind of ecstasy.

She feels his teeth graze her clit, a sensation so sharp and tender that her body jolts, the mix of pain and pleasure a heady cocktail that threatens to overwhelm her senses. He soothes the sting with languid, deliberate flicks of his tongue, pulling her closer to the edge with every movement, with every rasping whisper of his breath against her skin.

Hermione’s grip tightens in his hair, her heart pounding, her legs trembling. She can barely think, let alone breathe. If he keeps this up, there won’t be anything left of her, no strength to take his cock inside her, to feel the heat of him stretching her. And that, she thinks, would be a tragedy.

His fingers curl inside her with practiced ease, finding that spot, that sweet, perfect place that only Harry knows. It undoes her completely. Her mind shatters as she comes, her body convulsing, pleasure like wildfire burning through her veins. She’s lost count of how many times he’s made her fall apart this morning—was this the fifth time? The sixth? She’s not even sure anymore. She only knows the feeling of his hands, his mouth, and the way he makes her body sing with pleasure.

“Stop…” she whispers, her voice hoarse and shaking. Immediately, Harry lifts his head, concern flashing in his beautiful green eyes, now darkened with lust. His lips are glistening with her, his chin slick with her release, and the sight of him—so utterly devoted to her pleasure—makes her heart swell in her chest.

Hermione smiles at him, breathless, and opens her legs wider, inviting him in. “Your cock…”

He doesn’t need any more encouragement. With a hungry growl, she pulls him up to her, crashing her lips against his. The kiss is deep, wild, and she can taste herself on his tongue—salty, sweet, intoxicating. She moans into his mouth, the sound vibrating through her as Harry’s fingers tangle in her hair, gripping her short strands with just the right amount of force to make her whimper.

Yes. Harder.

She’s barely able to control her voice now, every sound that escapes her lips is a raw expression of need, of want. The pleasure builds in her again, coiling tightly in her belly, ready to explode. But Harry’s words bring her back to the present, grounding her in the moment, in him .

“Such a good girl,” he murmurs against her ear, his voice low and rough. “My pretty little angel, so good to me…” His breath is hot against her skin, sending shivers down her spine. He nips at her earlobe, and her hips buck involuntarily, desperate for more. “Do you want my cock, love? Do you want me to ruin you? Corrupt you?”

His words are sin, and they ignite her like a match to kindling. Hermione whines, grinding her hips against him, her body on fire with need, tears of frustration welling in her eyes. She needs him. Now.

“Please…”

Harry smirks, a wicked gleam in his eyes as he kisses her jaw, his lips soft, teasing. “Please what?” His voice is thick with amusement, knowing exactly what she wants. Damn him. He’s been teasing her ever since last night, when she’d accidentally slipped up and called him the “d” word in the heat of the moment. She hadn’t expected him to react the way he did, to see that wild hunger in his eyes, the way his lips parted and his pupils dilated with pure, unfiltered lust. Now, he’s using it against her, and she’s helpless to resist.

“Please, daddy…” she begs, her voice soft and desperate, her hips moving of their own accord, grinding against him. “Fuck me, daddy… Please… I’m your good girl…”

Her words are barely out of her mouth when Harry’s hand cracks down on her rear, the sharp sting shooting through her body, the heat from his palm spreading across her skin. Before she can even catch her breath, he slams inside her, filling her to the brim, and she cries out, her head falling back as pleasure floods her senses. The weight of him, the way he stretches her—nothing else could ever feel like this.

This is heaven. No, this is better than heaven. This is Harry —inside her, around her, claiming her.

“Look at me,” Harry growls, his voice low and rough as his fingers grip her chin, turning her face toward him. “Look at me while I make you feel good.”

Hermione whimpers, her body trembling beneath him as she forces her eyes open, her gaze meeting his. “Harry…”

The moment she locks eyes with him, the world falls away. The heat in his gaze is overwhelming, and it’s not just lust— Merlin, it’s so much more than that. There’s love there, too, deep and consuming. His pupils are blown wide, and his green eyes, what’s left of them, hold an intensity that sends shivers down her spine.

“You’re so beautiful,” Harry whispers, his hands gripping her hips, holding her in place as he thrusts into her, his pace deliberate, powerful. “My perfect girl… My angel… So good to me.”

Her heart pounds at the sound of his words, her body reacting instinctively to the praise. She feels like she’s melting under his touch, every nerve in her body on fire as he fills her, again and again.

His hands slide down her body, gripping her waist, her thighs, worshiping her with every touch. He presses a kiss to her neck, his lips grazing her skin as he murmurs, “So fucking perfect, love… You feel so good around me… You take me so well.”

Hermione can barely think, her mind clouded with pleasure, but she knows one thing for certain—she needs more of him. “Harder…” she breathes, her fingers threading through his hair, tugging, desperate for him to go deeper. “Please, Harry… I need more.”

Harry groans, his hands tightening on her hips as he drives into her harder, his pace quickening. “Anything for you, love… Anything you want,” he whispers, his voice husky, filled with raw emotion. “You’re mine, Mi… My good girl… My beautiful girl.”

Her breath catches at the sound of his praise, her body trembling as he thrusts into her, deeper and harder, sending her spiraling toward the edge. His words are everything she needs to hear, grounding her even as her body threatens to unravel completely.

“You’re perfect,” he whispers against her ear, his voice soft and reverent as his lips brush her skin. “So fucking perfect for me… No one else could ever make me feel like this.”

She moans, her body arching against his, her heart swelling with love. “Harry…” she gasps, her voice barely a whisper. “I love you… I love you so much…”

“I love you too, baby,” he groans, his hands gripping her tighter as he moves faster, his thrusts becoming more desperate. “You’re everything to me… My angel… My love… I’m so proud of you, Mi. Always.”

Her body tightens, the pleasure building to an almost unbearable peak as his praise washes over her, filling her with warmth, with love. “I’m gonna—” she starts, her voice catching as the pressure inside her builds.

“I know,” Harry whispers, his voice strained as he chases his own release. “Let go for me, love… Let me see you fall apart for me.”

And when she does—when her body finally gives in, her release crashing over her like a tidal wave—he’s right there with her, holding her, guiding her through it, his words soft and soothing in her ear.

“That’s it… So good, love… You’re so good for me…” he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion as his own release overtakes him. “I’ve got you, Mi… I’ve always got you…”

Hermione feels herself unravel completely, her entire body trembling in Harry’s arms as the waves of pleasure surge through her. Her heart pounds in her chest, her breathing uneven, but his words—his praise—are grounding her, pulling her back into the present.

She blinks up at him, her vision hazy from the intensity of it all. Harry is watching her with an expression so full of love, that it makes her chest ache. He’s still buried deep inside her, his body trembling slightly from his own release, but his focus is entirely on her, his gaze never leaving her face.

“You’re incredible, love,” he whispers, brushing her short hair back “So strong, so beautiful… You drive me mad, Hermione. Do you know that?”

A soft, breathless laugh escapes her, and she cups his cheek, her thumb brushing over his stubbled jaw. “I think you’ve mentioned that a few times…”

Harry chuckles, pressing a tender kiss to her forehead, then her lips, his affection pouring through every touch. “I’ll remind you as often as you need, Mi… I never want you to forget how perfect you are.”

Her heart swells at his words, at the sheer adoration in his voice. She’s never felt so cherished, so completely understood. “I love you,” she whispers, her voice thick with emotion. “So much… You’re everything to me, Harry.”

He leans down, capturing her lips in a slow, passionate kiss. It’s not hurried or desperate like before—this kiss is filled with all the love and tenderness he feels for her, and it makes her melt into him all over again.

When he finally pulls back, his eyes lock onto hers, and there’s something fierce in his gaze, something determined. “I don’t want to hide anymore,” Harry murmurs softly, his hand gently brushing back Hermione’s short hair. The tenderness in his voice is like a warm blanket, comforting and familiar. He presses a lingering kiss to her forehead, his lips soft and reverent against her skin, as if trying to pour all the love he feels into that simple touch.

Hermione sighs softly, her fingers absently playing with the hairs on his chest, the steady beat of his heart under her palm grounding her. “It’s not like we’ve been hiding,” she whispers, but her voice carries a subtle edge of resignation. “We just haven't flaunted it in public yet. People are that obtuse on purpose. They don’t want to believe that the great Harry Potter could fall in love with a dirty mudblood.”

Her words come out quieter, laced with a sadness she tries to hide. But the weight of them lingers between them, heavy and cold.

Harry’s expression darkens immediately, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw with the utmost care, but there’s an intensity in his touch that matches the fire in his eyes. “Don’t ever call yourself that,” he says, his voice low, full of quiet fury—though not directed at her. Never at her. “I hate that word.”

The term still hangs in the air, but Hermione meets his gaze with a sad smile. The scar on her forearm tingles, a cruel reminder of the pain she endured. “It’s kind of engraved in me, love,” she replies softly, her voice steady but tinged with sorrow.

Without a word, Harry takes her arm in his hands, his fingers cradling the scarred skin as if it were something delicate and precious. He brings her forearm to his lips, pressing a soft kiss on the scar they both hate so much . It’s a kiss filled with promise, with a determination so strong that she can feel it reverberate through her soul. “We’ll get rid of it,” he whispers against her skin, his voice a quiet but fierce vow.

Hermione shakes her head slightly, her heart aching with the weight of their shared battles. “I’ve tried before,” she murmurs, her eyes drifting to the scar on his hand, the hateful sentence etched by Umbridge in their fifth year. She kisses it tenderly. “It’s dark magic. You and I both know how permanent dark magic can be…”

The sadness in her voice is palpable, and for a moment, the room feels heavy with the echoes of their scars, both visible and hidden.

But Harry, ever resilient, pulls her closer, his arms tightening around her protectively. “We’ll find a way,” he insists, his tone unwavering. “Trust me.”

There’s something in the way he says it that makes her believe him, something unshakable in the certainty of his voice. She meets his gaze, those piercing green eyes that have seen so much, and yet still manage to hold hope when she’s around. “Alright,” she whispers, her lips curving into a soft smile.

In that moment, everything feels right, as if his love alone could shield her from the cruelty of the world . The depth of his gaze pulls her in, and she wonders if she’ll ever tire of looking into those beautiful green eyes, of feeling like they see into the deepest parts of her soul.

She watches him now, her heart swelling with a love so fierce it almost overwhelms her. His sharp jawline and cheekbones, his emerald green eyes, his thin lips that are perfectly kissable, that fit hers like it’s a puzzle piece… 

His face is rugged, a little rough around the edges, but that only adds to his charm. To her, Harry Potter looks like a god.

His dark hair, once so untamable, has grown softer and more manageable the longer it gets, only making him more captivating. Hermione never tires of running her fingers through it, brushing his bangs back to reveal the scar that everyone in the wizarding world reveres. The lightning-shaped lines are a mark of Harry's past, etched onto his skin by Voldemort the night his parents were killed. To others, it's a symbol of triumph, of the "Boy Who Lived" who vanquished the Dark Lord. To her, though, it’s so much more.

When Hermione looks at that scar, she doesn’t think of the child who became a hero or the savior of their world. She doesn’t see the boy everyone else seems to glorify. She feels warmth spreading through her chest, her heart swelling with affection because that scar belongs to him—the man she loves, her soulmate. It’s not a symbol of pain or fame to her; it’s just part of Harry, the man who holds her heart. Every inch of him, including that scar, is hers, and she adores it the same way she adores every single part of him.

Her fingers gently trace the familiar lines, feeling a surge of love so strong that it almost takes her breath away. The world may see a hero when they look at Harry, but when she sees him, she sees home. She sees the man who grounds her, who makes her feel safe, cherished, and understood. The man who’d do anything for her. The scar, so revered by everyone else, is simply another piece of him that she loves, a reminder of everything they’ve been through, everything they’ve survived—together.

"You’re staring," Harry says softly, his lips curving into a smile, the kind that makes her heart skip a beat.

"You’re mine," she whispers in return, her voice filled with the quiet certainty of her love. "You’re perfect, and you’re mine… Of course I’m staring."

His thumb grazes her cheek, his touch as tender as his gaze. "I’ll marry you one of these days, Mi.”

Her heart skips a beat, and she leans into his touch, smiling. "One of these days, huh? I’ll hold you to that, Potter.”

Hermione leans into Harry’s touch, her heart steady and sure as his thumb grazes her cheek. The mention of marriage lingers sweetly between them, a promise made in a quiet moment. But then her thoughts drift, not to guilt or regret, but to the events of the previous night. She can still feel the lingering tension of it in her muscles—not the tension of remorse, but a strange sense of satisfaction. Of justice served .

Her fingers absently trace the scar on his hand again , and her voice lowers, but not in guilt. "Last night… what we did to Burke…"

Harry's eyes meet hers, unwavering and dark, but not with shame or hesitation. There’s no remorse in the furrow of his brow, no guilt in the way he holds her closer. "She had it coming," he says firmly, his voice calm but laced with an edge of finality. "After what she did—what she planned with Umbridge—we did what was necessary."

Hermione nods, her fingers still tracing his skin. "I don’t feel bad, you know," she admits, her voice soft but steady. "I thought maybe… it would haunt me, the things we did. But it doesn’t. It doesn’t bother me. And I feel guilty about that. "

It’s the truth. Once, crossing a line like this would have crushed her, but now? It feels justified. Fighting fire with fire, nothing more. Agnes Burke had wanted her dead. If it weren’t for the binding spell Harry had insisted on before leaving, she might have succeeded.

Umbridge and Burke were part of the same corrupt system that failed them both . What she and Harry did wasn’t just revenge—it was balance, a way to even the scales.

Harry’s thumb brushes her cheek again, this time with a gentle nod. "We’ve crossed the line already, Mi. There’s no going back, and honestly..." His lips curve into a slight smirk, his voice dark but resolute. "I don’t want to."

Hermione feels the same. The fire inside her isn’t one of guilt, but of defiance. "Neither do I."

For a moment, there’s silence between them, a shared understanding that stretches deeper than any words could express. They’ve become something else—something the world might fear. But they don’t care. They aren’t fighting for the approval of others anymore. They’re fighting for each other, for the future they believe in, no matter what it takes.

Hermione sighs softly, her gaze locking with his. "I can’t help but wonder… if we’d fought like this during the war, maybe it would’ve ended quicker."

Harry’s eyes cloud over for a moment, a flicker of pain crossing his features as he considers her words. She knows where his mind has gone—back to the war, to the faces of the people they lost. Fred. Sirius. Cedric. Lupin. Tonks. The faces blur together sometimes, but the grief doesn’t. "Dumbledore was a fool," he says at last, his voice tight with suppressed emotion.

Hermione reaches up, brushing her thumb gently over the stubble on his cheek, knowing how much this subject pains him. "He was doing what he thought was right," Harry continues, his voice filled with a bitterness she’d heard before. "But Voldemort and his followers were butchering people, torturing muggles for sport, and Dumbledore expected us to fight back with what? Expelliarmus ? Stun them and wait for the Aurors? How many Death Eaters escaped or broke free the next day?"

"If we’d just killed them when we had the chance, Voldemort would never have been reborn. We could’ve saved so many lives, ended it all so much sooner." His voice tightens as memories of the war flicker behind his green eyes. "But Dumbledore… he was so obsessed with the idea of 'redemption.' He thought dark magic would corrupt us. But it doesn’t work that way, does it?" He pauses, his voice hardening. "It only corrupts those who are already rotten on the inside."

Hermione listens intently, her thumb still brushing against his cheek, feeling the frustration roll off him. She doesn’t interrupt. This is something Harry needs to say, something he’s carried for too long.

"And he raised me like a pig for slaughter," Harry adds, his tone bitter but with a grim sense of acceptance. "He always knew I was just another weapon in his war. It took me too long to realize it."

Hermione’s own anger flares at the thought. "He used you," she says, her voice edged with contempt. "And then left you to die when it suited his plan."

Harry lets out a dark chuckle, leaning in to press a soft kiss to her forehead. "Yeah," he murmurs against her skin. "But it’s over now. And I’m never going to feel guilty for fighting the way I need to—not anymore. I want a better life for you, for Teddy, for our future children… And I won’t let the world take anything from us again.”

She gazes up at him, her heart pounding with that same shared conviction. His words ignite something in her, not guilt or doubt, but an even fiercer resolve. Everything they’re doing—they’re doing for each other. It’s not wrong in her mind. They’re fighting for a better world, even if it means burning the old one down to ashes.

Harry’s voice lowers again, a dangerous glint in his eyes. "We crossed that line long ago. I don’t regret it. It’s… almost therapeutic, in a way. They deserve every bit of what’s coming."

Hermione strokes his chest, nodding in agreement. "They do." Her voice drops lower as she tilts her head up to meet his gaze. "We’re not stopping at Umbridge and Burke, are we?"

Harry’s lips curl into a dark, dangerous smile. "No," he says, his tone leaving no room for doubt. "We’re not stopping at them."

The thrill that runs through Hermione’s body at his words isn’t one of fear—it’s excitement. They’ve come too far to turn back now. They’ve taken down two of the most corrupt women in the Ministry, and it’s only the beginning.

"The day I was fired," she begins, her voice steady as her thoughts drift back to that fateful day, "Macnair entered Burke’s office just before I was ambushed." She watches Harry’s expression shift, his eyes darkening with hatred at the mention of the man who once was one of Voldemort’s more devoted followers. "I’m pretty sure he got his old job back."

Harry’s jaw tightens, his fists clenching at his sides. "Then he’s next," he says after a tense moment, his voice like ice. "We’ll dismantle the entire system."

Hermione’s heart races as she listens, her fingers tracing circles on his chest. "You do realize what that means, right?" she asks, her voice steady. "We’re talking about killing hundreds—maybe thousands. Voldemort had an army. The Ministry is full of sympathizers, not to mention those who still support his cause even after his death."

"I know." Harry’s response is immediate, and his eyes flash with determination. "And I don’t care. Every one of them deserves to die."

Hermione’s breath hitches, not in fear, but in exhilaration. His resolve fuels her own, pushing her further into the darkness they’ve embraced. The thought of the destruction they’re capable of sends a rush of excitement through her veins.

"The Ministry will figure it out eventually," she murmurs, her fingers pressing into his skin. "We won’t be able to hide behind ‘donations’. The DMLE won’t turn a blind eye to what we’re doing."

"Not if there isn’t a Ministry left to care." Harry’s voice is cold, final.

Hermione blinks, surprised at the sheer scale of what he’s suggesting. "You can’t possibly mean—"

"I do." His expression hardens, and the weight of his words sinks in. "We need to start over, Mi. Burn the whole system to the ground. Every corrupt politician, every leftover Death Eater, every Ministry official who looked the other way while the innocent suffered—they’re all going down."

Hermione stares at him, the reality of what he’s saying settling over her. It’s massive, more than she’d ever envisioned. But as the enormity of the plan dawns on her, she feels no fear, no hesitation. Only the thrill of it. The knowledge that they’re doing what needs to be done, no matter the cost.

"And after that?" she asks, her voice steady, almost curious. "Who’s going to rebuild? Who’s going to take control?"

Harry’s hand tightens around hers, his gaze unwavering. "We will. At least until we can figure out how to restore real democracy—something that actually works this time."

Hermione looks into his eyes, the flicker of passion and conviction burning beneath those emerald depths, a mirror to the fire she feels inside her own chest. Every part of Harry—his determination, his love, his rage—has become hers. There's no hesitation anymore, no fear of what they’ve become. Instead, it’s a comforting certainty, an embrace of the darkness they’ve allowed into their lives.

A slow smile tugs at her lips, soft at first, but growing into something fierce and unyielding. "Can’t wait to burn the world down with you," she whispers, her voice a low murmur that hangs in the air, thick with intent. Her lips find his, and the kiss they share is more than passion—it’s a promise, a binding vow spoken in silence.

Harry responds eagerly, climbing on top of her with a playful grin, his hands trailing down the curves of her naked body with a touch that’s as reverent as it is hungry. The warmth of his skin presses against hers, his erection pressing teasingly into her stomach, and she can feel the electricity of their connection, like fire crackling beneath her skin.

"You’re so fucking sexy when you’re like this," Harry growls, his voice deep and husky, sending a shiver down her spine. His lips brush against her jaw, his breath warm against her skin as he kisses a trail down to her neck. "I’m going to make you forget your own name." He pauses, that mischievous smirk returning. "Again."

Hermione moans softly, her body already reacting to his teasing words, her hips arching instinctively into him. The ache inside her builds, but it’s more than just desire—it’s the need to be close to him, to feel the intensity of their bond. Her fingers dig into his back, pulling him closer, grounding herself in the moment.

"Please..." she breathes, her voice needy and filled with anticipation. Harry’s hand finds its way to her hair, tugging gently as he kisses her fiercely, claiming her lips with the same intensity she feels deep within herself. When he enters her again, there’s no hesitation. She’s already dripping with the evidence of their earlier passion, and the sensation of him filling her once more sends a jolt of pleasure through her body, her back arching as she meets his thrusts.

Their movements are deliberate, slow but powerful, a dance of flesh and fire. The sound of skin against skin fills the room, mingling with their ragged breaths and soft moans. But beyond the physical pleasure, there's an emotional weight to their intimacy, an unspoken understanding that with every kiss, every touch, they are cementing their place in a world they are determined to change—together.

As the intensity builds between them, Hermione’s head falls back, her eyes fluttering shut as she’s lost in the sensation, her heart thudding in sync with Harry’s. Every nerve is alive, on fire, and her hands clutch at his shoulders, her breath hitching with every thrust. But as she approaches the edge, her thoughts aren’t just on the pleasure—they’re on him, on the man she loves, the man who is ready to reshape the world for her, for their future.

When the wave of release finally crashes over her, it’s overwhelming, her body trembling beneath him as she gasps his name. Harry follows soon after, his grip tightening on her hips as he thrusts deep one final time, spilling himself inside her once again.

For a moment, they stay like that, tangled in each other’s arms, their hearts racing as they come down from the high. There’s a lingering sense of peace between them, the air heavy with satisfaction and a renewed sense of purpose.

Harry pulls out of her slowly, rolling onto his side and pulling her close, her head resting on his chest. He runs his fingers through her hair, their breathing gradually evening out.

“We’re not stopping,” Hermione whispers, the words soft but filled with determination. It’s not a question—it's a statement, a reaffirmation of everything they've done and everything they're about to do.

Harry presses a kiss to the top of her head. "No," he agrees quietly, his voice low and steady. "We’re just getting started."

Chapter Text

It had been a week. The news of Agnes Burke’s descent into insanity barely caused a ripple in the wizarding world. She’d ended up in Azkaban, after all, and no one expected people to come back from there with their minds intact. Dementors aren’t known for being rays of sunshine.

Sure, she’d spiraled into madness in less than a week, but if anyone found that alarming, they didn’t show it. The Ministry didn’t care, nor did the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Her husband hadn’t paid them for extra protection, so they’d tossed her into a standard cell, without even a Patronus-casting guard to keep the dementors at bay.

If Burke hadn’t been a monster—if she hadn’t targeted Hermione, of all people—maybe Harry would’ve felt a pang of guilt. But no, he has no regrets. Her fate was sealed, and the world had moved on as though she’d never existed.

No one shed a tear over her arrest. Except, perhaps, her husband, who couldn’t handle the idea of his wife’s mind shattering like brittle glass. The rumor was that he’d thrown himself off a cliff the very day she was declared clinically insane. Harry may or may not have had a hand in ensuring that little detail.

And just like that, the Burkes were erased from the picture. Forever.

‘Yes, Azkaban is cruel,’ Harry mused with a grim smirk, satisfaction curling within him as he recalled how effortlessly everything had come together. How exhilarating it had been to see those who wished death upon Hermione meet a fitting end.

If only Agnes could see now, he thinks. The only person who bothered to utter her name after her ruin was the same man who shattered her mind without a second thought.

“Honestly, Black was the only one who managed to stay sane all along,” Robards had remarked to Harry and Ron at one of their meetings, after Harry casually mentioned her name.

Robards. That’s another problem he needs to deal with, and soon. Insufferable idiot. Harry can see right through the man’s thinly veiled attempts to form a connection between them. It’s almost amusing, the way Robards is trying to use Ron as a bridge, thinking it might earn him Harry’s trust.

But stupidity, Harry had come to realize, seemed a prerequisite for Ministry employees. No one notices the dagger-sharp glares he shoots Ron’s way throughout the day. No one sees the way his fists clench whenever his former best friend ventures too close. It’s like watching a slow-motion disaster. And nobody seems to care.

And every day, Hermione’s theories prove to be more and more accurate.

“They trust and believe what's convenient for them,” Hermione had told him during one of their late-night pillow talks. “If something’s wrong, they won’t see it until it explodes in their faces. It happened with Fudge, it happened with Scrimgeour, it happened with Voldemort, and it’s happening again with Shacklebolt.”

As always, she was right. Wizards, as a whole, seem to follow a pattern of willful ignorance, choosing to close their eyes to anything that disrupts their comfortable little lives.

Ron was no exception.

He hadn’t even asked about Hermione in months, despite knowing that Harry remains in close contact with her. When she still worked at the Ministry, they’d been inseparable during breaks—always together, always a pair. It wasn’t subtle, yet no one, not even Ron, had said a word. It was as if Hermione had simply faded from existence in Ron's mind.

But Harry knows better. The moment their relationship becomes public, Ron will react. He can already picture it—the inevitable tantrum, the accusatory glares, the sense of betrayal from someone who had long since abandoned their friendship.

Harry rolls his eyes just thinking about it. Part of him looks forward to the confrontation, half hoping Hermione won’t stop him before he has the chance to land a few well-deserved punches.

As for the rest of the Weasleys, they remained blissfully oblivious. He couldn’t blame them, though. It had only been two years since Fred’s death, and George was just beginning to rediscover his spirit. Molly still visited Fred’s grave every day, sometimes with Arthur, but mostly alone.

Every. Single. Day.

They say no pain compares to the loss of a child, and Harry believes it. That kind of love—the kind that transcended death itself—is why he’s still alive. His parents had given their lives for him, his mother shielding him from a killing curse to spare herself the unbearable pain of losing him.

That kind of love is incomprehensible, untouchable. 

And it’s one of the reasons why he and Hermione are doing this.

They’re not parents yet, but they plan to be one day. It was one of the very first things they’d discussed when their relationship began two years ago. And this weekend, they are hosting Teddy for the first time. Harry’s looking forward to it—he already knows he’ll burn the world down for his godson if he has to.

Harry’s gaze drifts to Hermione, her nose buried in a stack of notes and books, barely aware of his presence. He smiles, a familiar warmth filling his chest. He’d missed seeing her like this, with a goal driving her every movement.

It brings back fond memories of their time in Hogwarts and the hundreds of times he had to interrupt her studying benders at the library to force her to eat and rest.

While Ron would call her nuts for studying so much and make fun of her disheveled appearance after one of many study marathons she had, Harry had always thought it was cute. 

Back in their sixth year, when they first found out about horcruxes, she must have read through every single book in Hogwarts, searching for answers. He often caught her asleep over endless rolls of parchment and books, passed out from pure exhaustion. Sometimes he felt so bad about waking her up that he simply… didn't, opting for taking her in his arms instead and carrying her sleeping form back to the Gryffindor’s tower.

It used to drive Ginny mad, the way he held Hermione and set her down on the common room's couch before sitting next to her, moving her head to his lap.

But after a few nasty glares and fights, Ginny learned to shut the fuck up. He remembers distinctively telling her not to make him choose, because he wouldn't choose her.

He hates thinking about that time—how he could’ve been with Hermione so much sooner if he hadn’t been such a foolish boy, manipulated by Dumbledore because he’d lacked a father figure.

Harry looks at her again. She seems so different from the girl he’d met in Hogwarts—her hair shorter, her body stronger, her stance fierce and sure. She’s no longer a girl, but a woman. His woman .

Yet, for all the ways she’d changed, some things remained the same. Her eyes still sparkle with that unyielding thirst for knowledge, her hands were smudged with ink, her brow crinkling when she puzzled over something, and that familiar, small smirk still played at her lips when she solved another enigma.

“You’re adorable, you know that?” Harry says with a soft smile, conjuring a glass of water for her. “But you’re going to study yourself into a coma.”

Hermione shoots him a grateful smile, taking the glass and downing it in one go. He leans in, pressing a warm kiss to her cheek before settling beside her.

“Alright, tell me what’s going on in that brilliant mind of yours,” he murmurs, sneaking an arm around her waist.

“We need a plan,” Hermione replies, flipping open a muggle notebook. Amused, Harry raises a brow, and she rolls her eyes in response. “What? It’s far more practical than ink and parchment,” she says with a smirk, her hand already scribbling their ideas.

“You’re not wrong about that,” he admits, his eyes fond as he watches her fall into her element. She always looks so beautiful in moments like this, her mind sharp, focused, lighting up with purpose. There’s a fire in her gaze that he hadn’t seen in ages.

“So… what are you thinking?” he asks, leaning a little closer, drawn to her intensity.

She takes a deep breath, her shoulders rising and falling as if she were steeling herself. “I’m thinking…” she begins, her voice soft but filled with steel, “I’m thinking we need to scare them, Harry.”

A shadow of dark amusement plays across his face. “What do you mean?” he asks, though he has a feeling he already knows.

Hermione glances up, her eyes glinting with something darker than he’d never seen in her before. “I mean…” she pauses, as if weighing her words. “Making an example out of Macnair. I’m thinking… we should be brutal.”

The suggestion lingers between them, both chilling and exhilarating, and Harry feels the smirk rising unbidden to his lips. “I’m listening,” he says, unable to hide his satisfaction.

“Easy there, Jack the Ripper,” she chuckles, though her tone is light, a slight blush creeping to her cheeks. But her eyes hold no amusement—they are fierce, determined. “Let me finish talking.”

Her words make him smile, and he can’t resist a small laugh as he squeezes her waist. There she is, his Hermione, blushing even while plotting something so ruthless. “Macnair,” she continues, more serious now, “Was in Voldemort’s inner circle. I think… we start with him. Make an example of him. Others will fall in line.”

He leans back, the weight of her suggestion settling in his chest like iron. “Macnair, Malfoy, Rookwood, Rosier, Lestrange, Dolohov, Avery, Yaxley… Snake’s face most loyal followers.” he murmurs, his voice growing colder as he lists the names. Each one feels like another link in the chain that binds him to that bloody night, that final battle. His fists clench. “I’m not opposed to that.”

Hermione nods, flipping to a fresh page, her face set in grim determination. “Rookwood and Dolohov are still in Azkaban,” she explains, her voice dropping, an edge of sorrow woven in. “Rookwood killed Fred. Dolohov killed Lupin and Tonks. The only reason they’re still in there is because of you, Mr. Weasley, and Andromeda. But they have patronuses guarding their cells, and I have no doubt they’ll buy their way out soon, just like the others.”

Harry feels something cold twist in his stomach. The thought of them walking free sends a shiver down his spine. “If that happens…”

“It’s not a matter of ‘if,’ love. It’s ‘when,’ ” Hermione says, a touch of sadness shadowing her eyes. “Yaxley’s still at the DMLE, so are Rosier and Avery. They’ll help them. They’re just waiting for the right moment, for something big enough to distract everyone.”

Harry takes a shaky breath, the anger simmering just below the surface. “If they do, good.” His tone is almost chilling. “I’ve wanted to get my hands on them since that night.”

Hermione reaches out, resting her hand atop his clenched fist. “Malfoy and Lestrange are the only ones whose locations are unknown. It’ll take us a while to track them down.” Her voice is soft, reassuring, and yet it holds a promise—a promise to see this through, together.

“Macnair is first, then,” Harry says, the decision falling from his lips like a stone, final and unyielding. “When?”

She pauses, calculating. “In a few weeks. We need to practice, Harry. A lot. I need to practice.” Her gaze drops for a moment. “I’m not a natural in dark magic like you are.”

His heart softens at the slight vulnerability in her voice. “I’ll teach you,” he promises, his tone gentle, his hand coming up to brush her hair back again, so he could press a soft kiss to her forehead. “We have books, and I can use polyjuice to get us more from Knockturn Alley.”

She smirks, though her brow lifts in a playful scowl. “You do that. I’m not turning into a man again.”

He laughs, the sound like a balm to his heavy heart. “Yes, dear. I’ll do it.”

Hermione lets out a resigned sigh, a touch of bitterness slipping into her voice. “I guess I’ll have plenty of time to read now that I’m unemployed.”

Harry’s expression darkens, remembering her unjust dismissal. “I could pull some strings to get your job back,” he offers, though the thought of her returning to that den of snakes makes his blood boil. “Burke isn’t around anymore.”

Hermione shakes her head, letting out a dry laugh. “Sweetheart, no offense, but I’d rather eat glass.” His relief is evident, and she rolls her eyes. “You don’t have to act so relieved.”

He chuckles, kissing her temple tenderly. “Yes, I do. They treated you like rubbish. You deserve so much better.” He stays quiet for a moment, his fingers absentmindedly tracing circles on her shoulder. “I want to quit,” he finally says, almost to himself.

Hermione closes her notebook, her hand coming to rest over his. “You can’t,” she murmurs softly, a note of apology in her voice. “Not yet. We need information only you can get us.”

He sighs, frustration lacing his words. “I know… I just… I hate them, Mi. Every single one of them. I wish I could just stay here, with you, helping you study, planning this out.”

She lifts her gaze to meet his, a small, reassuring smile playing on her lips. “You will, Harry. You’ll find the time.”

He looks at her, feeling a rush of warmth despite the dark conversation. “Well… I still want to be around you all day.”

Hermione chuckles, rising to her feet and sliding onto his lap, her arms looping around his neck. “You’re a wicked man, Mr. Potter. We wouldn’t get anything done.”

Harry laughs, the warmth of her pressed against him stirring something deep and fierce within him. He leans into her, brushing his lips along her jaw, a mischievous smile tugging at his mouth. “You’re no saint, either, love.”

She tilts her head, a smirk in her eyes. “I never claimed I was.”

He kisses her temple, letting the moment linger, a rare slice of happiness carved out in the midst of their chaos. “We’ll start on Monday. Andromeda’s bringing Teddy to stay with us for the weekend.”

Her face lights up, her smile wide and bright, chasing away the shadows in the room. “Really? Oh, Harry! That’s wonderful!”

Harry smiles, a twinge of sadness in his eyes “Yeah. I was talking to Andromeda earlier today. Did you know that daycares are refusing to take Teddy in?”

Hermione freezes, her eyes turning sad “What? Why? He’s the sweetest kid I’ve ever met.”

“Son of a werewolf.” Harry mumbles angrily “It doesn’t matter that he has absolutely zero traits of lycantropy on him, or that his father is dead. They’re still refusing to take him in because it might scare the other kid’s parents. And he can’t go to muggle daycare because he’s a metamorphmagus, and…”

"Wait… they won’t accept him… just because he’s Remus’s son?" Hermione whispers, her voice sharp with disbelief.

The words hang in the air, charged and bitter, and Harry feels his jaw clench. “Yeah,” he says quietly, an edge in his voice. “They keep turning Andromeda away, telling her it’s ‘just not a fit,’ like Teddy’s some… some threat. Like he's anything but a little kid who’s lost everything because of people like them.”

Hermione’s eyes turn cold, a fire sparking in their depths. “This is despicable. Teddy’s just a child, Harry. He’s… he’s the kindest, gentlest soul. And they’re labeling him because of something he had no choice in—something that doesn’t even define him.”

The bitterness in Harry's heart swells, and he feels the anger simmering under his skin. “It’s exactly what Remus feared. He wanted Teddy to grow up in a better world, he died trying to ensure a better world for him. But here we are.” He drops his gaze, swallowing back the frustration and sadness that press against him.

Hermione reaches up, fingers brushing against his cheek, urging him to look at her. “We won’t let them treat him like this, Harry. We’ve fought too hard, lost too much, to let people stay this… small.” Her voice breaks, but only for a moment. “Teddy will know he’s loved. That he’s valued, and perfect as he is.”

A lump rises in Harry’s throat, and he nods, her fierce resolve stoking something in him, transforming his anger into a steely, sharpened determination. “We’ll find a way, Mi. For Teddy, for Remus… for everyone who deserves better than this.”

“The more I think about our world,” she begins, her voice barely above a whisper, as if speaking too loudly might shatter the fragile stillness around them, “the more certain I am that what we’re planning… it’s the only way. It can’t stay like this.”

Her words hang heavy between them, a quiet declaration laced with fire. Harry feels something twist in his chest—a mixture of pride, admiration, and something deeper that he struggles to name. He lets his hand drift to her hair, fingers threading through the silky strands with a tenderness that belies the weight of their conversation. He drops a gentle kiss on top of her head, closing his eyes for a moment as if that could seal the promise they’d just made.

“I know,” he replies, voice soft but filled with the weight of his resolve. His lips linger against her hair, inhaling the familiar, comforting scent of her. “We’ll change it. For Teddy. For you. For everyone.”

Hermione watches with a smile as Harry devours the last piece of sausage, his jaw working lazily as he uses his wand to send the plate to the sink, where it begins to wash itself with a soft, soapy clink. He glances at her, still chewing, and winks.

“Thanks, sweetheart,” he mumbles through the mouthful, reaching to swipe a napkin across his lips as he stands.

Hermione gives him a fond, amused shake of her head, her smile reaching her eyes. “Manners, Harry. Honestly, sometimes I swear you’re still a teenager,” she teases, a playful glint in her gaze.

Harry only smirks, leaning over her. “And yet,” he says, his voice dropping to a mischievous murmur, “you love me.”

She rolls her eyes, though the warmth in her chest betrays her. “Despite your lack of table manners, yes, I do,” she says softly, her words laced with affection.

With a grin, he flops onto the couch beside her, stretching his arm out over the back and letting his hand rest on her thigh. His fingers slide up in slow, lazy circles, a hint of mischief in his touch that sends a pleasant shiver through her. She laughs, swatting at his hand as he grins wider, moving even closer until she can feel the warmth of him, the faint hint of cedar and fresh air lingering from his coat.

“Harry, you have to go pick up Teddy,” she says, though her voice is softer now, laced with a laugh she can’t quite suppress.

“I still have five minutes…” he whispers, his lips brushing her ear before he trails his nose gently along the line of her neck, breathing her in.

She closes her eyes, caught for a moment, her heart fluttering under the warmth of his breath. She lets out a soft, breathless laugh, one hand coming up to press lightly against his shoulder, but her resolve melts as he nuzzles her neck, his familiar scent making her feel both giddy and anchored. "Five minutes," she mutters, somewhere between amusement and exasperation. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

He only chuckles, his lips grazing just below her ear, a spot that makes her heart beat just a little faster. “And yet, you still keep me around.”

She sighs theatrically, leaning her head back, her fingers curling into his shoulder as if conceding defeat. “I suppose I can tolerate you,” she says, the words carrying a warmth that’s impossible to mask. Her lips quirk into a teasing smile. "For Teddy's sake, of course."

“Oh, of course,” he murmurs, brushing a kiss along her jaw, lingering just a beat longer. “Purely for Teddy.”

For a moment, they sit in a shared silence, wrapped in the soft light of the morning, his hand warm against her thigh. The air between them feels almost tangible, filled with years of laughter, trust, and a love so deep it no longer needed words. Hermione’s hand comes up, brushing lightly through his hair, a small, gentle touch that says everything she doesn’t need to say out loud.

With a soft sigh, she rests her forehead against his for just a moment before gently pressing him back. “Go,” she says with a smile, though her voice is tender. “Teddy’s waiting.”

Harry lets out a groan, finally getting to his feet, but not without planting a lingering kiss on her lips first. “Fine,” he mutters, “but only because you asked so nicely.”

Hermione laughs as he pulls on his coat, his eyes lingering on her with that familiar sparkle. He winks, then heads to the fireplace, pausing to throw one last fond glance over his shoulder.

He disappears with a soft fire roar, and Hermione sits for a moment, feeling the warmth of his presence lingering in the room. She finds herself smiling, her fingers absently tracing where his hand had been on her thigh. It's a warmth that wraps around her, filling the empty space he’s left with the certainty of a love that feels as timeless as magic itself.

With a quiet sigh, she reaches for the remote, flipping on the muggle television. It’s a habit she’s never been able to shake—keeping an eye on muggle news. The habit had started after Voldemort’s return, a subtle reminder of the ripples magic cast into the muggle world. Now, it’s grown into a necessity, something that bridges her two worlds in ways few could understand.

As the news flickers onto the screen, her contentment fades. The familiar weight of grim awareness settles over her shoulders. Just last week, a muggle restaurant in Hastings had mysteriously exploded, leaving investigators baffled. No traces of bombs, no gas leaks, no fires—just devastation. To the muggle authorities, it’s an enigma. But to Hermione, it’s unmistakable.

The signs are chillingly clear to her trained eye. She knows all too well that only magic could cause such a clean, fireless explosion. Someone had cast a Bombarda spell—targeting innocent muggles simply for the thrill of destruction. Three lives lost senselessly. One of them was a one-year-old baby girl, whose life had barely begun.

The familiar ache of anger and sorrow stirs deep within her. These acts aren’t random; they’re deliberate, calculated. Wizards, drunk on the remnants of Voldemort’s hateful ideals, striking fear into those they deemed lesser. Her fingers clench around the remote, white-knuckled, as a fire burns hot in her chest. Every fiber of her being wants to stop this. Wants to put an end to the senseless cruelty bleeding from her world into the one she once called home.

Hermione’s jaw tightens as she watches the screen, her mind already whirring with possibilities, strategies, plans. Every piece of information is a thread she could weave together, a way to track these acts back to their source. The thought of doing nothing is unbearable. She won’t allow these atrocities to continue unchecked. Not in her world. Not in any world.

“ We begin the day with a tragic story from Bristol, where a family of six has been found dead under mysterious circumstances. Authorities are investigating the unexpected deaths of a mother, father, and their four children, ranging in age from 11 to 54.” The muggle man from the TV says, catching Hermione’s attention.

“This heart-wrenching incident unfolded earlier today when emergency responders were called to the family home. Upon arrival, they discovered the bodies of Nadine and Dave Campbell, both 54 years old, along with their four children: 21-year-old Charlotte Campbell, 16-year-old Maisie Campbell, 26-year-old Duncan Campbell, and 11-year-old Alexander Campbell.” The man continues “ Authorities reported that all six individuals appeared to have died suddenly and without any visible signs of trauma or struggle, raising concerns about a possible unidentified environmental hazard. There were no signs of forced entry into the home. Preliminary investigations have focused on whether toxic substances or undetected health issues could have played a role in this tragedy.”

Hermione’s heart races as she listens, a cold shiver running down her spine. The news anchor’s steady voice seems to echo in her mind, intertwining with the rising tide of dread swelling in her chest. The names of the Campbell family linger in the air, heavy and foreboding. Nadine and Dave, Charlotte, Maisie, Duncan, and little Alexander—lives extinguished, potential snuffed out without a trace, all for reasons yet unknown. The cold, clinical language of the report does nothing to shield her from the horror of it all.

No visible signs of trauma or struggle.

The words twist in her mind like a dagger, and she feels the world around her blur momentarily. It’s all too familiar. The suddenness, the silence of death without a fight. It reeks of magic, something insidious that could creep in unnoticed, infecting the very fabric of their lives.

She can’t shake the image of the little boy, Alexander, just a few years older than Teddy, his future erased without warning. What could have done this? What kind of monster lurks in the shadows, poised to strike at the heart of families like the Campbells, simply to instill fear or chaos?

The report continues, but her mind races ahead, connecting dots that haven’t even been drawn. She glances at the clock, the seconds ticking away like a countdown to action. Every part of her screams to investigate, to dig deeper. She knows she can’t stand idly by while innocent lives are snuffed out.

“Investigators are urging anyone with information to come forward...” The anchor’s voice fades into the background as Hermione’s thoughts swirl. What if this is linked to the wizarding world? It probably is, considering how much death eaters used to enjoy killing and torturing muggles for fun.

Hermione glances back at the TV, now showing images of the Campbell family, their smiling faces a stark contrast to the tragic news. She feels a lump in her throat, her resolve hardening. No more complacency. She won’t allow them to be forgotten, just another statistic in a growing list of tragedies.

“MINI!” A gleeful voice pierces through her thoughts, and in the next moment, little arms are around her neck, tugging her back into the here and now. Hermione blinks, warmth flooding her chest as Teddy clambers onto her lap, wrapping his small, soft arms around her as if he could sense the darkness in her heart and wanted to fill it with light.

A genuine smile breaks through her somber expression, and she presses her face to his hair, feeling the silky strands shifting under her touch. 

“Hey, Teddy-bear,” she murmurs, brushing a strand of turquoise from his forehead. His hair ripples through shades of blue and green in response, mirroring his boundless joy as he gazes up at her, his eyes wide with excitement.

“Unca Harry picked me up!” he announces, his voice bubbling with pride and wonder.

“Yes, I did.” Harry’s voice joins the moment, warm and low as he steps into the room. There’s a soft smile on his face, a flicker of peace in his eyes as he watches Hermione with his godson. “You’re spending the whole weekend with Auntie Mi and me, Teddy.”

“YAY!” Teddy’s cheer echoes in the room, the pure joy in his voice like a spell, warding off the shadows lingering in Hermione’s heart. She can’t help but laugh as he bounces in her lap, his little feet kicking in excitement.

Hermione smiles, though her heart aches a little. She wonders what it would be like if every child could feel this safe, this free from fear. If the Campbells had been able to hug their children one last time. She holds Teddy a little tighter, as if, by some magic, she can protect him from everything dark and cruel in the world.

“You are the most adorable creature on Earth, did you know that?” she says, her voice softening as she cups his cheek, brushing her thumb over his warm skin. Teddy grins, his hair morphing again, this time mirroring her own. The sight makes her heart swell, and she claps her hands as he watches her, delighted by her reaction. She presses a kiss to the top of his head, his small arms hugging her tighter.

Harry settles beside them, his smile widening as he leans in to press a kiss to Teddy’s chubby cheek. “Alright. That’s it. I’m not going to work today.” His voice is teasing, but there’s a seriousness in his gaze as he looks at Hermione, as if he’s half-tempted to stay, to close off the outside world and keep them all safe in this moment of warmth.

Hermione glances at him, a gentle sadness in her eyes. “Harry…”

“Hermione, come on,” he sighs, giving her a playful pout, but he’s interrupted by Teddy’s giggles.

“Herminini!” Teddy says, his face lighting up with pride as he stumbles through her name.

Hermione chuckles, the sound light and airy. “It’s Hermione, love. Her-my-own-ee.”

“He-my-nini!” Teddy repeats, beaming as if he’s conquered a mountain. “Mini!”

Hermione grins, ruffling his hair. “I’ll take it. At least this one sounds like a word. When he was younger, I swear he’d just babble instead of even trying.”

Harry’s smile lingers as he brushes a lock of her short hair back, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. “Really, Mi. Why can’t I call in sick today?”

Hermione’s expression shifts, a subtle sadness clouding her gaze. She glances toward the TV, where the anchor’s voice continues in the background, the gruesome details weaving a silent tension into the room. Teddy, oblivious, is babbling happily in her lap, his innocent laughter a shield against the ugly reality lurking on the screen.

Harry’s smile falters as he catches her look, his face softening with understanding. Hermione sighs, her heart aching as she bounces Teddy gently in her lap, a distraction for both of them.

“See that chest over there, Teddy?” she says, her tone brightening as she nods toward the toy chest in the corner. “Uncle Harry and I might have filled it with new toys! Why don’t you go find one for us to play with?”

With a delighted squeal, Teddy scrambles off her lap, his little feet padding across the floor as he rushes to the chest. Hermione watches him go, her heart heavy.

“A whole family?” Harry asks quietly, his face darkening as he processes her earlier hint.

Hermione nods, her eyes filling with unshed tears. “Including an eleven-year-old child.” Her voice wavers, thick with grief and anger. “I swear, Harry, this has to be Death Eaters. It has their hatred all over it. Something like this… it doesn’t just happen.”

Harry’s jaw tightens, his expression hardening. “I know. I’ll get more info and talk to Robards,” he says, a steely resolve settling in his eyes. He reaches for her, cupping her cheek, and she leans into his touch, finding a measure of comfort in his warmth.

She nods, a heavy sigh escaping her. “I hate asking you to go. I want you to stay, but…” Her words trail off, her gaze falling.

He lifts her chin, his voice gentle yet firm. “I know, love. And I will, as soon as I can. I’ll stop by a muggle newsstand before work, get the details. I’ve got this.” He presses another kiss to her forehead, lingering just a moment longer, and she closes her eyes, absorbing the strength in his embrace.

A soft smile tugs at her lips as Teddy bounds back, his arms full of a plush wolf and a tiny toy broom. His eyes are wide with pride, and she can’t help but laugh, her heart swelling with a fierce, protective love.

“You found them, Teddy-bear!” she says, scooping him back into her lap, her fingers threading through his turquoise curls. His laughter bubbles up, pure and free, filling every shadowed corner of her heart. She meets Harry’s gaze over Teddy’s head, a silent promise passing between them.

“Alright, Teddy,” Harry says, his voice warm with affection, “are you going to show us your best flying skills?”

The boy’s eyes light up, and he nods vigorously. “Yes, Unca Harry! I’m gonna fly soooo fast!” He wiggles out of Hermione’s lap and starts to ‘fly’ his toy broom around the living room, his little footsteps thudding softly on the floor as he imagines himself zooming through the sky.

Hermione’s laughter fades as she turns back to Harry, the lightness from before dimming, replaced by that familiar, grim resolve. “It’s happening again.” she murmurs, barely loud enough for him to hear. “We thought we were done with this... that they were done.”

Harry’s expression hardens, his eyes flicking back to the TV, where the smiling faces of the Campbells linger in a haunting contrast to their fate. “The worst of it never left, and they won’t leave because freedom can be bought now,” he says bitterly. “They’re out there, acting like Voldemort never died.”

He reaches out, brushing her cheek softly. “We’ll find out who’s behind this and kill them.” he promises, his voice filled with a fierce determination that she knows all too well. “Our plan will work, Mi.”

She places her hand over his, squeezing gently. “I know.” she says, her tone just as resolute.

Their shared vow hangs in the air between them, a silent promise woven into the fabric of their bond. As they hold each other’s gaze, Teddy’s happy giggles pull them back into the moment, a reminder of the joy they’re fighting to protect.

“Mini! Look at me!” Teddy cries, grinning widely as he zooms his toy broom over to her, mimicking flying with a fierce concentration. She laughs and claps her hands, playing along and reaching out as if to catch him mid-flight.

“Wow, Teddy, that was incredible! You’re going to be an amazing flyer one day, just like uncle Harry!” she says, grinning, her voice light and full of admiration.

Harry’s hand moves to her shoulder, a soft squeeze grounding her before he kneels beside Teddy, his expression softening. “Alright, little man, I have to head to work,” he says, his tone gentle yet firm. He ruffles Teddy’s vibrant turquoise hair, his smile warm and full of affection. “You take care of Auntie Mi while I’m gone, yeah?”

Teddy’s face falls, his tiny brow furrowing. “You have to go?” he asks, clinging to Harry’s arm, his small hands clutching tightly.

Harry nods, giving him a reassuring smile. “Just for a little while. I’ll be back before you know it,” he promises, pulling Teddy into a tight hug. “And when I come back, we’ll have a special adventure, alright?”

Teddy brightens, nodding eagerly. “Promise?” he asks, his voice soft, still clinging to Harry.

“Promise.” Harry leans down, pressing a kiss to Teddy’s forehead before letting him go. Teddy’s small arms finally loosen, though he looks up at Harry with a lingering pout.

As Harry stands, his gaze shifts back to Hermione. “I’ll stop by the newsstand, get the details, and talk to Robards,” he says softly, pressing a gentle kiss to her temple. “I’ll keep you updated.”

She nods, glancing down as Teddy scrambles back into her lap, clutching his toys and resting his head on her shoulder. “Stay safe, Harry,” she murmurs, her eyes locking onto his. “Love you.”

“I always do. Love you too.” He cups her cheek, brushing his fingers through her hair one last time, before he lets his hand fall, reluctantly heading toward the door. He casts one last look at them—Hermione with her arms wrapped tightly around Teddy, the child nestled against her—and his expression softens, a mixture of love and fierce protectiveness.

As the door closes behind him, Hermione feels the familiar ache settle in her chest—a mingling of hope and worry that she can’t quite shake.

Harry strides through the corridors of the Auror’s headquarters, his footsteps echoing in the polished marble hallways. The usual hum of quiet conversation dies as he passes, his presence a storm cloud of intensity that seems to ripple through the air. Colleagues glance up from their desks, some with curiosity, others with apprehension, but Harry’s focus remains unbroken, his gaze fixed straight ahead. The tension in his clenched fists and rigid posture makes it clear that he’s not here for small talk.

As he approaches Robards’ office, he barely slows, his hand gripping the doorknob with such force that the door swings open with a resounding bang. He steps inside, his jaw set in determination, and without a word, he throws the crumpled muggle newspaper onto Robards' desk. It lands with a smack, the headline glaring up at them both. Harry’s glare is sharp enough to cut through steel, his entire body taut with barely-contained fury as he waits for his superior to acknowledge him.

“Read,” he demands, voice low and dangerous.

Robards glances down at the headline: Family of Six Found Dead in Bristol.

The subheading reads, No signs of injury or forced entry. Autopsies reveal no traces of drugs or poison.

“This isn’t some random muggle tragedy, and you know it,” Harry seethes, his voice barely restrained. “This wasn’t an accident. There’s no muggle explanation that makes sense here.”

Robards leans back, giving the article a dismissive glance. “It could be a muggle disease we’re not aware of,” he suggests, his tone infuriatingly calm.

Harry's patience snaps, and he slams his fist on the desk, sending the paper sliding off onto the floor. “It’s not a fucking disease, you moron!” he shouts, his voice echoing off the walls. “People don’t just drop dead with no explanation, not like this!”

Robards sighs, his gaze unmoved. “Harry, calm down. We have protocols—”

“Screw the protocols!” Harry’s voice is rough with rage. “While we sit here debating, someone out there is targeting families. Innocent people are dying, and you’re too thick to see that it’s not a coincidence.”

For a long moment, silence settles between them, thick and tense. Robards shifts uncomfortably, his hands shaking, probably itching to fiddle with one of his trinkets, but Harry’s gaze never wavers, burning with a determination Robards can’t ignore.

Harry’s fury only grows as Robards meets his gaze with indifference. His pulse thrums in his ears, and he steps closer, gripping the edge of the desk so hard his knuckles turn white.

“They killed a child, Robards,” he says, voice dropping to a venomous whisper. “An eleven-year-old, not even old enough to know what’s out there. That whole family was wiped out, and you’re going to sit there and pretend it’s just some muggle disease?”

Robards raises an eyebrow, his lips pressed into a thin line. “And what exactly would you have me do, Potter? Do you have any evidence it’s magical?”

Harry’s glare intensifies, and he gestures sharply at the paper on the floor. “Evidence? I don’t need evidence to know how these things go. How many times have we seen Death Eaters work like this? They leave nothing behind but bodies, because they know how to cover their tracks. And now we’re giving them a free pass because it’s ‘unexplainable’? It’s bloody obvious !”

Robards leans back in his chair, trying to act unbothered, as if Harry’s anger is an inconvenience rather than a warning. But Harry can see the man’s eyelid twitching. “That’s exactly why we proceed carefully. The Auror Office can’t go around accusing people of dark magic without proof. We can’t risk a panic, especially when there’s no concrete indication this is our jurisdiction.”

Harry’s fists clench, his frustration simmering just below the surface. He wants to shout, to shake Robards into understanding the urgency, but he forces himself to take a deep, steadying breath. “Families are being slaughtered, and you’re worried about protocol?” His voice drops, but the threat beneath it is unmistakable. “I am not going to let this go.”

Robards sighs, rubbing his temples. “I know you’ve been through a lot, Potter, but—”

Harry slams his hand down again, rattling the few scattered quills and trinkets on the desk. “Don’t you dare patronize me,” he snarls. “This isn’t about my past. It’s about doing what’s right. These people are gone because someone wanted them gone, and we both know that leaves only one explanation. You can either get behind this, or you can stand aside while I do your job for you.”

Robards finally shifts, a flicker of fear crossing his face, but he quickly schools his expression. “And what do you plan to do? Storm into muggle neighborhoods and start interrogating people?”

“If that’s what it takes,” Harry snaps, his tone icy. He straightens, casting a withering look down at Robards. “I’m done watching innocent people suffer while you wait for some convenient piece of ‘proof.’”

Robards looks away, avoiding Harry’s gaze. “Fine,” he mutters reluctantly. “I’ll let you look into it… unofficially. But don’t make a scene. We’re already under enough scrutiny as it is.”

Harry turns, jaw clenched, his body tense. He pauses at the doorway, glancing back over his shoulder with a look that’s as close to a warning as it is a promise. “If you’d done your job in the first place, none of this would be necessary. If the DMLE wasn’t made out of fucking…” He takes a deep breath, trying to contain himself. “I’ll get the answers—with or without your blessing.”

Without waiting for a response, he stalks out of the office, the door slamming shut behind him, leaving Robards in stunned silence.

Harry spends the next hour at his desk, his irritation simmering as he thumbs through case files and scribbles out quick notes, trying to drown out his frustration with work. Hermione’s gift from before his US trip—a thick and heavy muggle cellphone—is clutched in his hand, and every few minutes he dials the Bristol police department, weaving carefully around the edges of his questions. It’s slow-going; the Muggle officers are wary, suspicious of an outsider, but Harry’s relentless. Even without the Ministry’s backing, he’ll get what he needs. It’s just another reminder that the “new era” the Ministry promised has fallen painfully short.

Just then, a wave of energy rolls through the room, and the scattered hum of conversations drops to an abrupt silence. Harry doesn’t have to look up to know why—the Minister for Magic himself, Kingsley Shacklebolt, has entered the Auror headquarters. Around him, Aurors stand up quickly, their eyes lighting up with admiration and respect as they straighten their postures. It’s an almost practiced display, this sycophantic ritual that’s become all too common. And it makes Harry sick to his stomach. He keeps his head down, a muscle in his jaw tightening as he continues jotting notes, refusing to indulge in the show.

Harry can feel Kingsley’s gaze brush past him, a brief glance that holds something unreadable. It’s been over two years since they fought together, shoulder to shoulder, in the war—a time when Harry genuinely admired the man. But now, all he can see is the leader who promised a new world, only to let it slip back into darkness. This is the hero they’re all so eager to please, he thinks, biting back a bitter laugh.

Kingsley strides past and enters Robards’ office, the heavy door closing behind him with a quiet click. It’s not ten minutes later when the door swings open again, and a junior Auror calls out Harry’s name, summoning him to join them. There’s a murmur of curiosity from his colleagues, a few eyebrows raised in surprise, but Harry ignores them, pushing himself up from his chair and striding over to the office with steady, determined steps.

Inside, Kingsley stands beside Robards’ desk, his expression unreadable. Robards himself looks uncomfortable, shifting in his chair, his fingers drumming against the edge of a file on his desk. Harry’s sharp gaze flicks between the two men, his eyes narrowing as he braces himself for whatever bureaucratic nonsense they’re about to throw his way.

“Harry,” Kingsley begins, his voice carefully measured. “We need you to drop everything you’re working on.”

It takes every ounce of Harry’s control not to react, but his hands ball into fists at his sides, knuckles going white. He bites back the urge to argue, forcing himself to remain silent as Kingsley continues, his tone deliberate.

“We’ve received intelligence indicating that three high-ranking Death Eaters—Lucius Malfoy, along with the Lestrange brothers, Rodolphus and Rabastan—are active again.” Kingsley’s face is impassive, his words carefully chosen. “There’s reason to believe they’re working together, potentially organizing a new movement. We need you to focus all your efforts on tracking them down and bringing them in.”

The air in the room feels suddenly too thick, pressing down on Harry, making it harder to breathe. This is what they called him in here for? To ignore a family’s brutal death in favor of chasing after old names from a war that should have ended years ago? He can feel the resentment bubbling up inside him, threatening to boil over.

He breathes deeply, the sound sharp in the stillness of the room. Harry doesn’t need to be reminded of Lucius Malfoy and the Lestranges. He already had plans of his own to hunt them down one day, to give them the reckoning they’d so narrowly escaped. But he’d wanted to do it his way, on his terms, with Hermione. He wasn’t naive enough to think that the Ministry would ever hand them over to true justice. If anything, he’d been counting on them to keep looking the other way, just long enough for him to ensure that they’d never hurt anyone again.

Now, though, he has more pressing matters—a muggle family, innocent and already dead, snatched away by something the Ministry refuses to see. And he knows, with a bitter certainty, that Kingsley showing up here, right now, is no coincidence. They want his focus on the past, not on the present horrors that have begun creeping into the world again.

Harry’s eyes cut sharply to Robards, who shifts uncomfortably in his chair, his gaze darting away. There’s something almost pitiful in the man’s posture, his shoulders slumped, fingers fidgeting with a stack of untouched files on his desk. Harry’s jaw clenches, and his stare hardens, seething with unspoken judgment. Coward. The word burns in his mind, branding itself in every line of Robards’ slouched form, in the way he avoids Harry’s glare like a man shrinking from his own reflection.

“So you’re telling me,” Harry says slowly, each word laced with venom, “that I’m supposed to ignore the family found dead in Bristol? To drop everything on that, just so I can go after Malfoy and the Lestranges—men who would be rotting in Azkaban if they hadn’t bought their freedom?”

Kingsley’s gaze remains steady, though Harry doesn’t miss the faint flicker of irritation that crosses his face. “I understand your concerns, Harry. But this is a priority. Lucius Malfoy and the Lestranges pose a significant threat.”

Harry’s laugh is sharp and humorless, a sound that cuts through the tension in the room. “A threat? They pose a ‘significant threat’? And what about the threat we’re ignoring right here, right now? What about the Campbells, who died because the Ministry is too busy chasing its own tail to care about the people it’s supposed to protect?” His voice rises, the controlled fury in his tone breaking free. “But sure, let’s go after the ones who bought their own freedom and arrest them again. Let’s pretend that the DMLE won’t free them in exchange for a few hefty donations, huh?”

Robards shifts uncomfortably, his gaze darting between Harry and Kingsley, but he doesn’t intervene. Kingsley’s expression, however, hardens, and he takes a measured step closer, his voice dropping to a low, controlled tone. “This isn’t up for debate, Harry. The orders are clear. You’re to track down Malfoy and the Lestranges, and you’re to do so immediately.”

As the tension in the room thickens, Kingsley’s gaze sharpens, as though he’s gearing up for another blow. Just as Harry starts to turn away, Kingsley clears his throat, halting him in his tracks.

“There’s one more thing, Harry,” Kingsley says, his voice betraying a hint of reluctance. He exchanges a quick, uneasy glance with Robards, who shifts uncomfortably in his chair, the frown lines on his face deepening.

Harry pauses, his brow furrowing as he waits, wondering what more they could possibly pile onto his shoulders.

“A reporter will be joining you throughout the next week,” Kingsley continues, his tone carrying a forced neutrality. “The Ministry believes it’s… important to maintain transparency with the public, given recent concerns.” He carefully avoids Harry’s eye, choosing instead to glance down at a stray piece of parchment on Robards’ desk.

For a split second, Harry is speechless. A reporter. Observing his every move, cataloging every choice he makes. His anger, simmering just below the surface, flares into something dangerous, a flash of fire that he barely contains. Transparency? he thinks, biting down the urge to laugh bitterly. The Ministry, which has spent years cloaking its operations in shadows and deceit, now wants transparency ?

He grits his teeth, forcing himself to stay composed. “So you want me to go after Malfoy and the Lestranges—ignoring everything else on my desk—and you want me to do it under the scrutiny of a reporter?” His voice is edged with incredulity, a cold sarcasm that isn’t lost on either of the men standing before him.

Robards opens his mouth as if to interject, but a sharp look from Kingsley silences him. “Yes, Harry,” Kingsley replies firmly, his expression hardening. “This is not up for discussion. The reporter will arrive Monday morning and will be given access to observe your work. I trust you’ll cooperate.”

Harry’s fists clench again, his nails digging into his palms as he fights the urge to argue, to demand they at least pretend to respect his judgment. But he forces himself to swallow it down, drawing in a steadying breath as he nods curtly, his jaw set.

“Understood,” he grinds out, his voice colder than before. He shoots Kingsley one last, defiant glare before turning sharply on his heel and heading for the door, his back ramrod straight as he strides out of the office.

The irony is bitter on his tongue. They want him to put on a show for the public, to paint a picture of a righteous Ministry, unyielding in its pursuit of justice. But Harry knows better. The rot is too deep to hide, and he won’t let them use him as a pawn to cover it up. As he heads back to his desk, he can feel the weight of his colleagues’ eyes on him, but he’s already made up his mind.

Fine, he thinks bitterly. They want a spectacle? I’ll give them one.

Chapter Text

Harry steps into the room, the soft hum of domesticity wrapping around him like a soothing balm. Hermione is crouched by Teddy’s colorful new toy chest, her wand moving gracefully as she levitates a small, plush dragon into its place. The dragon lets out a faint squeak of protest before settling inside, and the sight almost coaxes a smile from Harry—almost.

“How was work?” Hermione asks gently, her gaze shifting to his face. The subtle furrow of her brow tells him she already knows the answer.

Harry exhales heavily, his shoulders sagging under the weight of the day. He drags a hand over his face, the motion rough and tired, before collapsing onto the couch. Hermione doesn’t hesitate; she joins him, settling beside him with a quiet understanding.

As if by instinct, Harry shifts, laying his head on her lap. He closes his eyes, the tension in his body easing for the first time in hours as Hermione’s fingers find his hair. She runs them through the dark, unruly strands, her touch light and soothing.

“Confronted Robards about that muggle family,” Harry begins, his voice a weary rasp. “Prick refused to send a team to investigate. I told him I’d do it myself, and an hour later, Kingsley shows up with a whole new assignment.”

Hermione arches an eyebrow, curiosity flickering across her face. “Oh?”

“Malfoy and the Lestrange brothers,” Harry says, his tone laced with disdain. “As we’re well familiar with, the ministry caught them and let them go, but now Kingsley wants me to track them down. And as if that wasn’t enough, he added a cherry on top of my fucking shit cake— next week, a reporter from The Daily Prophet is supposed to shadow me for some new article.” His jaw tightens, frustration bleeding into his words. “It took everything in me not to test a few new curses on him.”

Hermione sighs, her fingers pausing briefly before resuming their slow, calming rhythm through his hair. “For a whole workday?”

Harry shakes his head, the motion stiff. “A whole week.” He sighs, clenching his teeth in rage, letting her soothe him with her gentle touch. “At least it’s not Skeeter.”

Hermione tilts her head, a small smile tugging at her lips. “She doesn’t write for The Prophet anymore. Actually, she disappeared off the face of the earth.”

Harry’s eyes flicker open at that, his gaze sharp with curiosity. “She did?”

“Right after she published that book on Dumbledore,” Hermione explains, her voice contemplative. “No one’s seen or heard from her since. It’s odd, isn’t it?”

“Probably killed by Voldemort,” Harry mutters, the corners of his mouth twitching in a faint smirk. “Good riddance.”

Hermione chuckles softly, the sound warm and familiar. “I suppose. But the other journalists aren’t much better.”

“They’re not,” Harry agrees with a huff, his eyes slipping closed again. “Shacklebolt didn’t give me this assignment because it’s important. He just wants to give the reporter something shiny to watch—keep them busy so they don’t spend the whole day staring at me, waiting for me to do something spectacular. And keep me in check, obviously.”

Hermione doesn’t respond immediately, her touch shifting to scratch lightly at his scalp with her nails. A quiet hum of contentment escapes Harry, the sound rumbling low in his chest.

“It’s pointless,” he murmurs after a moment, his voice tinged with bitterness. “Let’s say I find Malfoy and the Lestranges. Then what? They’ll be locked up for a month or two—maybe—before they pay their way out. Same as always.”

Hermione’s hand stills briefly, her thumb tracing a gentle line along his temple. “Draco started a healing apprenticeship at St. Mungo’s,” she says softly, her tone careful.

Harry takes a deep breath, his jaw locking. “Malfoy is a piece of shit, just like his father.”

“Stop that.” Hermione reprimands him, raising an eyebrow. “You know it’s not true. If he was, you wouldn't have testified in his favor at the trial.”

Harry sighs, looking at Hermione with pleading eyes. “Love, you know you’re my everything and that I love you very much, but could you please stop mentioning that arsehole for now? I’ve already had a shitty day…”

Her gaze softens, her thumb caressing the crease between his eyebrows, soothing him in a way only she can.

“Harry, you’re the reason why he’s a free man. He owes everything to you.”

“I know, I just… what’s that got to do with anything?” He practically whines, making Hermione smile. 

“Well, according to our plans, the Lestrange’s and Lucius Malfoy are already in our list.” Hermione points out softly. 

“That only makes things more complicated for us. We’ll have to wait for the Ministry to forget about them before we kill them.” He mutters angrily.

“A reporter will be following you around, right?” Hermione asks, her eyebrows raising. Harry knows she probably just made another brilliant plan in that beautiful mind of hers, and she’s looking at him like he’s supposed to just read her mind. He smiles fondly, his anger fading.

Harry nods, his fingers reaching to play with her hair. “Yeah…”

“Talk to Draco about his father in front of the reporter, pretend you’re going to him to seek information.” Hermione says softly. “Send an owl about it to him first. You two should combine answers, that way, the public will see exactly what we want them to see.”

“And what do we want them to see?” Harry asks curiously.

“You, a tired man, fighting a pointless battle. Draco is the son of one of Voldemort’s biggest supporters. He was forced into that awful life from the start.” Hermione continues.

“Wait. We’ll be painting him as a victim? I don’t want people to think death eaters can be forgiven.” Harry states. “I want them to think that they all deserve to die.”

“They will, once Malfoy tells you and the reporter all the awful things his father did to him since he was a child.” She states matter-of-factly “We are going to convince the reporter – and the public, that Lucius is even more horrible than they think he is. Nothing makes people angrier than a child abuser, Harry. I think the only person who wants to see Lucius dead more than you is Draco himself.”

“I just… I don’t see the point, love…”

Hermione sighs, her fingers burying themselves in his dark hair again. “The point…” She starts “Is to make people pity both of you.”

Harry frowns, immediately moving out of her lap and sitting up on the couch. “Absolutely fucking not.”

"I know," she says, her tone softening, her hands gently cupping his face as she looks him in the eyes. "I know you hate being pitied. But just hear me out for a second, okay?"

He sighs, frustration and exhaustion pooling in his chest as he stares down at her hands, the touch both grounding and soothing. He’s never been one for playing the part of the tragic hero, but here they are. "If you let your anger show—if you're sharp or snarky—the Prophet and the Ministry will have a field day with it. They'll turn it into a story about you being unstable, about you still being haunted by the war. They'll call you dangerous, and it'll work against you."

Harry looks away, but Hermione doesn't let him pull back. "But if you act… sad, even just a little lost, it'll make you seem tortured. Like you've sacrificed so much, and the world hasn't given you anything in return. People will feel for you. They’ll see you as the victim of an unjust system. Loyal. Empathetic. It’ll make them listen."

Her words settle over him, the weight of her reasoning pressing down like the slow realization that she might be right. He meets her gaze, searching for any hint of insincerity, but finds none. She’s always had this ability to know exactly how things will play out, even when he doesn’t want to admit it.

"You know," he murmurs, the edge of bitterness still lingering, "I really hate this whole game."

She smiles softly, brushing a thumb over his cheek. "I know you do, love. But sometimes, you have to play along to get what you want. And right now, you need the world to see you, not as a madman, but as someone who’s been left behind in the mess they created. If we’re moving forwards with this, if we’re taking the Ministry down… We’ll need support."

Harry stands there, staring at his feet, his mind swirling with irritation and unease. He knows what Hermione’s saying makes sense, but it doesn’t sit well with him. He’s never been one for displays, never liked the idea of wearing his pain like a badge for others to gawk at. But the world works in strange ways, and sometimes, the only way to make them listen is by showing them what they want to see. He looks up into her eyes, searching for something in her gaze—maybe the reassurance he needs, or perhaps the reminder that this is the world he’s forced to navigate now.

Hermione’s expression softens, her eyes filled with an understanding that only she can offer. There’s no judgment in her look, only the quiet confidence that comes from knowing him better than anyone else. She reaches up, cupping his face gently, her thumbs brushing over his cheekbones in slow, comforting strokes.

“You know I hate being seen like that,” Harry mutters, the words tasting bitter in his mouth. “Like I’m some… some tragic hero, stuck in the past.”

“I know, love,” she replies softly, her voice laced with warmth and concern. “But you’re not playing the role they expect. You’re giving them a glimpse of what they’re too blind to see. They want to believe you’re still the boy who fought for the world, but now… you’ve grown tired. You’re exhausted. You’ve seen the cracks in the system that they refuse to acknowledge. And people want that, Harry. They’ll sympathize with you.”

Harry clenches his jaw, a flicker of doubt passing through him. He hates being pitied, but he knows Hermione’s right. If he reacts with anger, the Ministry will twist it, use it as proof that he’s unstable, damaged by the war. They’ll paint him as a relic, a soldier whose wounds haven’t healed, too bitter and too broken to be trusted. But if he allows them to see his weariness, his quiet frustration, he can control the narrative. They won’t see an angry man—they’ll see someone betrayed by the world he fought for, someone who’s been let down over and over again.

A flicker of memory flashes before his eyes: Lupin and Tonks’ lifeless forms, Dobby’s bloody chest and lifeless eyes, Fred’s laughter cut short. He swallows hard, pushing it down, but the bitterness lingers.

“It’s not about pretending, Harry,” Hermione says, her voice firm but gentle, pulling him back from his thoughts. “It’s about showing them the truth in a way they’ll understand. You’ve been fighting this battle for years, and they think it’s over, but you know it’s not. And you’re tired. Let them see that.”

He sighs, feeling the weight of her words pressing down on him. The exhaustion, the endless cycle of hope and disappointment, the feeling that no matter how hard he fights, the system won’t change. She’s right. They want to see him as a hero, but he’s no longer sure if that’s who he is. The war ended, but the fight never truly stopped. The Ministry’s empty promises and their inability to move past the past have only made things worse. And maybe… maybe showing them that weariness will finally get them to listen.

Or at least pretend to, until he and Hermione begin to act out on their plans.

After all, the same corrupt faces hiding behind polished desks have ensured that peace was only a fleeting illusion.

He drags a hand down his face and looks at Hermione, her gaze steady and unwavering. Her fingers trail to his hand, intertwining their fingers in a silent reassurance.

“Fine,” he mutters, his voice quieter now, tinged with reluctant acceptance. “But I won’t play the victim for too long. Just enough to make them listen.”

A faint smile curves Hermione’s lips as she nods. “That’s all we need, Harry. Just enough for them to open their eyes—and for us to remind them who they’re dealing with.”

There’s something fierce in her expression, a glimmer of the determination that made him fall for her in the first place. In this moment, with the weight of the world bearing down on them, he knows he’s not fighting this war alone. She’s by his side, her mind sharp and her resolve unshaken. Together, they’ll dismantle the Ministry, piece by corrupt piece.

Hermione squeezes his hand and rises to her feet, pulling him up with her. “We’ll write the owl tonight, and you’ll be ready when the reporter arrives. Just remember, love, we’re playing the long game. It’s not about who wins the first move—it’s about who controls the board in the end.”

Harry lets out a short laugh, the sound rough but genuine. “You’ve been playing too much chest.”

She grins, a flicker of humor breaking through the tension. “Maybe. Unemployment is not pretty, love.”

“But you are.” Harry replies, his smile faint but sincere.

“Chessy.” She chuckles, lacing their fingers together and resting her head on his shoulder. “After the reporter stops tailing you, we’ll go after Macnair. Okay?”

Harry’s lips twitch upward, a fleeting smirk that carries a charge of something darker—anticipation, eagerness, maybe even satisfaction. Killing Umbridge, breaking Burke…

He doesn’t even bother lying to himself anymore. Delivering justice to them felt fantastic.

“I can’t wait,” he says, his voice low but laced with an undeniable fervor. The thought of justice—or vengeance—ignites a flicker of something fierce inside him, something he wasn’t sure he wanted to extinguish.

But then, he pauses, his gaze softening as it drops to their intertwined hands. He gave hers a small squeeze, grounding himself in the touch. “But you know what sounds even better than murdering bastards who deserve it?”

Hermione tilts her head, her curiosity piqued as she looks up at him, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “What?”

Harry’s voice dips, quiet but thick with emotion, his words carrying the weight of the life they were fighting for, the moments they so desperately clung to. “Spending the weekend with the two people I love most in the entire world…” His hand rises to her face, his thumb brushing tenderly along the soft curve of her cheek. His touch is warm, steady, as though grounding himself in her presence. “It broke my heart to leave you and Teddy this morning, you know.”

Hermione’s breath catches, her chest tightening at the raw vulnerability in his tone. She sees it all in his eyes—the love, the weariness, the unspoken promise to hold on to what matters most. Her gaze softens, her heart aching in a way that’s both painful and beautiful.

“I love you,” she murmurs, her voice steady despite the tears threatening to form in her eyes. Merlin, this man is everything to her. Absolutely everything.

“And I love you,” Harry replies, his voice low but resolute, as if the declaration itself is a shield against the battles they still have to face.

The air between them crackles, and before she can breathe, Harry’s lips crash against hers, hot and urgent. The kiss isn’t gentle—it's a wildfire, fast and hungry, as if they’ve both been starved. Hermione’s hands grip the back of his neck, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss, her body pressing against his, seeking the heat that only he can give.

Harry’s fingers trail down her spine, tugging her against him, and the world seems to tilt with the intensity of it, their breath mingling as their lips move in perfect synchronization. She can taste him, feel the fire of his passion as it ignites something within her, something fierce and undeniable.

He groans against her mouth, his hands slipping under her shirt, and she doesn’t pull away. Instead, she pulls him closer, her own hands eagerly working at the buttons of his shirt, the urgency rising between them like a storm they can’t stop. Their kisses deepen, their bodies press harder, until all that exists is the sensation of each other, the way their hearts race, the way they’re consumed by the heat of it all.

When they finally pull away, breathless and aching for more, they don’t need to say a word. Their connection speaks louder than anything.

Without a word, Harry takes her hand, his grip firm but tender, guiding her toward their room. The urgency still pulses between them, thick and electric, and as they reach the door, he glances at her, eyes dark with desire.

“Wait here,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough.

Hermione watches, heart racing as Harry quickly waves his wand. The familiar whisper of magic fills the air, and a silencing charm envelops the door with a soft pop, ensuring no sound will escape. Teddy, safe in his own room, will never hear what happens next.

The room is quiet, save for the beat of their hearts, and as Harry turns back to her, the look in his eyes tells her everything she needs to know. The world outside may be uncertain, but here, in this moment, they are theirs—entirely.

He steps toward her, closing the distance between them, and in the stillness of their sanctuary, the world falls away once more.

Chapter Text

The café is quiet, the kind of place where the clink of teacups and the murmur of conversation feels distant, almost unreal. Harry sits stiffly in his chair, his fingers drumming against the table as he stares at the door. Hermione’s hand rested on his arm, her touch light but grounding.

“Behave, okay? This is why we’re in public. No fighting. No magic.” Hermione says softly “Just three people talking like normal human beings.”

Harry sighs, the tension on his shoulders relaxing a bit. “I… He’s such a coward. I want to punch his face.”

“You testified in his favor when he was in trial. You’re the reason why he’s not in Azkaban as we speak.”

“Yeah, like he would’ve stayed in Azkaban if he was convicted.” Harry rolls his eyes. Hermione squeezes his hands and he sighs “I’m not an asshole, you know? I might hate him, but I told the truth on his trial. He fought for the right side at the end. He was a kid.”

“I know…” Hermione murmurs, resting her head against his shoulder. Her warmth seeps into him, but it does little to chase away the tightness in his chest. “We were all just kids.”

Her words settle deep. His throat tightens, and he swallows hard, as if that alone could push back the ache rising within him. Because she’s right. They were just kids—thrown into a war they never should have fought, forced to bear burdens that no child should have to carry.

A bitter taste lingers at the back of his throat. He exhales sharply, forcing his mind to shift, to think of anything else—but the resentment gnaws at him, relentless. No matter how many times he tries to bury it, part of him, perhaps the most wounded, most unforgiving part, will always blame Dumbledore. For the secrets. For the manipulation. For shaping them into weapons long before they even understood what it meant to be one.

The door chimes softly, and Harry’s gaze snaps to the entrance. Malfoy steps in, his once-proud posture now hunched, his pale face drawn and tired. He looks… different. The arrogance was gone, replaced by something Harry couldn’t quite place. Guilt? Regret? It doesn’t matter. Harry’s hand twitched toward his wand, but Hermione’s grip tightened, a silent reminder to stay calm.

“We’re in public.” she says softly, her voice steady. “Just… try to keep an open mind, okay?”

Harry grumbles a response, his posture relaxing again.

He focuses his gaze on the menu as Malfoy approaches their table, his gray eyes flickering between them. “Potter. Granger.” His voice is quiet, almost hesitant.

“Malfoy.” Harry replies curtly, his tone sharp enough to cut glass.

Hermione, ever the peacemaker, gestures to the empty chair, her hand taking Harry’s and lacing their fingers together. “Please, sit.”

Malfoy hesitates for a moment before lowering himself into the chair. His hands tremble slightly as he clasps them on the table, and Harry can’t help but notice how thin he looks, how fragile. 

It’s unsettling, to say the least.

“I’ve heard about your girlfriend,” Hermione says softly, her brown eyes filled with the kindness that Harry loves the most about her. “I’m so sorry, Draco.”

Harry’s brow furrows as he glances between them. “What is this about?”

Malfoy’s gaze drops to the table, his voice barely above a whisper. “My girlfriend, Astoria.” He pauses, swallowing hard. “She’s Daphne’s younger sister. Was from Ginny’s year.”

“The Greengrass family is one of the oldest families in wizarding Britain,” Hermione explains, her tone gentle but firm. “Perhaps even older than the Blacks.”

Malfoy nods, his fingers tightening around the edge of the table. “The reason why you barely hear from them is… well… there’s a curse. It skips generations, and… Astoria has it.”

Harry watches Malfoy closely, his expression unreadable, but beneath the surface, something twists in his chest. He doesn’t know what to make of this version of Malfoy—the one who looks hollowed out by something far worse than guilt.

“A curse?” Harry repeats, his voice quieter now, the edge of hostility dulled by something else.

Malfoy nods, jaw tightening as he fights to keep his composure. “It’s genetic. A blood curse,” he explains, his voice barely above a whisper. “It weakens the body, makes it… deteriorate over time. There’s no cure. No magic can stop it.” His grip on the table turns his knuckles white. “And she—” He stops, sucking in a sharp breath as if the next words might break him. “She doesn’t have long.”

The café fades around them, the murmurs, the clinking of cups—it all turns into background noise. For the first time since Malfoy sat down, Harry isn’t thinking about the war, or resentment, or the things that once divided them. He’s just staring at a man who looks like he’s barely holding himself together.

Hermione’s fingers tighten around Harry’s, grounding him. “Draco…” Her voice is laced with sympathy, her eyes searching his face. “You’ll find a way. You’re studying with the best healers in Europe.”

“Yeah, well… It’s the hope.” Malfoy says, shifting uncomfortably. His gaze focuses on Harry and Hermione’s laced fingers. “So, you’re together now.”

It isn’t a question. It’s just an observation, a simple fact. But for some reason, it pisses Harry off.

Hermione squeezes Harry’s hand, a quiet reassurance, a way to say ‘I’ve got this’ without actually saying it.

“Yeah. For two years.” Hermione says simply, a small smile on her face. 

“Why hide it?” Malfoy asks curiously.

“We never hid it.” It’s Harry that replies, his tone curt and cold. “Wizards are dense and ignorant. Most of them don’t believe Hermione is good enough for me, so they believe what is convenient for them.”

“They never even asked.” Hermione completes “Never. Not once. Even though Harry and I went out for lunch every day when I worked at the Ministry. We held hands. They didn’t notice because they didn’t want to.”

“I see.” Malfoy states “For what is worth, I always knew you’d end up together somehow.”

“Yeah, yeah. We’re not here to make idle talk, Malfoy.” Harry says, rolling his eyes, already losing the little patience he has.

“Harry…” Hermione warns him, her tone clipped. Harry takes a deep breath and composes himself again.

“Sorry, dear.” He says, but Hermione gently squeezes his hand to assure him it’s okay.

“It’s alright, I get it.” Malfoy says. “I’m not here for small talk either. I’m assuming you need something.”

“We do.” Hermione says carefully. She eyes Harry for a few moments, and only starts talking again after he gives her a stiff nod of approval. “We need your help.”

“Alright.” Malfoy says, eyeing him suspiciously “Who are you after this time?”

Harry eyes him, a bit shocked. Hermione, though, doesn’t even flinch.

“Your father.” Hermione says firmly. “And we also need a favor.”

“Are you sure you want to talk about this in public?”

“I casted a muffliato around us. We’re surrounded by muggles – they can’t tell.” Harry says.

“I didn’t see you taking your wand.” Malfoy says, raising an eyebrow.

“Who says I need one?” Harry replies impatiently. Malfoy looks impressed for a few seconds and nods, but decides not to probe the subject any further. They have more important subjects to talk about.

“The Ministry is… A bit bothered by Harry’s constant questions.” Hermione starts softly, her fingers still laced with Harry’s. “We were promised that the bigotry would end after the war, instead, somehow, it got worse.”

“Muggles are being tortured and killed for sport. They have successfully removed all the muggleborns that were employed at the Ministry,” Harry continues. “Mi was the last one. It’s like Voldemort all over again.”

“Except that it’s worse.” Hermione completes. “At least Voldemort made his hatred clear. He never pretended to be the good guy. Now, the Ministry hides behind smiles and speeches and well-edited Daily Prophet spreads,” Hermione says, her voice steady, but sharp. “They’re rewriting the war, Harry’s role in it, all of it. Turning him into a mascot.”

“They’ve arranged for a reporter to follow me around,” Harry adds, his tone laced with bitterness. “Say it’s for a ‘special feature’. What it really is? A leash. They want to keep me busy while they cover up a massacre of muggles two towns over. No arrests, no investigation. Just… vanished.”

Malfoy frowns. “And I assume you refused to play the Ministry’s pet?”

Harry chuckles darkly. “Oh, I refused. But if I go too hard, if I say what I really think, this reporter will turn me into exactly what they want the public to believe: unstable. Bitter. Dangerous.”

Malfoy tilts his head. “A war hero undone by the weight of it all…”

“Exactly.” Hermione says. “Which is why we’re going to give them exactly what they’re looking for.”

Malfoy looks at her sharply. “You’re going to feed into it?”

“Not rage,” she clarifies. “Despair. Exhaustion. A man who’s given everything, and who’s been discarded now that the headlines are fading. We let them see him wounded. Disillusioned. The people love a fallen hero more than a perfect one.”

“And once she starts sympathizing with me…” Harry adds, “she’ll start doubting everything the Ministry told her.”

Malfoy leans back slowly, processing. “And I’m assuming I’m part of this little performance?”

Hermione nods. “We need the reporter to see that even you—someone raised to hate us—has doubts about the system. About who the Ministry is protecting. If they see you and Harry… not fighting, just… speaking, maybe even agreeing on something, it’ll send a message.”

“I’m a prop in your tragedy.” Malfoy says dryly, but there’s no real venom in his voice. “What do you want me to do?”

Hermione meets his eyes. “Next week. St. Mungo’s. You’ll ‘run into’ Harry outside the ward where Astoria’s being treated. Be angry. Say the Ministry won’t approve her treatment. Be desperate. Loud enough for the reporter to hear. We’ll make sure she’s there.”

Malfoy’s face hardens for a moment at the mention of Astoria, but he nods once. “That part won’t require acting.”

“We know,” Hermione says softly.

There’s a brief silence, and for a rare moment, it feels like the war never happened—like they’re just three people trying to survive a world that’s spiraling out of control.

“Anything else?” Malfoy asks.

Hermione exchanges a look with Harry, and when he gives a slight nod, she turns back. “Yes. Your father.”

Malfoy’s face goes still. “What about him?”

“We need him gone,” Harry says bluntly. “And we need your help to do it.”

Malfoy leans back, folding his arms. “Define ‘gone.’”

Hermione doesn’t flinch. “Discredited. Out of hiding. Preferably in Azkaban, but mostly? We need him to become a symbol. Someone the public can look at and finally say, ‘This is who we were really fighting all along.’”

Malfoy gives a short, mirthless laugh. “You want to turn him into a living cautionary tale.”

“Yes,” Harry says. “And we need to be smart about it. The Ministry wants me to chase him down. They think that if I arrest someone big, I’ll stop digging into the murders. So next week, I’m going to make a show of going after him. At St. Mungo’s.”

Malfoy raises an eyebrow. “At St. Mungo’s. During my visit.”

“We’re going to make it look like I cornered you,” Harry explains. “That I think you’re hiding him. I’ll demand answers. You’ll refuse. You’ll say you don’t know where he is.”

Hermione leans in. “And you’ll say something damning about him. Something the reporter can’t ignore.”

Malfoy is quiet for a beat. Then: “He sold my mum off to save his own ass.”

Hermione’s breath hitches.

Malfoy’s voice is calm, but deadly. “She got sick in Azkaban. Real sick. I begged him to pull strings, call in favors. He said she wasn’t his concern anymore. She died a week after they let her out.”

Harry studies him. “So you don’t care if we go after him.”

“I want you to,” Malfoy replies, his jaw clenched. “My father can fuck off.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then Hermione says softly, “Then help us make the world see the truth.”

Draco nods slowly. “What do you want the reporter to hear?”

“That your father abused his connections. That he’s in hiding. That he still has allies inside the Ministry.” Hermione’s voice is even, but Harry can hear the steel in it. “Say it like you’re angry. Bitter. Like a son burned beyond repair.”

Malfoy gives a bitter smile. “Not much of a stretch, really.”

“And then you’ll tell me you don’t know where he is,” Harry says, laying out the script. “We’ll argue. The reporter will eat it up.”

Draco taps his fingers once against the table, thoughtful. “And after that…?”

“Then we expose him,” Hermione says. “For real. We make it look like the Ministry was protecting him all along.”

A shadow passes across Malfoy’s face, and Harry recognizes it instantly—uncertainty, but not regret.

Malfoy looks up. “You said you wanted to know where he is now.”

Hermione leans forward slightly. “You know?”

Malfoy nods. “He’s hiding in the countryside. Near the border with Wales. An old Greengrass estate—abandoned for years. He thinks no one would think to look there.”

Harry’s eyes narrow. “Is it protected?”

“Old wards. Nasty ones. But I can get you in. Not now, though. If he thinks I’m even talking to you, he’ll vanish again.”

“We won’t make a move until the right moment,” Hermione assures him. “After the article. After the public starts watching.”

Harry breathes out slowly. “We’ll bring him down. And when we do, no one’s going to mistake him for a misunderstood patriot.”

Malfoy gives a short nod. “Good. I want the world to know who he really is.”

Hermione reaches across the table and touches his hand—briefly. Not as comfort, but as acknowledgment. “Thank you.”

Draco pulls his hand away but doesn’t sneer. He just looks tired. “Don’t thank me yet. This only works if you can convince that reporter.”

Harry glances toward the window, where the world outside moves on, unaware. “We will.”

Hermione squeezes his hand again. “We have to.”

After a blissful weekend with Hermione and Teddy, Harry steps into the Auror Department on Monday morning and becomes someone else again.

Someone the world expects. Someone broken.

He straightens his shoulders as he walks through the double doors, the sound of his boots echoing on the polished floor like he’s entering a courtroom instead of his own workplace. The magical lights overhead flicker faintly, casting a long shadow that trails behind him.

The reporter is already there, perched at his desk like she belongs. Her posture is relaxed, but Harry can feel the way her eyes are watching him—closely, curiously. She’s skinny, busty, with long golden hair and warm hazel eyes that light up as she smiles at him, soft and shy.

It reminds him of Hermione, and that alone makes his stomach twist.

Kingsley and Robards stand near the corner of the room, waiting like wolves in dress robes. Their smiles are wide and polished, too perfect to be anything but false.

Harry doesn’t bother faking anything. His shoulders slump naturally, and he exhales sharply through his nose, just loud enough for the reporter to hear. He offers her a tired smile as if he’s trying to hold it together.

She raises an eyebrow, intrigued. Good. She’s paying attention.

The week drags on like fog through the streets of London. Meetings, staged patrols, and scripted conversations blur together. The plan is in motion now, and Hermione’s timing—as always—is perfect.

The reporter, Ivy, turns out to be less irritating than expected. She’s a Latina witch who recently moved to England for her Muggle husband, and surprisingly, she asks good questions. Sharp ones. When Kingsley interrupts Harry with carefully crafted Ministry talking points, Ivy’s frown is subtle, but real. She even winces when Robards refers to the war as “a tragic but necessary purge.”

Still, Harry doesn’t let himself relax. No matter how decent she seems, Ivy works for the Prophet. One wrong sentence from him could be twisted into a headline by morning.

Now it’s Thursday. Today’s the day. The first domino. He’s heading to St. Mungo’s, where Malfoy will be waiting. The plan is simple: stage an encounter, push a narrative, and let Ivy write what she thinks she discovered all on her own.

He blinks, suddenly aware Ivy’s been talking. Her voice is clear, but the words haven’t landed—he’s too caught in the storm of his own thoughts.

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice soft. “Can you repeat that?”

“I asked if you’re single,” she says, looking slightly uncomfortable. “Sorry, I know it’s personal, but my editor’s been pressuring me to ask.”

His heart skips a beat. Hermione’s voice echoes in his head—quiet and tender, from just two nights ago, when they were curled together on the couch at Grimmauld Place.

“I want the world to know it too, baby… but if you tell the reporter, it’ll mess with our plans. They’ll focus on our relationship and nothing else.”

Of course she’s right. She always is.

But the lie still tastes bitter on his tongue.

They had spent almost an hour practicing vague answers—Hermione reading off ridiculous questions while Harry rolled his eyes and muttered responses that didn’t give anything away. It had been one of those strange, quiet evenings where the weight of everything paused just long enough for them to laugh a little.

Now, back in the present, Harry draws a breath and looks at Ivy. He lets silence stretch between them just long enough to draw her in.

Then, with all the weariness in the world behind his words, he says, “Relationships are… complicated.”

He looks away, lets his gaze drift toward the enchanted window beside them, where sunlight is always filtered through a spell that keeps the weather consistent. Too perfect. Too false.

“The war left a lot of damage behind,” he continues, his voice slower now. “Not all of it is visible.”

Ivy tilts her head slightly. “Sounds like there’s a story there.”

“There’s a story everywhere, isn’t there?” he murmurs. His fingers tighten around the coffee cup in front of him. The ceramic is cool beneath his palm, grounding. “I just prefer not to drag other people into mine.”

Her quill moves quickly across the notebook on her lap. She doesn’t press him further—yet.

“Still,” she says gently, “it must be lonely. Being the most famous wizard in the country and having no one to come home to.”

Harry lets out a single, hollow laugh. “You think being famous means I don’t come home to silence?”

That stops her. Her pen freezes in midair. Her eyes are on him now—really on him—not as a subject, but as a person.

Good.

Let her see it, Hermione had told him. Not the anger, not the power. Let her see the cost.

“It doesn’t feel like I came home at all,” he says, voice low, confessional. “After the war ended, everything was supposed to change. It didn’t.”

Her expression softens. Something shifts in her—something subtle but honest.

“Is that why you’re investigating the Ministry’s recent actions?” she asks.

“I’m not investigating,” he says, blinking slowly. “I’m surviving. Watching. Trying to make sense of why people like Hermione Granger got pushed out of their jobs. Why the world we saved seems so eager to forget what it cost to save it.”

She taps the edge of her quill against her notebook. “And what do you want people to see, Mr. Potter?”

Harry looks at her, steady now. “That I’m tired. That I’m still trying. That maybe they should be asking better questions instead of waiting for me to answer the wrong ones.”

A long pause follows.

Then Ivy offers him a small, sad smile. This one isn’t fake—it’s real, soft, and laced with something he doesn’t expect.

Empathy.

And just like that, he feels the shift. The trap is set.

She blinks, adjusting her tone again. “Shall we continue at St. Mungo’s, then?”

Harry stands, brushing invisible lint off his jacket.

“Sure,” he says quietly. “I’ve got someone to talk to.”