FicWad

July 1997

The Hogwarts Express rattled steadily along the tracks, the windows bathed in the soft gold of late afternoon. Sunlight spilt across my lap, warm against my skin, and for just a moment, everything felt… quiet. As though the world might be calm again.

But inside, the knot of worry hadn’t loosened. Not even a little. It sat there in my chest, tight and unmoving, as the train carried us closer to London.

Ron was beside me, holding my hand. His fingers were warm, a little calloused, but reassuring. He stared out at the rolling countryside, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, his eyes bright with something close to hope. Being with him helped. It didn’t undo anything—but it helped. Just a bit.

Across from us, Harry sat hunched in his seat, his gaze fixed somewhere far beyond the window. Shoulders tense. Face drawn. He looked like he was bearing something none of us could quite reach—some invisible weight pressing down on him that never seemed to lift. Not fully.

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

Even the Horcrux hunt in the cave… He hadn’t said much about it, but the way he’d looked afterwards—the blankness, the bone-deep exhaustion—I hadn’t needed details to understand.

How much more was he meant to take?

Without thinking, I reached across and placed my hand over his. Just lightly. A simple gesture. A reminder that he wasn’t alone.

He glanced at me then. His eyes met mine, and something flickered there—something raw and unspoken. Pain, perhaps. Gratitude. Maybe both. But then it vanished. He drew his hand away and turned back to the window, shutting himself off again.

It hurt, though I didn’t take it personally. It wasn’t about me. It was about him—about how he always felt he had to shoulder everything alone. He was the bravest person I knew. But even the brave need help sometimes.

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

I nodded. But I wasn’t so sure.

There was so much we didn’t understand. So much we weren’t prepared for. And Harry—he didn’t want us coming with him. He’d said it more than once, with that particular kind of finality that always set me on edge. He was determined to find the remaining Horcruxes on his own, as if cutting us off might somehow protect us.

I understood why. I really did. But it didn’t make it easier.

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

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

But he hadn’t listened. He’d shaken his head, calm and unyielding. As if he’d already made peace with whatever it was he intended to face. As if we were nothing but people he needed to protect, rather than the friends who had stood by him every step of the way.

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

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

I wished I could protect him. I wished I could fix it—all of it. But most of all, I wished he knew, really knew, that he didn’t have to face what was coming on his own.

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

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

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

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

I searched for mine.

The Weasleys were near the front. Mr and Mrs Weasley had spotted Ron immediately—Mrs Weasley’s arms wide open, her expression a mixture of fierce love and thinly veiled panic. Just behind them, my parents.

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

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

They didn’t know about the nights I hadn’t slept. About the way the world had split itself apart and hadn’t quite come back together again. About the people who hadn’t made it.

I ran to them. Mum caught me in one of her crushing hugs, and for a second, I couldn’t breathe—but I didn’t care. I didn’t pull away. I needed to feel them. Solid, real. Dad wrapped his arms around us both, and suddenly I felt small again. Eleven years old. A girl with too many questions and a new wand in her bag.

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

The tears came without warning. I wasn’t sure if they were happy or sad. Probably both. Mum smoothed my hair and murmured something soothing, but I barely heard her. I just held on. Let myself be held. For a little while, the world felt quiet again.

Eventually, I stepped back, wiping my cheeks. I wasn’t quite ready to leave. I turned, scanning the platform, and spotted Harry and Ron standing together, still close to the train. They hadn’t moved much, and from the look on their faces, they didn’t know how to, either.

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

I walked over and stood in front of them. The silence that fell between us wasn’t uncomfortable—it was full. Full of everything we didn’t know how to say. Everything we didn’t have to.

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

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

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

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

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

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

For a moment, everything paused. Time held its breath.

And then it moved on.

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

So much had changed.

Even now, after returning from Hogwarts, I still hadn’t quite managed to come down from everything. My thoughts spiralled constantly—spells, plans, protections, what I still didn’t know, and what I needed to know before it was too late. Being Harry’s friend—the Chosen One’s friend—wasn’t something I ever imagined when I met him on the train at eleven. But now, with everything ahead of us, I couldn’t separate my identity from it. I didn’t want to. I felt… grateful. Humbled, even, to stand beside him. Beside both of them. I wouldn’t have traded it for anything.

Still, it was a lot.

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

And I wanted to remember it. Before everything changed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I stayed there until the banging of pots and pans in the kitchen reminded me where I was. Back in the Muggle world. In my own house. Still Hermione.

But not quite the same girl who left last September.

Not anymore.

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

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

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

But even as I watched them through the doorway, part of me remained apart. Displaced. That lovely illusion of normality was delicate now—paper-thin. One wrong move and it would tear. Because this wasn’t normal. Not really. The world outside our little kitchen was falling apart, and I was letting them believe everything was fine.

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

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

I smiled—genuinely, if a little stiffly. “Thanks,” I said, soft and small. “It smells brilliant.”

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

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

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

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

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

She didn’t look convinced. Neither did Dad.

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

If only. They had no idea I was preparing to vanish. That I’d already made a list of what to pack. That I’d charmed my beaded bag for concealment. That I’d been practising charms and spells. The sort that wasn’t meant to be used lightly. Or at all.

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

I’d packed courage alongside my socks.

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

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

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

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

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

But I couldn’t.

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

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

She didn’t push, but her gaze lingered, and that was somehow worse. The weight of her quiet concern made the lies sit heavier in my throat.

I sat down at the table and picked up my fork, pretending to enjoy the meal I’d always looked forward to. But the roast beef might as well have been parchment. Dry. Tasteless. Heavy.

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

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

But if they knew, they’d be in far greater danger. You-Know-Who didn’t hesitate to use families. He’d done it before. He’d do it again.

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

Then her voice shifted just enough to make me flinch.

“Is this about a boy?”

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

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

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

I didn’t know what to say.

It wasn’t that she was wrong. It was just… complicated.

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

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

And I wasn’t sure I could protect him.

Mum tilted her head slightly, studying me with that quiet, terrifying empathy she’d always had. The kind that made you want to confess even if you didn’t know what you were guilty of.

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

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

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

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

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

That almost made me laugh.

Almost.

But behind the warmth in their voices was something else. A flicker of unease. They didn’t know why Ron and I had grown so close—what we were preparing for—but I think they sensed it in the way only parents can.

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

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

That small, familiar gesture—so gentle, so normal—unravelled something tight inside me. Just for a moment, I felt safe again. Not completely. But enough to breathe.

Ron.

His name alone made something flutter in my chest—then sink, sharply. What was this feeling? I knew fear, guilt, and frustration—I’d lived with them for years now. But this… this was something else entirely. Something fragile. And dangerous.

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

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

And I didn’t know whether that terrified me more… or thrilled me.

Because the truth was, it wasn’t the idea of loving him that frightened me—it was the idea of losing him. You-Know-Who was still out there. Watching. Hunting. And love made you vulnerable. Loving Ron out loud, in this war-torn world—it felt like painting a target on both our backs. Like handing our weakness over to the enemy.

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

I let out a slow, shaky breath. I didn’t have the answers. Not yet. Perhaps I wouldn’t for a long time. But tonight, at least, I could admit the truth to myself:

I cared for Ron more deeply than I’d ever cared for anyone.

And that terrified me more than anything else.

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

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

It wasn’t just friendship anymore. It meant something. And I couldn’t keep pretending it didn’t.

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

“I’m dating Ron.”

Silence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I looked down at my hands—safe, familiar, something to focus on. I wanted to explain it; I really did. But there weren’t words that made sense, not without sounding frightened or foolish. And I wasn’t sure I knew how to explain the way Ron made me feel—how something as ordinary as his laugh could make the whole world feel bearable again, if only for a moment.

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

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

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

“I know, love,” she said softly. “And I don’t blame you. The world feels heavy right now. But love still matters. Especially now.”

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

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

I didn’t answer straight away. But something in her words settled quietly inside me, like a tiny light I hadn’t realised I’d been waiting for. Faint, but steady.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because that was just it—it wasn’t real. Not anymore. Not now, with everything happening. Not with him still out there. You-Know-Who.

Could running truly keep them safe? Or would it only put them in greater danger?

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

I looked at them both. So hopeful. So kind. I wanted nothing more than to tell them everything. To lay it all bare. But I couldn’t. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

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

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

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

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

When they left the kitchen—Dad humming something under his breath, Mum reminding him we still hadn’t put the groceries away—I stayed where I was, still and silent.

The house felt too quiet all of a sudden.

I stared at the space they’d just occupied, their voices still echoing faintly in my ears. A trip to Australia. Beaches. Sea air. Freedom. It sounded lovely. Comforting. But impossibly far away. Like a memory from another life.

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

But I knew it wasn’t. Not really.

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

I wrapped my arms round myself.

Mum and Dad had no idea. They couldn’t. Not about how close the danger was. Not about how much I’d already seen. What I’d already done. And what I might still have to do.

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

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

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

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

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

But I couldn’t stay there. Couldn’t afford to.

War was coming.

Just a little longer, I told myself. I’ll keep them safe. Even if it means lying. Even if it means walking away.

I crept upstairs to my bedroom without a sound, needing the quiet more than I’d realised. Not the suffocating kind I’d been carrying lately. This was gentler. Still. It gave me room to think.

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

I knelt down, and Crookshanks immediately pressed himself against my legs, his warm, solid weight grounding me. I ran my fingers through his thick, ginger fur, and he began to purr—a deep, steady sound that vibrated softly through me like a lullaby. Somehow, he always knew. He didn’t ask questions or demand explanations—he simply stayed. Quiet, dependable. A small, living reminder that I wasn’t entirely alone, even when it felt like I was.

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

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

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

Once the room was more or less in order, I sat down on the edge of the bed and let the silence wrap round me. But this time, it didn’t feel peaceful. It felt too big. Hollow. I stood abruptly and crossed to the window, needing something—anything—to fill the stillness.

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

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

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

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

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

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

When I opened my eyes, the world hadn’t changed—but it felt gentler. Calmer. Full of possibility. The trees above rustled softly, their branches whispering secrets to one another in a language I could almost understand.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Into everything.

Sometimes I wasn’t sure that girl—the one who’d spun round the garden in utter disbelief—was even me anymore.

Dad glanced at me again, something quieter in his expression now. “We knew, even then, that everything was going to change. We didn’t always understand it—still don’t, really—but we’ve always been proud of you. You’ve always made us proud.” He paused, his brow furrowing slightly. “But you’ve been different lately. Quieter. Like something’s weighing on you. Did something happen?”

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

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

Dad didn’t answer straightaway, but I could feel his eyes on me. Then he raised an eyebrow—that familiar, knowing look he always gave when he wasn’t buying what I was selling.

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

I looked down, letting the spoon clink quietly against the side of the bowl. My fingers trembled slightly as I set it down on the ground beside me. The swing shifted beneath me with the movement. The truth was right there, just below the surface… but I wasn’t ready. Not yet.

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

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

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

The words sounded convincing. Practised. And in a way, they were true. The exams were important. But they weren’t what kept me up at night. Not really. It was the fear, the not-knowing, stretching further with every passing day.

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

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

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

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

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

They both blinked.

“Magical creatures?” Mum echoed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I didn’t reply. But the words stayed with me, settling somewhere deep inside. Maybe he was right. Maybe that was the whole point.

Even when people don’t understand you, the ones who stay—they’re the ones who matter.

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

“Your heart’s in the right place, Hermione,” she said softly. “Even if people don’t always understand what you’re doing, they feel it. That’s why they stand by you.”

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

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

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

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

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

Dad gave a low, thoughtful hum. “That’s… actually rather clever.”

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

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

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

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

She followed my gaze, her expression brightening. “Yes, they are,” she said, clearly pleased. “I planted them a few weeks ago. I wasn’t sure they’d take, but I’ve been checking on them every morning, keeping them watered.”

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

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

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

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

It felt… normal. Familiar. The kind of evening I’d once taken for granted but now clung to with quiet desperation.

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

But beneath all of that, something else was growing. A steadiness. A kind of resolve.

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

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

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

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

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

But despite all the preparation, I already felt hollowed out. Exhausted in a way that sleep couldn’t touch. The real journey hadn’t even begun, and still I was tired to the bone—tired of waiting, of worrying, and of pretending I wasn’t scared.

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

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

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

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

“Pancakes, please,” I said quietly, taking a seat. My voice sounded strange in the bright, quiet room—thicker than usual, like it didn’t quite belong.

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

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

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

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

She set the pan down and crossed to the table, her voice low and certain. “I’ll talk to him. Don’t worry about that.”

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

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

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

“I’m sorry,” I mumbled.

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

I didn’t know how to explain. That I was sorry for lying. For hiding the truth. For the journey I was preparing to do.

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

Far too early for a casual call.

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

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

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

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

“Hey, Hermione!”

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

“Hello?” he said again, a bit unsure.

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

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

“I’m alright. Just surprised to hear from you so early,” I said, heart already picking up pace. “Is everything okay?”

There was a pause.

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

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

“There’ve been Order meetings,” he said, like it explained everything.

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

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

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

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

“Not sure yet. Mad-Eye wouldn’t say. He’s being really secretive. Properly paranoid.”

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

“Near his birthday, that’s all he said. Nothing exact. Just… soon.”

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

“When do they want me there?”

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

I nodded slowly, even though he couldn’t see me. My eyes flicked to the small calendar on the kitchen wall—it’s too soon.

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

I hesitated. There was too much to say and nowhere to begin. “Yeah… I’m just—” But the rest caught in my throat.

“Just what?”

“Nothing,” I said quickly. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Hermione…”

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

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

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

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

“Yes?”

“I—” He faltered. “I miss you.”

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

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

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

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

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

I looked away. I wanted to tell her everything, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t even begin.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I looked away, my throat tight. I wanted to say yes, to smile and mean it. But all I could think of was the truth I couldn’t speak—the plan we’d made, the mission we were about to begin. This wasn’t a summer visit. It was a goodbye.

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

My heart thudded painfully in my chest. I hadn’t lied—not exactly—but I’d left so much unsaid. The idea of leaving, of not returning, of stepping into danger I couldn’t explain… it made my stomach churn with guilt and fear.

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

The words cut deeper than she could’ve known. My breath caught. I felt like I was standing on the edge of something vast and terrible. I wanted so much to be the daughter she believed I was—clever, careful, and safe.

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

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

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

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

I met her gaze. She was trying so hard to understand, to reach me through the fog of secrets I was carrying. But I couldn’t let her in. Not now. Not when it might put her in danger too.

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s… perfect,” I murmured. My chest gave a little flutter I hadn’t expected. “Can I—can I try it?”

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

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

It didn’t feel like me. Not entirely. And yet…

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

I shook my head quickly, trying to steady my thoughts. This wasn’t the time. Still, I couldn’t deny the flutter in my stomach as I reached for the door handle.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dad turned, eyebrows raised further. “Really?”

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

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

I couldn’t help laughing. “Dad! Honestly!”

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

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

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

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

Then Mum stood up abruptly, as though she’d just remembered something important. “Oh! I nearly forgot—wait there.”

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

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

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

I lifted the lid.

My breath caught.

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

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

Now… it was mine.

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

I couldn’t speak. My throat ached, and my eyes stung. The necklace wasn’t just a gift—it was a memory, a tether, a part of home I could carry with me. A quiet promise that no matter what came next, I wouldn’t be alone.

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

I stepped forward and wrapped my arms around them both. Held on. Too tightly, probably. But I didn’t know how many more hugs I’d get like this. I didn’t want to let go.

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

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

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

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

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

The silence that followed wasn’t empty—it was full. Full of everything I couldn’t say aloud, full of the things we all felt but didn’t have words for.

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

I let myself cry then—properly, unguarded. I didn’t even try to stop it.

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

When I finally lifted my head, I could tell they’d both noticed. The weight. The distance. The worry I hadn’t managed to hide.

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

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

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

I couldn’t do that. Not to them.

“I know I’ve been… distracted,” I said at last, my voice small. “I haven’t written as often, and I’ve been so wrapped up in school and everything else. But it’s not because I don’t care.” I hesitated. “It’s because I do. So much that I didn’t know how to explain it all.”

Dad reached for my hand, his grip steady. “You don’t have to explain everything,” he said softly. “Just remember we’re here. Always.”

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

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

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

I blinked. “Another?”

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

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

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

He laughed. “It’s not for you. It’s for your organisation.”

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

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

“I am,” I said, my fingers tightening slightly on the box. “It’s just… I didn’t expect—”

He shrugged like it was nothing. “Don’t worry about it. I asked a few people at the clinic if they had anything to donate—they were more than happy to. It’s all for a good cause.” He gave me a quick wink and turned back toward the house, leaving me standing there, somewhere between startled and utterly overwhelmed with gratitude.

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

He’d really done it.

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

I remembered something he’d said to me once—back when I was little and had spent the afternoon trying to start a recycling campaign in the neighbourhood. “The measure of a person isn’t just what they say—it’s what they give. What they’re willing to do for someone else.”

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

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

Then the phone rang downstairs.

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

“Henry! What a surprise!”

Relief flooded through me. I didn’t need to eavesdrop to know who it was. Henry Montgomery—one of Dad’s long-time patients. Friendly. Warm. The sort of man who always remembered birthdays and sent handwritten thank-you cards.

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

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

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

He beamed. “Exactly! You remember him, don’t you? Lovely bloke. Well, he’s got a few bags of clothes he wants to donate, and I told him I’d swing by to pick them up. Thought you might like to come along?”

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

But…

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

“Yeah,” I said, smiling. “I’d love to.”

The air outside was heavy with heat, thick enough to stick to your skin. But the sound of children laughing in the distance—somewhere near the park—made it feel lighter, somehow. Like the world hadn’t completely shifted. Like some things were still just… ordinary.

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

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

I blinked. “Twins?”

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

I hadn’t known they’d had children.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Henry grinned and tilted his head toward the front door. “It’s a bit of a madhouse, to be honest. Two toddlers means double the mess—bottles, blocks, overturned chairs. I nearly tripped over a toy car this morning. So watch your step!”

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

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

And then I saw them—the twins.

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

They didn’t. Of course they didn’t.

But they trusted me. Completely. And that… that tugged at something deep inside. Something quiet and aching. It was so easy for them. So pure. That kind of trust didn’t exist in my world anymore. Not really. Not without consequence.

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

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

My dad laughed, light and warm. “No need to apologise—it’s lovely.”

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

The Montgomerys didn’t know what I was. What I could do.

And they couldn’t. Not now. Not with the way things were shifting. It wouldn’t be safe—for them or for us.

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

I wish magic were real.

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

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

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

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

“He did something I still can’t explain.”

I felt my breath catch.

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

I froze. My eyes snapped to him.

That wasn’t just a joke—it was almost verbatim what Harry had said about his own accidental magic. I’d told Dad that story once. Quietly. In confidence.

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

Nancy didn’t laugh.

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

The air in the room changed.

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

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

My heart pounded, loud and hollow. She wasn’t joking. She remembered. She felt it. The wonder, yes—but also the fear. The need for answers.

Dad offered a gentle smile, still trying. “Well, children do strange things. Doesn’t always mean magic.”

But I already knew.

It did.

And I wasn’t sure what terrified me more—that she might be right… or that I couldn’t tell her so.

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

Her voice cracked.

“There’s no ladder. No way up. Not for a toddler. Not for anyone unless they were lifting him—and it was just us. Henry wasn’t home. I didn’t imagine it.” Her hands twisted in her lap. “It just… doesn’t make sense.”

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

But I couldn’t.

The temptation burnt in my throat, but it was too dangerous. Truth wasn’t safe anymore—it hadn’t been for a long time. We were at war. You-Know-Who was back, and there were eyes everywhere, even in places we’d once thought safe. The Montgomerys didn’t know about magic, and that ignorance—painful as it might be—was their protection.

Nancy lowered her voice to a near-whisper. “Henry says we should never mention it again. That people will think we’re cursed. Or worse—that we’re losing it.” She looked at me then. Her gaze searching, sharp. “But what do you think, Hermione?”

I froze.

The question struck deep—too deep. I wanted to answer; I truly did. I wanted to reach for her hand and tell her that Finley wasn’t broken or dangerous or cursed. That he was special. That he might be like me. But to say that would put a mark on him. And I couldn’t—I wouldn’t—be the reason he was hunted.

So I didn’t answer. Not directly. Instead, I looked at her—at the fear behind her eyes, at the hope—and swallowed hard.

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

Nancy blinked, startled by the shift. She furrowed her brow, sifting through memory. “I’m not sure… I think a couple of neighbours were in their gardens. I was too busy trying to get him down—thank Merlin he wasn’t hurt.” She exhaled shakily. “They must’ve seen.”

My father’s voice came gently, as if trying to soften the moment. “The important thing is he’s safe.” His eyes flicked to me again, just for a second. But I caught it. We both knew what this could become if it spiralled.

I sank further into the settee, my hands curled tightly in my lap. The room, once warm and familiar, now felt too close. Like the walls were listening.

This had been meant to be a quiet visit. A short drive, a few boxes of clothes, a cheerful hello. But now… it felt like something else entirely. The weight in the air was subtle but unmistakable—like the stillness just before a spell goes off.

Finley made a soft noise in Nancy’s arms—somewhere between a sigh and a yawn—and nestled deeper into her shoulder. His fingers twitched faintly, reaching for something I couldn’t see.

I stared at him, heart twisting. He had no idea. No clue what the world outside that living room could do to children like him. What it had already done.

My fingers slipped into my coat pocket until they found the familiar shape of my wand. I didn’t draw it—there was no need—but I needed to feel it. I needed to know it was there.

I opened my mouth, about to ask Nancy if she’d seen anyone suspicious near the house, anyone lingering too long or watching the boys—but just then, she looked down at Finley and rocked him gently, brushing his hair back from his forehead. He let out a tiny sigh, and she smiled—soft and tired and utterly human.

But it didn’t comfort me. Not really.

The air shifted again—barely—but I felt it. Like something just out of sight had stirred. I glanced toward the window. Outside, golden leaves spiralled lazily to the ground. The light was slanting differently now, shadows creeping longer across the floor. There was nothing out there. But still…

Still.

It felt wrong.

Like something ancient was stirring beneath the skin of the world. Like something dark had noticed this small, ordinary house and was drawing closer. Waiting. Watching.

I looked at Finley again—so small, so trusting.

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

The Montgomerys didn’t know any of it.

But I did.

And suddenly, the charms and defensive spells we’d practised at school—the theory, the counter-curses, the neat incantations—they all felt desperately, laughably small.

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

I didn’t have an answer. Not yet.

But I knew one thing: if the war came knocking at this door—and it might—I’d be ready. Because they wouldn’t be.

Not unless someone stood in the way.

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

“Don’t worry, Nancy,” Dad said quietly, his voice low and even. “I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about.”

Nancy let out a slow breath, and her shoulders slumped as though she’d been holding them rigid for hours. “You’re probably right. I don’t know what’s got into me lately—jumping at shadows, doubting myself over the smallest things. I suppose that’s motherhood for you.”

She looked down at Finley, brushing her fingers gently through his soft, flyaway hair. There was so much tenderness in her eyes, and just behind it, fear—raw and deep and fiercely maternal. She didn’t even know what she was afraid of, not really. But I did.

Because if they ever found out what Finley was—what he might become—if they even suspected… it would be enough.

Muggles didn’t have magical protections. No wards, no charms, no concealed strongholds. Just gut instincts and love, the kind that drives people to throw themselves in front of curses they don’t even understand. And Nancy had that look. She’d fight with everything she had, even if it wasn’t nearly enough.

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

Simple words. But they held a kind of magic all their own. Not the sort cast with wands or traced through runes. A different sort. Quiet and old. Made of love and desperation and the stubborn will to keep going, no matter what.

I wanted to believe it would be enough.

But deep down, I knew it wouldn’t be.

The weight pressing against my ribs was growing heavier by the day. Secrets were slipping. Spells were fraying. The protections we’d always taken for granted were no longer guaranteed. Magic, no matter how carefully hidden, left traces. Residue. Like smoke after a fire.

A faint breeze slipped into the room—nothing more than a draught from the hallway, I told myself—but it carried something odd with it. Not the usual scent of clean floors and biscuits, but something darker. Bitter. Like ash after spellfire.

I went still.

No one else seemed to notice.

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

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

The moment passed—but not for me.

I stayed where I was, eyes fixed on the doorway, even after they’d all gone. My hand tightened around my wand inside my coat pocket, the wood familiar and grounding. The room looked the same. Safe, even. But something had brushed through here. I felt it.

And it hadn’t come for second-hand clothes.

The drive home was quiet. The kind of quiet that sits heavy on your chest, thick and unmoving. Outside, the sun was dipping low, casting everything in long, gold-tinged shadows. Dad kept his eyes on the road, jaw set, calm on the surface—but I could feel it. His unease. Like a current between us. We didn’t speak, because we didn’t need to. We were both thinking the same thing.

Something had shifted.

I pressed my forehead lightly against the window, watching hedges and signposts blur past. The stillness of the countryside had once felt comforting. Now it felt like a veil—thin, false, and ready to tear. Everything was changing. Faster than I could keep up. The world I’d grown up in, the one I’d tried so hard to balance with my place in the magical one, was slipping away.

There was a dull ache in my chest. Not fear, exactly. Something heavier. Something final. Like a door closing.

Raising a witch in a Muggle household had never been easy for my parents, and I’d always known that. But now—with Death Eaters on the move, with people disappearing, with danger inching closer by the day—it felt unbearable. And the worst part? I didn’t just have to protect myself. I had to protect them. All of them. Even people like the Montgomerys, who didn’t yet understand what they were caught in.

Nancy had done what she thought was safest—kept quiet, deferred to her husband. And I didn’t blame her. She’d chosen to protect her family in the only way she knew how. But as I packed my beaded bag later that evening, folding clothes into neat stacks, my stomach twisted painfully.

Was silence truly the safest path?

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

But another part of me—a quieter, more stubborn part—wondered if silence was just another kind of surrender. If saying nothing and doing nothing was just letting darkness spread unchecked.

The sudden ring of the telephone cut through the stillness like a spell misfired. I jumped, startled, heart hammering, and hurried downstairs, trying to push aside the cloud of thoughts still clinging to me from upstairs. Mum was waiting in the hall, receiver in hand and a familiar smile on her face.

“It’s Ron,” she said gently and passed it over before disappearing back up the stairs.

I pressed it to my ear. “Hello?”

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

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

“I’m alright,” I said, carefully. Not a lie, exactly. Just… edited.

There was a pause, longer than it needed to be. I could feel him on the other end, trying to say something he didn’t quite know how to word.

Then, finally, he spoke. “I talked to Moody. He said no.”

Just that. Two words. But they dropped like lead into my stomach.

“Oh. Okay.” I forced my voice to stay light, calm—but the disappointment stung. I’d known it was unlikely, but I’d hoped—just a little—that maybe I’d be allowed a bit more time. A few extra days to prepare, to finish things properly, and to say goodbye.

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

I let out a breath. I understood, of course I did. I always understood. But that didn’t make it any easier. I hadn’t asked for this responsibility. I hadn’t asked to be a cog in someone else’s plan. I just wanted to help my friends. I just wanted to choose.

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

Another silence. He didn’t rush to fill it, which I appreciated. Ron never liked silences, not really, but when it mattered, he let them sit.

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

“I know…” I whispered. But even as I said it, it didn’t feel real. I’d imagined this moment—packing, saying goodbye, walking away from the only life I’d ever known. I’d thought I’d be ready. But standing at the edge of it now… it felt like stepping off a cliff without knowing how far the fall was.

“Are you going to be alright?”

The question hung there. Simple, and yet so impossible to answer. I wanted to be honest with him. I wanted to tell him that I was scared. That I’d never felt so unsure of myself—not even during exams or missions or nights spent in the library trying to save someone. But then I thought of Harry. Of what he was carrying. Of Ron, pulled between his family and this impossible task. What right did I have to add my fear to the pile?

“I’ll manage,” I said. Even though I didn’t know if I would.

There was a short pause, then Ron shifted gears, as if sensing I needed a distraction. “Anyway… we need to start planning, don’t we? Finding the Horcruxes. I don’t think Harry’s got the faintest idea where to start.”

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

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

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

“Harry mentioned Godric’s Hollow once. That might be worth starting there.”

I frowned. “It’s risky. If You-Know-Who’s watching, it’s the first place he’ll check. He might already have people stationed there.”

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

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

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

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

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

There was another silence, but this one wasn’t heavy. Just thoughtful. We were both bracing ourselves—for leaving, for fighting, and for everything that came next.

I took a deep breath, the kind that reached all the way down into my chest. The words I’d been rehearsing all afternoon rose to the surface, thick and tangled. I’d gone over them a dozen times, maybe more. But saying them aloud—choosing to say them—was harder than I’d expected.

And yet, if I didn’t say them now, I might never get the chance again.

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

There was a beat of silence.

“Magical? At that age?” Ron’s voice came through the receiver, uncertain, slightly sceptical. “Isn’t that… I mean, isn’t it a bit early to tell?”

I gripped the edge of the kitchen counter, grounding myself. “Maybe. But they found the baby—Finley—on the roof. No one saw how he got there. He wasn’t hurt, just… sitting there. Calm. Smiling.” I paused, letting the words sink in. “It reminded me of the stories Harry used to tell us—things that happened to him before he even knew what magic was. You remember, don’t you? The vanishing glass at the zoo, the roof at school…”

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

“Ron, they’re Muggles,” I said, a little too sharply. “They don’t do pranks like that. And there’s no way anyone could’ve got that baby onto the roof without someone noticing. There was no ladder. No noise. It just—happened. And I felt it, Ron. Something’s different about him.”

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

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

“Maybe not now,” I replied, my voice low. “But what happens if someone else notices? If the wrong people get wind of what he can do? They could be watching already. You know they’re still tracking traces of accidental magic. Especially in Muggle-born households. He could be targeted before he even knows what he is.”

Another pause. Then Ron asked gently, “Have they said anything? Strange letters—anyone nosing around?”

“No,” I admitted, my throat tightening. “Nothing obvious. But Nancy’s worried. And I just… I can’t shake the feeling something’s already moving beneath it all. Like it’s only a matter of time.”

“You might be overthinking it.”

I didn’t answer straight away. Maybe I was overthinking. But in our world, that sort of mistake could cost lives.

“I know,” I said quietly. “It’s just… I can’t help it. Everything feels fragile lately. Like the moment you let your guard down, something shatters.”

There was a soft sigh on the other end.

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

I gave a tired smile. “Sounds about right.”

“We’re all watching our backs,” Ron continued. “You included. But Hermione… you can’t carry everything. If you’re worried, you tell someone. Moody. Kingsley. Don’t try to do it on your own.”

“I won’t,” I lied.

He hesitated, then said, “They’re starting to talk about getting Harry out. It’s complicated. Can’t use the Floo, can’t Apparate—not from Privet Drive. Too many eyes. Too many chances for You-Know-Who to interfere.”

I nodded, more to myself than to him. “I figured. He’ll be seventeen soon. Once the trace lifts, they’ll move him.”

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

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

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

A beat of silence.

Then: “Have you finished packing?”

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

Ron gave a low chuckle. “Let me guess—you’ve got lists, haven’t you?”

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

“Socks, right,” he said, clearly trying not to laugh. “That’ll save us from the Death Eaters.”

“I’m being practical,” I huffed, though a smile tugged at the corners of my mouth. “Which is more than I can say for you most days.”

There was a pause, softer now.

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

“I believe you,” he replied, almost serious. “Just… keep your eyes open, alright?”

“I always do,” I said.

And I meant it.

“Ron…” I paused, fingers curling tighter around the phone cord. The words sat on the edge of my mouth. “What do you think this weekend will be like?”

There was a moment of silence on the other end. I imagined him frowning, pushing a hand through his hair, the way he always did when something weighed on him. I wished I could see his face—just to know what he wasn’t saying.

“Busy,” he said finally, his voice quieter now. “Everyone’s tense. But Harry’ll be there. That’s what matters most, yeah?”

I nodded, even though he couldn’t see me. “Yes,” I said simply. And for now, it was enough. The three of us—together again at the Burrow. However brief, however fraught. It would be a beginning.

“I should let you go,” Ron added after a beat. “You’ll want to get some rest before everything kicks off. See you Saturday?”

“Yes,” I said softly. “I’ll be there, Ron.”

The line clicked dead. I stood still for a moment, holding the receiver against my ear even after the dial tone had begun, as if doing so might somehow hold onto the quiet between us a little longer. Then I hung up and made my way back upstairs.

I checked my packing again—third time that evening. Everything in its place: clothing folded tightly, books stacked with care, potion ingredients triple-wrapped and labelled. I didn’t trust myself to leave anything behind.

At last, I pulled open the drawer beside my bed and reached for the small, worn handbag lying flat at the back. It looked so ordinary, unremarkable even—but the magic inside it thrummed beneath my fingertips. The Undetectable Extension Charm had worked flawlessly. Clothes, supplies, protective gear, and my carefully curated mini-library—they all fit inside with room to spare.

I ran my thumb along the stitching, marvelling at how such a modest thing could carry so much. It was more than practicality; it was preparedness. It was safety. In a world growing more dangerous by the day, I couldn’t afford to be caught without the things I might need.

Everything was ready. Or as ready as it could be.

But still, I stood there, the bag clutched to my chest, listening to the stillness of the house. The silence wasn’t comforting anymore. It only made the coming days feel more real.

Tomorrow, I’d wake up and pretend everything was normal. Pretend I wasn’t carrying secrets too big for words. Pretend I wasn’t about to walk away from the people who had raised me, who still didn’t know what I’d already done to keep them safe.

I sat down on the edge of my bed, the weight of it all pressing in on me. Not the bag—never the bag—but everything else.

Saturday would come. And I would be ready.

Even if I was terrified.

The next morning, rain tapped steadily against the windowpane—soft, insistent, as though it were trying to remind me of something I’d rather forget. I stayed curled beneath the duvet, face buried in the pillow, wishing the dark and the warmth might shield me from the weight of last night’s conversation.

Ron’s voice still echoed in my mind—uncertain, a bit clumsy, but earnest. He hadn’t meant to hurt me—at least, I didn’t think so—but it lingered all the same. Things between us had never been simple. Not with everything else happening. Not with the war closing in like a net tightening around all of us.

With a sigh, I sat up, the cold morning air nipping at my arms. The sky outside was a dull, heavy grey, the kind that pressed down on the rooftops and made the world feel smaller. Shadows clung to the corners of my bedroom, and for a moment, I stayed still, staring at the floorboards, not wanting to move. But I had to. There was no time for hesitation anymore.

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

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

“But they did anyway,” Mum said softly, a small smile playing on her lips. “They always do.”

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

I slid into my seat at the table quietly, watching them. Their kindness, their calm—it ached, somehow. They’d heard murmurs—odd news stories, disappearances whispered about between headlines—but I hadn’t told them the truth. Not the whole of it. How could I? How did you explain something like You-Know-Who to people who thought the worst thing that could happen was a recession or a power cut?

I wished I could protect that innocence. The Montgomerys had it too—the quiet, hopeful belief that if you just looked after others, the world would look after you. But I knew better now.

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

“Tea, please.”

Just then, something dark flickered past the kitchen window—too swift for a bird. My heart leapt. An owl.

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

Back in my room, I cracked open the window, letting in a gust of cool air. The owl landed neatly on the sill—a sleek barn owl with bright amber eyes that watched me steadily. It gave a soft, expectant hoot. I reached out and untied the package from its leg—my Daily Prophet subscription—slipped it a few Sickles, and watched as it vanished into the grey sky once more.

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

And then I saw it.

Dark Mark Sparks Panic.

My breath caught.

I scanned the article with growing dread. A Muggle family. No signs of struggle. No survivors. Just the Dark Mark left hovering above the house, glowing green against the low-hanging clouds.

My hands tightened around the page as I turned it.

And then I saw them.

A photograph. Four smiling faces.

The Montgomerys.

I stopped breathing.

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

And now they were gone.

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

They hadn’t even known what was coming.

They hadn’t stood a chance.

I could feel it in my chest, sharp and aching. They’d trusted the world to be kind, and the world had failed them. The war wasn’t distant anymore—it wasn’t something happening to other people in other places. It was here. It had found them.

And it would find more.

Every day, You-Know-Who grew bolder. And still the ministry insisted things were under control. Still, they acted as though order could be preserved by pretending chaos wasn’t already at our gates.

And here I was, still living at home. Still pretending I could revise for N.E.W.T.s and plan a war in the same breath.

There was no balance anymore. There was only the fight.

The photo crinkled in my hands as I folded the paper. The Montgomerys deserved better. We all did. But I couldn’t give them justice—not yet.

What I could do was prepare.

Because if I’d learnt anything from all of this, it was that there’s no such thing as safe—not for people like us. Not anymore.

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

I blinked, hard, scrubbing the back of my hand against my eyes. “Coming, Mum!”

My gaze dropped to the paper still clutched in my lap. The Montgomerys were smiling up at me—still and unknowing. Frozen in that moment before everything had gone so horribly wrong.

This was what waiting looked like.

And I couldn’t wait any longer.

It should’ve been just another morning. But there weren’t ordinary mornings anymore. Not when You-Know-Who was out there, murdering people simply for being Muggle. For existing.

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

Would he still smile like that if he knew?

I turned away, breath catching. The Dark Mark burnt behind my eyes—rising over our own house, casting its sickly green glow through the windows. I could almost hear the screaming. See Mum reaching for me. Dad trying to understand. And I—I’d be too late. I wouldn’t be able to protect them.

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

I sat at my desk, the thought sliding into place like the final piece of a puzzle I hadn’t wanted to finish. I’d read about the spell months ago—just in case, I’d told myself. It had been tucked between complex theories of memory layering and irreversible enchantments in a book I never should’ve had access to.

I hadn’t meant to take it seriously then.

But I did now.

They’d forget me. Everything. I would alter their memories, give them new names, and new lives. They’d move to Australia—somewhere warm, somewhere safe, where no one would know who they really were.

They’d survive.

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

There wasn’t time to cry. Not now. Not with so much left to do.

They wouldn’t hate me if they ever remembered.

They’d be alive.

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

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

Everything did.

Downstairs, the sound of dishes clinking and laughter drifted up to me—light, warm, normal. For a heartbeat, I let it wash over me. I wanted to bottle it somehow. Keep it tucked away. But that’s not how magic worked.

That’s not how war worked.

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

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

And I just stood there. Listening. Holding on.

Because I knew I’d never hear them like this again.

The moment stretched. I thought, stupidly, about running back upstairs. About pretending I hadn’t made this decision. That there was still time to change it.

But there wasn’t. The Montgomerys were proof of that.

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

They didn’t notice me. Mum was rinsing out a mug. Dad was rooting through the cupboard for the marmalade.

Just an ordinary morning.

Just the last one.

I raised my wand.

My voice barely rose above a whisper.

“Obliviate.”

A soft light pulsed from the wand’s tip. The magic surged forward, invisible but unstoppable, weaving its way into the air between us. For a moment, it felt like something in me had cracked open.

They paused, as though they’d forgotten what they were saying mid-sentence.

And they had.

I lowered my wand, chest heaving, heart threatening to tear itself free.

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

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

Behind my closed eyes, the memories came like a tide—slow at first, then all at once. Birthdays, bedtime stories, Mum gently brushing my hair before school, Dad spinning me clumsily round the kitchen, laughing as he pretended we were at a ball.

And one memory rose above the rest.

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

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

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

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

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

I hadn’t known then how true that would be. Or how much it would cost.

But even that memory began to slip. I could feel it. The spell tugged at the thread connecting us, pulling it loose, one stitch at a time. The love, the warmth, the certainty of belonging—it all began to drift.

I swayed on my feet, my knees trembling, but I didn’t let myself fall. I had to witness it. I owed them that.

Their faces were changing. Not visibly—but something deeper. The light in their eyes—the recognition—was fading. They looked around the kitchen like they’d never been in it before. Like strangers in their own home.

And just like that… they weren’t my parents anymore.

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

The tears came, silent and unstoppable, slipping down my cheeks as the rain began again outside, tapping at the window like it, too, wanted to be let in. I wanted to scream. To undo it. But I couldn’t. It was done.

To protect them, I had erased myself.

They stood there, calm and unbothered, touched by the gentle haze that only powerful memory magic could leave behind. They didn’t know who I was. They wouldn’t remember the girl who’d read ahead in every textbook, who’d cried in the car park the day she first left for Hogwarts, and who still wrote home even in the middle of the night.

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

Mum turned slowly, blinking. Her face was kind, but there was no trace of familiarity. Just a polite curiosity, as if I were someone she’d bumped into on the high street.

I turned to Dad. “Wendell.”

He nodded faintly, then frowned at the window, as though trying to remember why he’d come into the kitchen in the first place.

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

Inside that pendant lived our life.

I stepped back, dashing the tears from my face before they could fall again.

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

I closed my eyes, whispering the final line of the spell—the one woven with intent, with love. I imagined warm sand, the sun on their faces, laughter that came easy. A life without war. Without fear. A life they could live in peace.

Magic drifted from my wand like mist, curling round them softly. Their expressions eased. Mum smiled faintly. Dad placed a hand on her back, reassuring and gentle.

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

That was all that mattered.

I stepped forward, slowly, and wrapped my arms around them both. I held on tightly, knowing it would be the last time. They didn’t move. Didn’t even flinch. But I needed it. I needed to feel close to them, even if I was already gone in their eyes.

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

They didn’t answer. They couldn’t.

I let go.

“You should start packing,” I said softly, my voice barely audible.

They nodded and left the kitchen together, climbing the stairs with calm, unhurried steps, off to pack for a journey they didn’t remember choosing. Their footsteps faded until all that remained was the low hum of the refrigerator and the soft patter of rain against the windowpane.

I didn’t follow.

I couldn’t.

Watching them disappear was like watching a part of myself vanish up those stairs with them—something deep and vital that I would never get back.

I pressed my back to the wall, hands shaking, chest tight, and at last the tears broke through—hot and stinging and utterly silent. They were safe now.

But I wasn’t sure I would ever be whole again.

The silence in the house wasn’t just absence—it was presence. Dense and suffocating. It filled the corners of the room, making the air feel heavier, my lungs too small to hold it. It was the kind of silence that demanded grief. The kind that settled into the bones.

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

The living room looked exactly as it always had. The cushion’s a little lopsided. Dad’s old armchair was pulled slightly askew. Photographs lined the mantel, smiling out at a world that no longer existed. The three of us on the beach at Brighton. Me in my school uniform, beaming through missing front teeth. Mum in the garden, sunhat askew, laughing at something Dad had said.

I raised my wand.

My hand shook.

With a whispered incantation, I began erasing myself from what remained. One by one, the photos shimmered—fading, softening, the colours bleeding into nothing. Our memories blurred like watercolours caught in the rain. Holidays gone. Birthdays undone. Every ordinary, perfect moment—lost.

Each one left a hole inside me. A fresh wound. A cut that would never quite close.

My knees buckled, and I sank onto the sofa—our sofa. The one where Mum used to sit with me on Christmas Eve, brushing my hair while I read aloud from whatever book I was currently obsessed with. The fabric still smelt faintly of her—freesia and something warm and homely.

I clutched a cushion to my chest and wept, quietly, desperately, like I was afraid even my sorrow might disturb the silence that had settled here.

They were safe. That’s what I kept telling myself. Over and over, like a mantra. But it didn’t stop the ache from spreading like ice through my ribs.

What kind of daughter erases herself?

I didn’t have an answer.

Only grief.

Only the terrible, echoing emptiness of a goodbye that only I would remember.

Then—I heard them.

Footsteps on the stairs.

I looked up, eyes wide, hope flaring where it shouldn’t. My heart leapt—and broke in the same beat.

They stood in the doorway, their luggage in hand. Calm. Composed. Smiling gently.

They didn’t know me.

They had no reason to stop.

No reason to glance back.

I wanted to speak. Needed to. My throat burnt with unsaid words.

I love you.

Please remember.

Please—just once—say my name.

But they didn’t. They wouldn’t. The magic was too strong. And they were already gone.

They stepped through the door, and it clicked shut behind them with a finality that struck like a curse. That was it. The last chapter closed. They would leave for Australia and live their lives—safe, anonymous, and untouched by war.

Free of magic.

Free of me.

I stood slowly, feet dragging, and crossed to the window. My hands pressed against the cold glass, and I watched them walk away down the drive.

I didn’t blink.

I couldn’t afford to miss even a second.

Outside, the rain had stopped. A break in the clouds let through a spill of sunlight, casting long shadows over the front garden.

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

She planted them every spring. Told me what they meant—innocence, trust, remembrance. She used to tuck one behind my ear while I sat in the garden, reading, smiling at me like I was the best part of her world.

Now she wouldn’t remember the flowers. Or their meaning. Or me.

My eyes locked on that one bloom—violet, stubborn, and entirely out of season. It had no right to be there. And yet… it was.

Defiant.

Like her.

Like me.

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

It cracked as it left me.

There would be no reply. No soft answer. No warm arms around me, no familiar voice telling me I’d done the right thing.

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

I pressed my forehead to the windowpane. The glass was cool. The sunlight was golden. But neither could reach me—not really. Not where I’d gone inside myself.

It was time.

I turned, the air thick and still behind me. I looked around one final time, burning everything into memory—every corner, every shadow, every absence.

The couch.

The blank photo frames.

The freesia blooming against all odds.

I wanted to remember this moment. Even if it broke me.

I lifted my wand, my breath shaky, the words unspoken on my lips.

The colours blurred. The world twisted.

And then—I was gone.

The house was empty.

The memories had vanished.

But my love… that would never fade.