Notes:
TW: mention of overdose attempt
The rhythmic motions of her hands should have calmed her. She smoothed her serums across her skin in slow, even strokes, letting the warmth of the candlelight settle her thoughts after a long day. The soft glow filled the room with a familiar comfort while she moved through her nightly ritual.
Each cream, each brush of her fingertips, was meant to anchor her. This was the one part of the evening that belonged entirely to her, a quiet moment carved out of the chaos of her life.
She picked up her hydrating mask and applied it with the same practiced ease she had perfected years ago. The cool texture soothed her skin, and she breathed in the faint scent of lavender, waiting for that sense of calm to settle deeper.
It never did.
The fireplace exploded into emerald light, a violent burst that tore a hole straight through the peaceful quiet. Shadows leapt and twisted across the room as the flames roared higher. The voice that followed cut through the air, jagged and panicked, barely holding itself together.
"Pansy, please help me. Please, you have to come."
Her body went still.
The voice shook with a desperation she had never heard, raw in a way that made her stomach drop.
"Hermione tried to take her life. Pansy, my everything tried to… please. Please come to St. Mungo's."
Her heart lurched so violently she felt the shock all the way down to her fingertips. The mask on her face, once cooling, suddenly felt suffocating. It tightened across her skin until she could not breathe. She tore it away with shaking hands, barely feeling the sting as her nails scraped her cheek.
She could not think. Not properly. She only knew that she had to move.
"I am coming," she cried, already spinning away from the mirror.
Her mind struggled to catch up with her body. The name echoed over and over, rising like a tide inside her.
Hermione. Hermione. Dear gods, Hermione.
She flicked her wand, and the silk robe wrapped around her transformed into something suited for a cold hospital corridor. She did not bother to check what the transfiguration resulted in. Vanity had no place here. Only urgency.
Her pulse raced in her ears. Her breath came quick and uneven as she reached for the jar of Floo powder. Her fingers trembled, but she forced them steady enough to grasp the glittering dust. A thousand questions clawed through her mind, but none of them found shape.
What had Hermione been hiding? How long had she been drowning beneath a smile none of them questioned? What had they missed?
The thought sliced through her chest, sharp and brutal. She had always known Hermione was strong. Terrifyingly strong. The sort of strength that made her break before she ever bent. But strength could fracture in silence, and none of them had noticed.
She stepped into the hearth. Green light rose up around her like a wave crashing shut.
The last thing she felt before the world spun away was the tightness in her chest, a desperate, unspoken prayer that she would not arrive too late.
~~~~~~
Malfoy had seen horrors that would have broken most men. He had stood in the ruins of battlefields, watched lives end beside him, felt the chill of choices that would stain his conscience forever. He had survived a war that left its mark in the silence after nightmares. Yet nothing had prepared him for this.
The image would not leave him. Hermione, motionless on the bathroom floor. Potion vials scattered, rolling away when he fell to his knees. Her skin too pale, her limbs too still. He had touched her face with trembling hands, begging her to wake up even before he checked for a pulse.
He had found one. Faint. Weak. There. But only because he had found her in time.
He kept replaying it, the moment he realized what she had done, the moment he realized how close he had come to losing her. The shock. The terror. The overwhelming sense of helplessness that made his knees nearly buckle. His mind refused to let him forget it. The memory pulsed behind his eyes every time he blinked.
What if he had been ten minutes later? What if he had not gone back to check on her? What if she had slipped away without a sound?
The questions clawed at him like living things.
At St. Mungo's, Pansy stepped out of the green fire with her heart already pounding. She had not even taken a full breath before the familiar sound of apparition cracked beside her.
Theo appeared, shoulders tight, face set in a grim line that betrayed the fear beneath.
She turned to Draco at once. The sight of him made her heart stop.
"Draco, what happened?" Her voice tried for steadiness, but it betrayed her. It cracked, thin and frail, as if the truth might shatter her.
He could barely look at her. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, trying to force words out through the raw ache scraping at his voice.
"It is bad," he whispered, the words dragging themselves out of him. "Hermione tried to overdose on calming potions."
The world stopped.
Pansy felt the breath leave her in a violent rush. Her hands fell to her sides, fingers curling and uncurling as if she had forgotten how to breathe. Theo stiffened beside her, the shock washing over him in a cold wave.
"She is alive," Draco added quickly, but the fear in his voice twisted the reassurance into something fragile and trembling. "Barely. They said if I had found her any later…"
He stopped, jaw locking with effort. His eyes filled with a pain she had never seen in him before. Draco Malfoy, who had survived war and torture and years of public hatred, looked moments away from breaking.
The silence that followed was suffocating. Thick. Heavy. Unbearable.
Pansy pressed a hand against her chest to ground herself. The ache beneath her ribs was sharp, a pressure that made her struggle for air. Hermione. Hermione had reached that point. Hermione had gone so silent that none of them noticed she was disappearing piece by piece.
Theo exhaled shakily, the sound small and ragged. "What do you need us to do?" His voice was low, steady, but his eyes had gone soft with disbelief and guilt.
Draco met their gazes. His own eyes were glassy, strangely bright under the harsh hospital lights. His hands trembled openly now. His control had slipped, and he did not seem to care.
"Please," he rasped, voice fraying with every word. "I need you both to go to the penthouse and collect our things. All of it. We are moving back to her cottage."
He paused, breath hitching as he forced himself to continue. "Her cottage is the only place she might feel safe. I cannot do this alone. I… I cannot lose her."
Draco Malfoy never begged. Not for anything. Yet here he stood, stripped of every wall he had ever built, pleading with the only two people he trusted enough to witness him like this.
Pansy stepped forward without thinking. The fear, the shock, the pounding pulse in her throat, none of it mattered now.
"Of course, Draco." Her voice was soft, but steady enough to hold him. "We will take care of everything."
Theo nodded beside her, his jaw set with quiet resolve. "Anything she needs. Anything you need."
Relief flickered across Draco's face, faint and fleeting, but enough to tell them he had needed to hear those words more than anything else in the world.
Hermione lived. That was what mattered. But the scar of what had almost happened hung over them, a shadow none of them could outrun.
They would move mountains for her now.
~~~~~~
They wasted no time. The moment the emerald fire released them into the penthouse, Pansy was already moving. Her heels struck the marble with sharp, urgent clicks, echoing through the open space like the rush of a heartbeat that had not yet steadied.
Everything felt too calm, too untouched. The sleek furniture and pristine décor stood in painful contrast to the chaos clawing at her chest.
She dragged a hand through her hair as she crossed the living room. "Draco has always been tough, but this…" Her voice faltered, the edges thinning with something she did not bother to hide. "This is different."
Theo had already opened drawers in the hallway, moving with controlled precision. He paused for a moment, his hand resting on a stack of folded shirts, before he spoke. "He is scared," he said quietly. "Truly scared. And if anyone knows how to hide fear behind discipline, it is him."
Pansy let out a slow breath, then pulled open the wardrobe with more force than necessary. Her fingers closed around a soft grey sweater, the one Hermione wore on cold evenings, the one that still held the faint scent of vanilla, parchment, and home.
"Hermione is strong," she murmured, pressing the fabric briefly against her chest. "Stronger than all of us in a lot of ways. But people like her…" She shook her head, swallowing hard. "When they break, it is because they have been holding everything together for too long."
Theo nodded, picking up a worn copy of Hogwarts: A History from the bedside table. The spine was bent, the pages soft from years of reading. Pressed flowers peeked out from between two chapters, fragile reminders of a girl who once believed the world was fairer than it had proven to be.
He brushed a thumb over the cover. "Until it all comes crashing down," he finished, his voice steady but low.
There was no room for hesitation. They worked with a quiet urgency, moving through the apartment in smooth, practiced motions. They gathered every object that might bring Hermione even a sliver of comfort, the journal she wrote in late at night, the quills she always reached for first, the soft blankets Pansy had given her after the war, the ones she had clung to through long, sleepless nights.
Everything mattered now. Anything could be a lifeline.
In the sitting area, Pansy paused at the sight of Crookshanks perched on the windowsill. He blinked slowly at her, his golden eyes round with a kind of quiet judgment, as if he had already decided that whatever was going on was entirely beneath him. His tail flicked once, unimpressed, before he turned his head away in that dramatic, long-suffering way only a cat could manage.
"Oh, do not start," she muttered, placing her hands on her hips. "You are coming with us and you know it."
Crookshanks did not move.
Pansy narrowed her eyes. "Do not test me, feline. I am already having a terrible night."
The half-Kneazle responded by slowly, deliberately licking his paw.
Theo glanced over from the hallway, a faint smirk touching his mouth. "He is ignoring you."
"He is challenging me," she corrected, stepping closer. "There is a difference."
Crookshanks lifted his chin slightly, as if to say he agreed with her assessment that he was indeed challenging her.
"Come here, you stubborn little monarch," she sighed.
To her surprise, he hopped down and trotted toward her with a soft chirp, brushing his head firmly against her shin. The sudden affection startled her, her expression softening in spite of everything.
"Oh," she breathed, crouching down. "You are being sweet. That is suspicious."
Crookshanks pressed closer, rubbing his whole cheek against her hand. The weight of it, the warmth of his fur, the simple, wordless trust, cracked her open in a way she had not been prepared for. Her eyes stung as she stroked him, long steady passes from head to tail.
"You can tell something is wrong, can't you?" she whispered.
He responded with a deep, rumbling purr, leaning harder into her palm.
Pansy let out a tiny, shaky laugh, brushing her thumb along the tufted edge of his ear. "You are too good for her," she said softly. "Do you know that? You are loyal and grumpy and absolutely judgmental, and she needs that. She needs you."
Crookshanks blinked up at her, slow and solemn, then raised a paw and rested it on her knee.
Her breath hitched.
Theo stepped into the doorway with two packed bags, watching silently as Pansy gathered the ginger creature into her arms. Crookshanks settled against her chest with surprising ease, tucking his head under her chin as if he knew she needed the softness just as much as Hermione did.
Pansy pressed a small kiss to the top of his head. "Alright, beast," she murmured, voice gentle in a way she rarely allowed herself. "Let's bring her home."
With that, she placed him in the enchanted carrier, lingering just long enough to give him one last reassuring stroke before closing the latch.
This time, he didn't protest.
He just looked up at her through the bars, calm and ready.
Theo swallowed, his voice quiet. "He trusts you."
Pansy straightened, wiping her cheek discreetly before he could see the shine in her eyes. "He should," she said lightly, though her voice carried a tenderness she could not hide. "I am his favorite after Hermione."
Theo huffed, shifting the bags. "You are impossible."
Pansy finally allowed herself a faint smile. "Maybe. But I am also right."
Theo returned, carrying several shrunken bags that shimmered faintly with protective charms. Each one held the essentials they had gathered, carefully arranged to leave nothing behind that Hermione might need.
"Think we have everything?" he asked.
Pansy stood still for a moment, letting her eyes sweep across the penthouse. The place felt hollow now, like a shell of a life that had been paused mid-breath. A home meant to be a refuge had become a reminder of how quickly safety could crumble.
Finally, she exhaled and reached for the door. "Everything that matters," she said softly.
Theo nodded, and together they stepped into the hearth. The green fire flared, swallowing them whole as they vanished into the night, carrying Hermione's pieces with them, determined to bring her back to a place where she could breathe again.
~~~~~~
Hermione's cottage had once been her sanctuary. It rested on a small rise just outside Ottery St. Catchpole where the world seemed to breathe a little slower. The hush of the countryside wrapped itself around the stone walls, soft and patient, as if promising protection.
Ivy climbed the corners of the cottage, casting soft shadows that whispered of easier days. Birds rustled in the tall trees nearby, and the faint scent of damp earth drifted through the garden. This had been her safe place, the only space untouched by Ministry politics or the war that had carved sharp new lines into all their lives.
Theo and Pansy Apparated near the front path, and even before the warmth of the cottage lights touched her face, Pansy was already moving with a fierce, determined purpose.
"This place needs to feel like home again," she said. Her voice was firm, steady, the kind of tone she only used when something mattered.
Theo nodded and took in the modest structure. It was nothing like the sprawling halls of his own home, but the small rooms felt intimate and tender in a way he had never understood before Hermione. The little garden. The odd mismatched mugs on the shelf. The handwriting on notes she had left for herself near the door. Everything here had been shaped by her hands.
They stepped inside, and Pansy immediately began placing the belongings they collected, restoring the familiar order of Hermione's world. The books went back on the shelves first, each in its proper place. Her favorite blanket settled over the armchair in a soft cascade of familiar fabric.
Theo used quiet spells to sweep out dust and freshen the room, the motions gentle and precise. A vase of wildflowers appeared on the table, their soft colors brightening the space.
Crookshanks wandered out of his carrier with a leisurely stretch, then padded confidently across the room. He sniffed the doorway, circled once, then curled into the small bed Hermione had charmed for him long ago. His rumbling purr filled the quiet space, as if giving his seal of approval.
Pansy paused in front of the bookshelf, her hands grazing a worn spine. The cottage felt warmer already, breathing again, as if waking from a long sleep. She looked toward Theo who had begun setting out tea things, arranging them with a care uncharacteristic of him.
"It feels like her, doesn't it?" she said softly.
Theo nodded. "It does. I hope it is enough."
Pansy's shoulders lifted with a slow breath. "It has to be. She has held all of us together at one point or another. She deserves to have something hold her now."
Crookshanks bumped gently against her ankle in a gesture that surprised her. He blinked his golden eyes up at her as if reminding her that Hermione was not alone and would not return to an empty home.
Pansy crouched down and smoothed her fingers over the top of his head. "Good boy," she whispered. "Stay close to her when she gets here."
The half Kneazle pressed his cheek into her palm in a soft, grateful nudge.
Draco arrived as the sun dipped low, painting the sky in long strokes of amber and rose. The fading light touched the cottage with a kind of gentle reverence. The garden glowed faintly. The windows gleamed. It was quiet here. Honest. The kind of quiet he had once feared but now craved with every breath.
This had been their place. The place where she had laughed freely. The place where he had learned to breathe without armor. The place where their life had begun.
His steps slowed as he reached the front path, his chest tight with hope and fear and exhaustion. The door opened before he lifted a hand to knock.
Pansy stood in the doorway with her hair slightly mussed, candlelight casting a soft halo behind her. For once, she had no smirk ready, no teasing quip. Only quiet understanding lived in her expression.
"Everything is ready," she murmured.
Behind her, Theo stepped into view, one hand braced lightly on the doorframe, his expression gathered and serious. "How is she?" he asked.
Draco exhaled, pressing the heel of his palm briefly to his eyes. "She is tired," he said, the words catching in his throat. "She will be discharged soon. They want her somewhere calm. Somewhere she remembers."
The cottage glowed golden behind them, every lamp lit with soft light. Blankets folded neatly. Books arranged with intention. Tea waiting on the table. A home waiting for its heart to return.
Pansy crossed her arms, though not with her usual sharpness. There was gentleness there instead. "She is stronger than she knows," she said. "And she is loved. That counts for something."
Draco swallowed hard. The words hit him with more force than he expected. "I just need to make sure she feels safe," he said quietly. "I need her to know she is not alone."
"And she is not," Theo said. "You have us. She has us."
Draco looked between them and felt something inside him loosen. The place that had been holding too much for too long finally allowed itself a breath. He turned slowly, his gaze sweeping over the small home, now warm and lived in again. The soft blanket on the chair. The flowers. The books. And Crookshanks, who sat near the hearth, watching him with amber eyes that seemed far older than they should be.
Words felt too small for what swelled inside him, so he simply nodded. His voice was thick when it finally came.
"Thank you," he said. "Both of you. For everything."
Pansy reached out and rested a hand on his arm. "Go to her," she said softly. "Bring her home."
Draco stepped into the twilight, the last light glinting on the ivy leaves as the cottage door closed gently behind him. His breath came slow and steady. Hope ached inside him like a bruise, tender and frightening in its intensity.
It was time.
Time to bring her home.
~~~~~~
The night had been quiet, almost deceptively so. Hermione had fallen asleep with her head tucked beneath Draco's chin, her breaths long and steady, a fragile rhythm he checked every few minutes without meaning to. The cottage felt still, wrapped in the soft hush of moonlight, as if nothing in the world could reach them here.
Then came the knock.
A sharp rapping, quick and insistent, that sliced through the silence and jolted Draco upright. His heart lurched. His wand was in his hand before he had fully opened his eyes. Hermione sat up as well, rubbing the last traces of sleep from her face, her wand already clenched between her fingers.
The knock came again, louder this time, almost frantic.
Hermione's whisper floated through the dark. "Who would come at this hour?"
Draco shook his head and moved toward the door with slow, careful steps. "Stay behind me," he murmured, his voice low. His eyes had already sharpened in that familiar way, the old instinct rising to the surface. He would have stepped in front of a curse without thinking twice.
He cracked the door open just enough to see who waited on the other side.
Three familiar faces peered back at him in the pale wash of moonlight, each expression laced with a shared concern they tried and failed to mask.
Pansy stood in the front, hair slightly windswept, arms crossed, and a dramatic pout pulling at her mouth. "Honestly," she said, rolling her eyes so hard it was a wonder she did not sprain something. "Calm yourselves. You look like you have seen a boggart."
Behind her, Blaise raised a lazy brow. "Good evening to you as well. Or morning, depending on how tragic your sleep schedule is." His smirk softened. "We heard things were rough. We wanted to check on you."
Theo stepped forward with a grin that did not quite reach his eyes. "We figured you lovebirds might need reinforcements."
Relief crashed into Draco like a wave. He stepped aside at once. "Get in," he said, unable to hide the heaviness in his voice. "Next time, try arriving after sunrise."
Hermione moved closer, her shoulders loosening for the first time in days. She managed a small smile. "I am glad you are here. Truly. But what on earth possessed you to appear in the middle of the night?"
Pansy lifted a shoulder, her usual boldness tempered with sincerity. "News travels fast," she said quietly. "We were worried. And we are not letting you slog through this alone."
Blaise nodded, his gaze meeting Hermione's with rare gentleness. "We have all lived through more darkness than one lifetime should hold. No rule says you have to keep fighting it without help."
Pansy reached out and took Hermione's hand. Her grip was warm and steady, her thumb brushing over Hermione's knuckles. "You are stuck with us now," she said. "Chosen family is a curse, darling. You cannot get rid of us even if you tried."
Hermione let out a breath that trembled slightly, the first sign of real ease since the hospital. A small laugh escaped her, soft but genuine.
What a lovely little traumatized family.
They moved into the sitting room, the fire crackling low in the hearth as if it had woken just to greet them. Draco conjured a pot of tea that steamed gently in the quiet. Pansy flopped onto the armchair with a theatrical sigh. Blaise settled beside her, stretching his long legs out as if he had always belonged on Hermione's rug. Theo leaned against the mantle, arms folded, posture relaxed.
As the night thinned into the first stretch of dawn, conversation drifted naturally, pulled from the folds of years spent surviving and rebuilding. Pansy recounted a Hogwarts prank with such dramatic flair that Hermione leaned into Draco, laughing softly into his shoulder. Blaise followed with a story that Theo interrupted twice because he claimed Blaise was exaggerating the heroics. Hermione's eyes glowed brighter with every laugh, as if some lost spark was finding its way back.
By the time sunlight began brushing the windowsills, the cottage felt alive again.
The quiet fear sitting in Hermione's chest loosened. There were still shadows there, but they felt smaller now, less able to swallow her whole.
She looked at the four people gathered in her living room, each of them touched by their own scars, each carrying a different kind of pain, yet somehow still finding their way back to one another. They had been forged by war, shaped by trauma, and stitched back together through stubborn loyalty.
They were not a perfect group. Not even close.
But they were hers.
Draco slid his hand into hers. His fingers curled with careful pressure, grounding her, anchoring her. When she looked at him, she found no fear. Only love. Only certainty.
The others kept talking, teasing, and sipping tea. Nothing about the moment felt forced. Nothing felt fragile. They were simply together.
A chosen family. Messy, loyal, battle-worn, and unmistakably hers.
As the sun climbed higher, casting golden streaks across the wooden floor, Hermione felt warmth gather deep in her chest. Not the fleeting kind. Not the fragile kind. Something steadier.
They would face what came next, whatever shape it took. Together.
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers; For he to-day that sheds his blood with me Shall be my brother.
~~~~~~
Draco paced the study in slow, unsettled strides, the soft glow of the dying fire casting long shadows across the walls. The cottage was quiet, far too quiet for the storm he carried inside him. The air felt heavy, as if it belonged to another room entirely, one filled with things he had no strength left to face. His hand twitched toward the decanter more than once, but he stopped himself every time. He knew the burn of firewhisky would not touch the real ache, the one sinking deeper with every passing minute.
He had lived through horrors that would have broken most men, yet none of that had prepared him for this. He could feel the memory pressing against his ribs, each thought cutting a little deeper. Hermione was drowning in the consequences of something she never should have been forced to do. And he could not save her. He could only watch the pain take root in her eyes and hope it did not swallow her whole.
The Floo flared without warning, green light filling the study in a sudden rush. Pansy's voice cut through the room at once.
"Draco, are you alone?"
Her tone was sharp, all clipped edges and urgency, but beneath it he heard concern. Real concern, the kind she rarely let slip. He turned toward the fire, shoulders stiff.
"Yes. I am alone."
For a moment she said nothing. She simply looked at him, her face lit by the flames, her expression alert and knowing. She could sense something was wrong. She always could.
"What happened?" she asked.
His jaw tightened. He tried for distance, for that calm, dismissive exterior he had relied on for so many years. "It is a private matter."
Pansy tilted her head, unimpressed. "Private. You are talking to me, Draco. Spare me the theatrics. Hermione matters to us. She is family. So do not pretend this is something you can handle alone."
He let out a frustrated breath. "You are impossible."
"Correct," she said neatly. "Now stop dodging the question. You reached out for a reason, so tell me what happened."
Her insistence wore down the last of his resolve. Saying the words out loud felt like stepping off a cliff, but keeping them inside was starting to choke him.
He rubbed a hand over his face, the gesture tired and raw. Then, with a breath that trembled despite all his effort to steady it, he finally spoke.
"She was the one who killed my father."
Silence followed. A long, still moment where even the fire seemed to hold its breath.
Pansy blinked once. Then again. The sharp retort he expected never came. Instead, a slow understanding spread across her features, followed by a thoughtful exhale.
"Oh," she said quietly.
Another beat passed. Then her mouth pulled into a faint, sure smile.
"Good for her."
He stared at her, caught between disbelief and a strange sense of relief. "Good for her," he repeated. "That is your response."
Her expression softened, her usual bravado settling into something warmer. "Yes. Good for her. After the life your father forced on you, after everything he did, she freed you from that ghost. She did what no one else could. She protected you."
He swallowed hard. The truth of her words settled slowly inside him, unsettling and oddly relieving at the same time. The man who had haunted his life for so long was gone, but the cost of that freedom had sunk its teeth into Hermione's soul.
Pansy watched him closely, her voice gentle when she spoke again. "She did it because she loves you. And if anyone in this world deserved to pay for his sins, it was him."
Draco let out a shaky breath. For the first time since the truth had surfaced, he felt something shift inside him. Not peace. Not yet. But the beginning of it, faint and trembling.
Pansy nodded, as if she could see the change settle across his shoulders. "You are allowed to feel everything you feel, Draco. But do not carry this alone."
Her words lingered in the quiet room, warm as the firelight.
His voice thinned into a whisper, the pain finally spilling over. "She could not handle the guilt, Pansy. It is tearing her apart."
Something in her expression shifted. The usual spark, the easy arrogance she carried like a favorite perfume, slipped away. What remained was soft, steady, and painfully human.
"Of course it is," she said quietly. "She is Hermione Granger. She is not built like us. She feels everything. She always has."
Draco braced himself against the desk, his fingers curled around the edge as though it were the only thing keeping him upright. "I thought she could move past it. I thought we could get through it together. But it is destroying her, and I have no idea how to reach her."
Pansy did not rush her reply. She watched him for a long moment, something thoughtful settling in her eyes. Then, with a slow breath, she spoke. "You cannot wipe it away. None of us can. But you can help her hold it. That is the difference. She does not need someone to fix it. She needs someone who will not walk away when it gets heavy."
His eyes closed as the memory of Hermione lying in that hospital bed rose up again. Her face had been too still, her skin washed of all its usual colour, her pulse faint against his fingers. "She will not talk to me. She barely looks at me. It feels like she is disappearing and I am losing her one breath at a time."
"She is drowning," Pansy said softly. "When someone like Hermione is overwhelmed, she shuts down. She pushes everyone away because she thinks she is protecting them. You cannot let her slip. You fight hard for the things you love. Fight for her the same way."
He let out a shaky breath, frustration and fear twisting painfully in his chest. "I do not know if she will ever forgive herself."
Pansy's expression tightened, her voice firm and low. "Then stop making this about forgiveness. She does not need absolution. She needs a reason to keep going. She saved herself from him. She saved you too. That is the truth you need to anchor her with."
The room fell quiet again, but not with the same crushing stillness as before. Her words settled in him, rough and honest, a truth that refused to let him turn away.
Draco straightened, something hardening inside him, something that felt a little like purpose. He would walk into fire for Hermione. He would tear down everything that stood between them. The entire world could burn before he let her disappear beneath her own guilt.
"She will get through this," Pansy said. Her voice held a rare weight, a conviction that wrapped around the moment like a safety net. "And when she does, she will be stronger. Until then, she needs you to be the steady one."
He nodded, the resolve taking hold. "You are right."
Her smirk returned, the familiar glimmer lighting her features again. "Naturally. I am always right."
He rolled his eyes, though a faint curve pulled at the corner of his mouth. "Thank you, Parkinson."
"Anytime, darling," she said, light as a sigh, though something true and loyal pulsed beneath the words.
Her face faded from the Floo flames, leaving the study in quiet once more. But the silence felt different now. It no longer pressed against him from all sides.
He finally knew what he needed to do.
He would not let Hermione slip further into the dark.
He would bring her back, inch by inch, breath by breath, no matter how long it took.
~~~~~~
The evening had already settled into darkness by the time Neville stepped into the house. It still smelled faintly of soil and parchment on him, remnants of another long night in the greenhouses at Hogwarts. He expected the familiar comfort of home, the soft lighting, the warmth, the quiet. Instead, he walked straight into tension so thick it nearly stopped him in the doorway.
Pansy was pacing.
Her face had lost its usual colour. Her hands kept fluttering toward her hair, then dropping again, as if she could not decide what to hold on to.
Neville's stomach tightened. This was not the Pansy he sparred with. This was someone genuinely shaken.
He set his bag down carefully and crossed the room in a few quick steps. He placed his hands on her shoulders, grounding her. "My love," he said quietly, studying her face, "what is it? What happened?"
She stilled under his touch, her breath catching. For once she did not snap back or toss out a sarcastic remark to soften the moment. She bit her lip, eyes darting away as though the words might burn on the way out.
"I need to tell you something," she said, and her voice carried an edge of fear he had almost never heard from her.
He guided her toward him, thumbs brushing her arms in a slow, reassuring rhythm. "You can tell me anything," he murmured. "I am right here."
Her gaze lifted, uncertain for the briefest moment. "Promise me you will not tell anyone." She searched his face almost desperately. "Nevie, promise me."
He nodded at once. There was never a world in which he would betray her trust. "I promise. Whatever it is, it stays between us."
She drew a long breath, steadying herself before she spoke again. "It is about Hermione."
The way she said the name made his heart stop.
"What is it?" His voice dropped into a whisper without him meaning it to.
Pansy hesitated, then forced the words out. "She almost overdosed."
Neville felt everything inside him twist. His breath stuttered, and for a moment he could not seem to find air. "What?" he managed. "Hermione? Overdosed?"
"On calming draught," Pansy said, her voice thin. "Draco found her. It was close. Too close."
Neville took a step back, a hand pressed against his forehead as the room blurred for a moment. Hermione, the strongest person he knew. Hermione, who had survived every storm they had ever faced. Hermione, who had always held them together. The idea of her reaching such a breaking point made something inside him crack wide open.
"Oh, Merlin," he whispered, his throat tightening. "Is she alright? Truly alright?"
"She is safe now," Pansy said gently. "Physically she will recover. But inside… she is not okay, Nevie. She has been carrying too much for too long. She hid it well, like she always does, but she has been slipping."
He swallowed hard, guilt sinking into his chest like a stone. "Why did she not tell us? Why did none of us see it?" His voice trembled with anger, with fear, with heartbreak.
Pansy moved closer, taking his hands in hers. Her touch was soft, steady, grounding him the way he had grounded her moments ago. "Because she is Hermione," she said quietly. "She does not know how to fall apart in front of people. She thinks she has to be the strong one for all of us. She thinks asking for help is failing."
Neville looked down at their intertwined fingers, shame prickling behind his ribs. "We need to help her," he said firmly. "Not someday. Not later. Now."
"We will," Pansy replied. "She is at her cottage. Theo and I have been helping Draco get everything ready. But she is going to need more than furniture and tea to pull through this."
Neville nodded, his expression settling into something that looked almost like resolve. "Then she will have more. She will have us. Whatever she needs, whenever she needs it."
Pansy's shoulders loosened slightly, a hint of relief softening her features. "I knew you would say that."
He gathered her into a tight embrace, holding her as though keeping both of them upright. His chin rested on her hair, and he breathed in the familiar scent of her perfume mixed with something rawer, something true.
"Thank you for telling me," he murmured. "I will keep the promise. And we will get her through this. All of us. Together."
Pansy nodded against his chest, her arms closing around him with surprising strength. "She is going to be alright," she said softly, as if trying to convince herself. "She has to be."
"She will be," Neville replied, his voice steady now. "We are not letting her slip away."
And for the first time since Pansy had spoken her name, he allowed himself to believe it.
~~~~~~
The first visit set the rhythm for all the days that followed. It became an unspoken agreement among them, a quiet vow that Hermione would not slip back into the isolation that had nearly destroyed her. Someone arrived at the cottage every day. Sometimes the whole group came at once, filling the small living room with familiar voices. Other times they appeared one by one, dropping in with the steady certainty of people who were not going anywhere.
Neville was the most consistent. He had a gentle persistence that never felt overbearing, a way of showing up that rooted itself in kindness rather than obligation. He never arrived with empty hands. One day he brought tomatoes from the Hogwarts greenhouses, still warm from the enchanted lamps. Another day he carried a bundle of thyme wrapped in twine, the scent filling the cottage as soon as he stepped through the door. There were mornings when he arrived with wildflowers tucked under his arm, their colors bright against the quiet of Hermione's kitchen.
He knew her well enough to understand that nature steadied her. Soil beneath her nails. Growing things. Quiet things. So he made sure the cottage was full of them.
On some afternoons, they sat together in the garden behind the house, speaking little, letting the warm breeze do most of the work. Other times they knelt beside each other in the dirt, replanting herbs or tending to the small beds she had once cared for so lovingly. There was comfort in the repetition of it, in tending the earth side by side, in allowing silence to feel safe again.
One morning, as they knelt in the cool shade, replanting a row of lavender, Neville looked over at her. His hands pressed into the soil with an ease that came from years of tending plants, but his gaze held something deeper, something quiet and attentive.
"How are you really feeling, Hermione?"
She ran her fingertips along a lavender stem, watching the petals tremble gently in the breeze. Her answer came slowly, as though she had to lift each word from somewhere heavy.
"I don't know," she whispered. "Some days it feels like I'm drowning. Other days I feel like I can breathe again. It's complicated, Nev. It's hard."
He nodded, never flinching at the truth, never rushing to fill the silence. His voice came soft, steady, carrying the same reassurance as the earth beneath them.
"Then we will take it slow. One day at a time, exactly like Pansy said."
Hermione let out a breath she had been holding without realizing it. For the first time that morning, the garden felt a little brighter. The lavender seemed to stand a little taller. And the weight in her chest eased, just a fraction.
And then there were the nights when Pansy brought the drugs.
It began on a night that had stretched thin around them, a night when Hermione barely spoke at all. She was curled tightly on the couch, tucked beneath a blanket she did not seem to feel, her gaze fixed on nothing. It was the look of someone who had drifted too far into her own head and could not find her way back.
Pansy knew that look. She had worn it herself once, back when holding herself together felt like trying to grip smoke. So she did what she always did when confronted with things she could not fix through logic or pretty words. She took action.
She arrived at the cottage with a determined stride and a small, discreet package tucked in her coat pocket. Her expression was half mischief, half challenge, the sort of look that usually meant trouble.
"Move over," she announced, sweeping into the sitting room and dropping onto the couch beside Hermione with enough force to jostle her. She kicked off her heels and let them clatter to the floor, stretching out like she owned the place. "You, my dear, are in desperate need of an intervention."
Hermione blinked at her, slow and unfocused. "What sort of intervention?"
Pansy held up the small package between two fingers. "The fun sort. Consider it medicinal."
Hermione stared. "Is that what I think it is?"
Pansy grinned as she unwrapped it. "Only the finest herb. You look like you haven't unclenched your shoulders in three weeks. Trust me. It will help."
Hermione hesitated, lips pressed together, torn between common sense and exhaustion. Then, at the sight of Pansy's raised brow and exaggerated patience, a tiny, reluctant smile tugged at her mouth.
"You are impossible," Hermione murmured.
"Correct," Pansy replied. "Now scoot. Sharing is caring."
The windows cracked open just enough to let in the cool evening air, and the two of them sat side by side with a blanket draped over their legs. They passed the spliff back and forth, the tension slowly untangling itself from Hermione's posture. Her breaths deepened. The tightness in her jaw eased. The silence, which had been heavy only moments before, began to soften.
Soon they were talking. Really talking. Not just about the shadows in Hermione's mind, though some of that inevitably surfaced, but about lighter things too. Lady's ridiculous sleeping habits. The time Theo mixed up hair serum with furniture polish. Blaise's dramatic retelling of his last duel with a particularly territorial peacock. Things that made Hermione's eyes sparkle again, if only for a moment.
By the time the laughter came, loud and unrestrained, the air in the room felt warm again.
Which was exactly when Draco stepped through the door.
He stopped with one foot inside the cottage, surveying the scene before him. Hermione was half draped over Pansy, tears of laughter streaking down her cheeks. Pansy looked far too pleased with herself. And hovering over them both was a faint haze that explained everything.
He pinched the bridge of his nose, already regretting asking. "What, exactly, am I walking into?"
Pansy lifted the spliff like it was a trophy. "Relax, darling. I am helping our girl unwind."
Hermione snorted with laughter, nearly doubling over. Pansy patted her back, proud as a parent.
Draco sighed, but there was no real frustration behind it. The heaviness that had clung to the cottage for days had lifted, just a little. The air was lighter. Hermione was laughing.
He crossed the room and knelt beside her, brushing a curl away from her cheek. "Are you alright?"
She nodded, breathless from giggling. "Better," she managed. "Much better."
Pansy smirked triumphantly. "You are welcome."
Draco shot her a look that was half exasperation, half gratitude. He would never say it out loud, but the spark in Hermione's eyes told him everything he needed to know.
Tonight had been good for her. Tonight had given her room to breathe again.
Each visit brought something different.
Some evenings were filled with loud, ridiculous laughter. There had been one night in particular when someone had brought a Muggle board game none of them properly understood. They spent half the night arguing over the rules, calling one another cheats, and accusing Blaise of inventing moves just to win.
Theo swore he had a flawless strategy, only to lose spectacularly to Ginny, who confessed at the end that she had not even realised she was winning. By the time they packed the game away, their eyes were wet from laughing, and Hermione's ribs ached in the best way.
Other visits were calmer. Sometimes Neville arrived with two steaming mugs of tea and settled beside her on the porch steps. They wrapped themselves in thick blankets and watched the sunset stretch across the sky in soft ribbons of violet, rose, and gold. He rarely pushed her to speak. He simply stayed, a steady presence beside her, warm and real when everything inside her felt too heavy to articulate.
What mattered most was that they came. They came when she smiled again. They came when she cried. They came when she barely made it out of bed. They arrived with food, and flowers, and jokes, and silence. Whatever she needed, they tried to give.
Even Lady Lemongrass made herself at home in the cottage. The tiny creature followed Hermione from room to room with a determined little trot, curling up beside her on the sofa during the worst spells. She would press her warm body against Hermione's leg, snoring softly, her squashed face smushed into Hermione's thigh as if she was standing guard.
It helped. More than Hermione could put into words. Some afternoons, she found her fingers drifting through the pug's fur, letting the soft rhythm ground her when her thoughts tried to pull her under.
One afternoon, they were all in the garden together. Pansy lounged in a deck chair with a glass of wine balanced delicately between her fingers. Neville cradled his tea. Theo had sprawled out across a second chair in a way that suggested he intended to nap instead of help with anything remotely useful. The air was warm.
The garden was quiet except for the hum of insects and the occasional snort from Lady, who lay sprawled in a patch of sunlight like she owned the entire property.
Hermione looked at them then. Really looked. At the friends who had taken all of her jagged edges and held them without complaint. At the people who had shown up every day since she had fallen apart. At the family she had built without ever planning to.
Emotion tightened her throat. "I don't know what I would do without you," she murmured.
Pansy made a dismissive noise and waved her wine glass in the air. "Oh, please, Granger. You would manage. You'd be utterly miserable, but you would manage." Her tone softened, just a fraction. "Not that you ever need to find out. You have us now."
Neville reached across the table, covering Hermione's hand with his own. His touch was steady, warm, familiar in the way sunlight is familiar after a long winter. "You don't have to face anything on your own," he said. "Not anymore."
Theo stepped out of the cottage with a tray of snacks, stopping in the doorway as he overheard the last few words. He smirked. "He's right. You are absolutely trapped with us. No escape. You will suffer our company for the rest of your life."
Hermione laughed. A real laugh, full and bright, spilling out before she could catch it. It startled her for a moment, this unfamiliar rush of happiness, but then she let herself feel it. She let herself lean into it.
She believed them.
She believed she was no longer carrying this alone.
She believed she did not have to climb out of the darkness by sheer force of will.
Because she had them.
They would be here tomorrow. And the next day. And the day after that.
~~~~~~
Pansy lay awake in the dim light of their bedroom, the moon casting soft shadows through the sheer curtains. Lady snored lightly at the foot of the bed, her small body rising and falling with each breath. But sleep wasn't coming easily to Pansy tonight. Her thoughts whirled, bouncing from one thing to another, but always circling back to the same worry.
Beside her, his breathing was steady and slow, the rhythm of someone who had worked a long day and had finally succumbed to well-earned rest. His arm lay draped across her waist, a comforting weight that anchored her in the present. And yet, despite the warmth of his presence, a quiet fear gnawed at her heart.
After several minutes of quiet deliberation, she shifted slightly, turning to face him. Her movement must have woken him because his eyes fluttered open, and he gazed at her with bleary-eyed affection.
"What's the matter, love?" he asked, his voice thick with sleep but laced with concern. "Can't sleep?"
She bit her lip, unsure of how to start. She didn't want to burden him with her worries, especially after everything that had happened with Hermione. They had been so focused on their friend, making sure she was alright, visiting her almost daily to keep her spirits up, that they hadn't really checked in with each other. And now, in the stillness of the night, she couldn't help but wonder if they were neglecting themselves.
"Nevie," she began softly, her voice barely above a whisper. "Are we alright?"
The question hung in the air between them for a moment, and she could see the brief flicker of confusion in his eyes. He propped himself up on one elbow, his brow furrowing slightly as he looked down at her.
"I am, love," he said gently, brushing a strand of hair away from her face. "Why do you ask? Are you?"
Pansy exhaled slowly, not sure how to put her swirling thoughts into words. "I don't know. It's just… we've been taking such good care of Hermione, making sure she's okay, that I'm starting to wonder if we're taking care of each other."
His expression softened with understanding, and he leaned down to press a soft kiss to her forehead. "Of course, I'll take care of you, Parky. I always will. But nothing's going to happen to you, alright?"
"But what if something does?" Her voice was small, laced with a vulnerability she rarely allowed herself to show. "What if something happens to one of us? We're always so focused on everyone else—Draco, Theo, my Luna, Blaise, even Red, but what about us?"
The question hung heavy in the air, a truth that neither of them had really voiced until now.
He frowned slightly, the weight of her words settling over him. He shifted, turning to face her fully, his hand resting gently on her cheek. "Pansy, are you unhappy?"
She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to organize her thoughts. "No, I'm not unhappy. Not with you. But… sometimes, I wish I had met you sooner. Maybe then things would've been different. We wouldn't have had to go through everything we did before we found each other."
She opened her eyes and met his gaze, her own filled with uncertainty. "But then, I think… maybe we met each other at exactly the right time. Maybe we had to go through everything first to be ready for each other. I don't know."
Neville was quiet for a moment, absorbing her words. Then, with a soft smile, he pulled her into his arms, holding her close. "We found each other when we needed each other the most, Parky," he murmured against her hair. "And that's what matters."
She let out a shaky breath, her head resting on his chest as she listened to the steady beat of his heart. It was comforting, grounding her in the here and now. "Do you really believe that?" she asked, her voice barely audible.
"I do," he replied without hesitation. "We've both been through so much, and we came out the other side stronger. And we've got each other now. Whatever happens, we'll face it together. That's a promise."
Her arms tightened around him, her heart swelling with a mixture of love and gratitude. He was right. They had found each other when they needed each other the most, and that was something she couldn't take for granted. But the fear, the lingering doubt, still clung to her, especially after what had happened with Hermione.
"Do you think she'll be okay?" she asked quietly, shifting the conversation back to Hermione. "I mean, really okay?"
He sighed softly, running a hand through his hair. "I don't know. It's going to take time, I think. But she has us, and she has Draco. She's not alone. That's the most important thing."
She nodded, knowing that he was right but still feeling the weight of it all. They had been visiting Hermione almost daily, bringing little bits of normalcy back into her life—Lady to make her laugh, herbal teas from Neville's greenhouse, and even the occasional joint to help her relax. They kept her company, distracting her from her own mind with stories, laughter, and quiet companionship.
But even with all of that, there were still moments when Pansy could see the sadness in Hermione's eyes, the lingering guilt that she couldn't shake. It was hard to watch, and even harder to know that there was only so much they could do. They couldn't fix everything.
He seemed to sense her thoughts, his hand rubbing soothing circles on her back. "We're doing everything we can for her, Parky. That's all we can do. The rest… she'll have to find her own way through it."
She let out a soft sigh, snuggling deeper into Neville's embrace. "I just don't want her to feel like she's a burden. She's always been so strong, you know? And now…"
"And now, she needs us," he finished gently. "And we're here for her. Just like we'll be here for each other, no matter what."
She smiled faintly against his chest, her heart feeling a little lighter at his words. "I know. I just… I love you, Nev."
His arms tightened around her, his lips brushing her temple. "I love you too, Sassy. More than you know."
They lay together in a comfortable silence, their bodies tangled in the sheets, their breaths still coming in slow, steady rhythms. The conversation they had earlier lingered between them—not heavy, not tense, just present, like the embers of a fire still glowing faintly after the flames had died down.
Neville traced slow, idle patterns along the curve of Pansy's spine, his fingers light but deliberate, sending shivers through her already-sensitive body. She melted into him, her cheek resting against his chest, listening to the steady, grounding beat of his heart.
"You're thinking too much," he murmured, his voice low, a deep, soothing hum against her skin.
She huffed softly, shifting slightly, letting her fingers graze his stomach. "Maybe."
"Let me help, then," he whispered, his lips pressing against her temple before trailing down, slow and deliberate, finding that spot just below her ear that made her shiver.
A small sigh escaped her, a mixture of amusement and anticipation. "Neville," she murmured, "if you're trying to distract me, it's working."
"Good," he breathed against her skin, his voice thick with something darker, something hungry.
His lips moved lower, tracing a slow path along her jaw, then lower still, down the delicate curve of her neck, his tongue flicking against her pulse point. Pansy gasped as he sucked gently, leaving the faintest mark, a possessive little reminder that she was his.
Her hands tightened in his hair, tugging slightly, urging him on. He chuckled at her impatience, but he indulged her, his mouth trailing lower, grazing her collarbone before closing around her nipple.
Her back arched instinctively, her lips parting on a soft moan as his tongue flicked, teased, and then sucked.
Neville groaned against her skin, reveling in the way she reacted to him, how she always reacted to him, like he was the only thing she could focus on, like nothing else existed but this.
Her fingers tangled deeper into his hair, her nails lightly scraping against his scalp as his hand slid lower, his palm flattening against her stomach before his fingers slipped between her thighs.
She was already soaked, and Merlin, he loved that.
"Pansy," he murmured against her skin, his voice a mixture of reverence and wicked satisfaction.
She gasped as his fingers teased her, barely brushing against her aching clit, his touch featherlight—too light.
"Don't tease," she whined, shifting her hips, trying to get more friction.
He smirked, watching her fall apart beneath him, the way her body trembled, desperate for more. "You like when I take my time," he whispered, his fingers pressing just a little harder now, circling, taunting.
She whimpered, legs parting wider, her breath uneven as she gave herself over to him completely.
He kissed his way lower, leaving a trail of heat in his wake, his fingers still working her slowly, pushing her toward madness. By the time his mouth replaced his fingers, she was already writhing beneath him.
The first flick of his tongue against her clit had her gasping, her thighs shaking as she gripped the sheets.
"Neville," she breathed, her voice high and needy.
"Let go," he murmured against her, the vibrations sending shudders through her entire body.
And fuck, did she listen.
Her orgasm crashed over her in a dizzying wave, her body arching off the bed as she moaned his name, loud and broken and utterly wrecked.
But he wasn't done.
His fingers replaced his tongue almost instantly, thrusting into her slow, deep, curling just right, drawing out every last pulse of pleasure until she was whimpering, shaking.
She barely had time to catch her breath before he was moving up her body again, kissing her deeply, letting her taste herself on his lips.
Pansy moaned into his mouth, wrapping her arms around his neck, pulling him down against her. She could feel how hard he was, his cock pressed against her stomach, and fuck, she needed him inside her.
Now.
"Please," she whispered, her voice still shaking. "Neville, please."
He groaned at the sound of her begging, the way she looked up at him, flushed and wrecked and so damn beautiful.
"You're perfect," he murmured, brushing a strand of hair from her face, kissing her deeply as he finally slid inside her.
A sharp gasp escaped her lips at the fullness, the delicious stretch, the way he fit so perfectly, like they were made for each other.
He started slow, agonizingly slow, dragging each thrust out until she was panting, pleading, gripping his arms for something to anchor her.
"Faster," she begged, needing more.
He didn't hesitate.
His thrusts grew harder, deeper, faster, each one driving her closer to the edge again, their bodies moving together in perfect, desperate rhythm.
Her moans filled the room, mingling with his deep groans, the sound of skin meeting skin, the bed creaking beneath them.
He leaned down, biting at her shoulder, his breath ragged. "You feel so good, Pansy," he murmured, his voice low and wrecked.
She clenched around him at his words, and he nearly lost it.
Her nails dug into his back, her legs wrapping tighter around him as she felt herself spiraling, chasing the release building inside her.
"I—Neville—I'm—"
He felt it the moment she broke apart.
Her orgasm ripped through her, her entire body convulsing around him, pulling him deeper, taking him with her.
With a groan, he followed her over the edge, his hips snapping forward one last time before he buried himself completely inside her, his release spilling into her as his breath stuttered against her lips.
They stayed like that for a long moment, hearts racing, bodies tangled, skin damp with sweat.
Neville brushed his lips over her forehead, his breathing still uneven.
"I love you," he murmured against her skin, his voice soft, raw.
Pansy smiled, utterly spent, her fingers lazily tracing patterns along his spine.
"I know," she whispered, her voice teasing but warm. "You just proved it."
He chuckled, shaking his head as he pulled her closer, tucking her against his chest, their limbs still tangled.
The room was quiet except for their slowing breaths, the steady rhythm of their heartbeats.
And as Pansy drifted off, warm and sated in his arms, she realized something she hadn't admitted to herself before.
She wasn't just in love with Neville.
She was utterly ruined by him.
And she wouldn't have it any other way.
~~~~~~
The next day, they visited Hermione the way they always did, their presence as dependable as the rise and fall of the tide. She carried a woven basket full of fresh herbs, each one fragrant in its own way. Rosemary for clarity, lavender for rest, chamomile for comfort. Tucked beside them was a careful selection of pastries wrapped in crisp parchment, still warm from the bakery on the high street. Neville walked beside her, both hands wrapped around a small pot of tea he had brewed only minutes before, the scent rising with the morning air. Lady trotted behind them, determined and slightly breathless, her tiny legs moving twice as fast as theirs, her squashed little face set with noble seriousness.
When they reached the cottage, Draco opened the door before they could knock. His tired eyes gave him away at once. He looked like he had barely slept, hair mussed, clothes rumpled, shoulders drawn tight with worry. Still, something eased in his expression when he saw them, a flicker of relief breaking through the fatigue.
"Thanks for coming," he said quietly. His voice was rough, worn thin by long nights and too many impossible thoughts.
"Always," she answered, offering a brief, steady smile as she stepped inside.
Hermione was curled up on the couch, wrapped in a thick blanket, a book resting beside her. She looked up at the sound of their footsteps. The change in her expression was subtle but unmistakable. Surprise softened into something warmer, as if the sight of them eased a knot she had been carrying in her chest.
"Hi," she said, her voice gentle. "I didn't think you'd be by today."
"We could never stay away," she replied, setting the basket down. She opened it with a small flourish. "And I thought your potions cabinet deserved a little love."
Hermione's lips lifted into a faint smile. A tired smile, but real. "Thank you, Pans. Really."
Neville came forward, offering the tea with both hands. "Thought you might want company," he said, his voice calm as ever. "And this might help you rest later."
Hermione accepted the warm pot, her fingers curling slowly around it, as though the heat itself steadied her. "You two are too good to me," she murmured, her voice thickening just a little.
"Nonsense," Pansy answered, brushing the air lightly with her hand. "You're ours. That's the whole point."
They settled into their usual places, slipping into the quiet rhythm that had become familiar over the past few days. Neville took his seat near the fireplace, watching the flames with a thoughtful expression. She began unpacking the herbs, arranging them on the kitchen counter with care. Lady hopped up onto the couch beside Hermione and curled against her hip, letting out a small, contented snort.
Something in the room shifted. Not dramatically, not all at once, but gently, like a knot loosening. The kind of shift that comes when hearts begin to unclench, when the people around you give you permission to simply be.
The shadows were still there. Hermione was still tired, still hurting. There would be setbacks, long nights, moments that felt impossible.
But she was not alone.
Not with Neville's steady hands. Not with Pansy's fierce loyalty. Not with Draco hovering nearby, trying his best to give her space without stepping too far away. Not with Lady pressed against her side.
In that small cottage, with the morning light spilling through the windows and her friends close enough to touch, Hermione felt something she had not felt in a long while.
Hope. Quiet, fragile, but present.
They would face whatever came next together.
Notes:
💬 — Pansy learns Hermione killed Lucius
— "Good for her." (ICONIC.)