The days blurred together into a single stretch of fatigue and quiet fear. Each morning arrived with the same pale light, settling over a house that felt suspended in place, like a waiting room caught between hope and loss. Time no longer moved in any way that made sense. It simply lingered, heavy and slow, as if the world itself had decided to hold its breath until Hermione did.
She moved through it all with steady focus, every motion careful and exact. There was no space for hesitation, no room for the weight pressing against her ribs. Hermione's care became routine, carried out with the precision of someone long familiar with the fragile boundary between survival and grief. From the outside, she seemed composed, controlled, unshakable. Inside, the responsibility wrapped tighter with every passing day, constricting her breath, settling into her bones. She kept it hidden. She had to. Everything rested on her ability to stay upright.
They slipped into their roles without discussion, bound by necessity rather than choice. Blaise made sure food appeared at regular intervals, though plates often sat untouched, cooling where they were set. Ginny threw herself into the rhythm of chores, filling the house with motion to keep the stillness from swallowing her whole. Laundry, cleaning, inventorying supplies, anything that kept her hands moving and her thoughts from drifting too far. Draco remained by Hermione's side, his guilt a constant presence, clinging to him until even breathing seemed to cost effort. And Theo kept watch. He lingered at thresholds and windows, alert and restless, scanning for danger that never came but never truly felt absent.
Together, they functioned with quiet efficiency, each task feeding into the next, keeping them anchored to purpose. It was the only thing stopping them from collapsing under the weight of waiting. There were no long conversations, no comfort spoken aloud, no space given to hope or despair. The silence between them was not born from distance or resentment. It came from shared understanding, from a pressure so heavy that speaking felt impossible.
For Draco, the torment never eased. Grief carved him hollow from the inside, leaving nothing untouched. He stayed at her bedside, anchored to the chair as if moving away would snap the last fragile thread holding her to him. His hand remained wrapped around hers, grip tight and unyielding, driven by the quiet belief that sheer will might be enough to keep her here. All his love, all his regret, poured into that single point of contact, his thumb brushing her cold skin in wordless prayer.
The man he had been felt like a distant memory. Sleepless nights had stripped the sharpness from his features, leaving him gaunt and hollow-eyed, red-rimmed and ruined by exhaustion. He spoke to her constantly. Apologies spilled from him in broken fragments, followed by promises and confessions meant only for her. He told her he was sorry until the words lost shape and meaning, dissolving into breath against her stillness. He begged her to wake, to look at him again, to offer forgiveness or anger or irritation. Anything would have been bearable. This silence was not.
The others understood. They gave him space, their quiet presence an acknowledgment that nothing they could say would touch the damage inside him. Yet his pain filled the house all the same, heavy and suffocating. It showed in how he barely reacted when spoken to, in the way his body tensed whenever someone adjusted her blankets, as if even the smallest movement might pull her farther away. Every flicker of motion drew a sharp inhale from him, a fragile surge of hope that collapsed the moment she remained unmoving.
Time lost its shape. Days and nights blurred together, marked only by the rise and fall of her chest, the thin proof that she was still alive, even as she felt unreachable. The house continued around him, but he stayed frozen in place. He ate only when pressed. He slept only when exhaustion dragged him under, and even then it was shallow and brief. Each waking moment brought the same ache, tight and unrelenting in his throat.
Draco Malfoy, once proud and untouchable, no longer existed. What remained was a man undone by love, stripped down to something raw and exposed. A boy clinging to a hand that could no longer cling bac
Luna entered the dim room with the quiet ease of someone who knew how to move around grief. Her footsteps barely touched the floor, yet the space felt heavy all the same, thick with antiseptic potions and the faint trace of Draco's cologne. It clung to the air in a way that felt deeply human and painfully intimate. She found him slumped beside the bed, spine curved inward, head bowed. His fingers were still wrapped around Hermione's hand, holding on even as sleep had finally claimed him.
She paused, watching him for a moment. Even at rest, sorrow carved deep lines through him. He looked smaller than she remembered, folded in on himself, worn thin by fear and guilt that refused to loosen their grip.
"Hello," she whispered, the word barely stirring the silence.
Draco startled awake, brows drawing together as he dragged himself back to consciousness. His grey eyes lifted to her face, dulled and glassy with exhaustion. There was no polish left in him, no sharp composure, only a man stripped down by too many nights spent waiting for breath and movement.
"Hello, Angel," he murmured, his voice rough, scraped raw by grief.
A faint smile touched Luna's mouth. "Draco," she said gently, "you don't have to call me that."
"But you are," he said, pushing himself upright, wincing as stiffness caught in his limbs. "You came and saved her. You saved the love of my life. You have no idea what that means to me."
Her expression softened, though she shook her head. "I didn't do it for anything grand," she said quietly. "I did it for Hermione. She's my friend, and I know she would have done the same for me."
His throat worked as he swallowed, emotion tightening there. He had held himself together for days by sheer force, refusing to break in front of anyone. Standing in front of Luna, the woman who had pulled Hermione back from death with her own hands, that restraint finally slipped.
"Thank you," he said, voice bare and unguarded. "Thank you. Truly."
She stepped closer to the bed, her gaze settling on Hermione. The steady rise and fall of her chest was reassuring, yet her skin remained far too pale, her stillness unsettling in its quiet perfection.
"I'd like to bathe her now," Luna said softly. "If you're alright with that."
Draco straightened immediately, a flicker of defensiveness crossing his face. "I already did," he said quickly. "I cleaned her and changed her nappie."
Luna's brow creased. Her tone stayed gentle, though there was a clear edge beneath it. "Draco, she isn't an infant," she said. "Please don't treat her like one."
His shoulders dropped, the fight draining out of him as his gaze returned to Hermione. "How can I help it?" he whispered. "She feels so breakable like this."
"She isn't," Luna said, firm and unwavering. "She's strong. Stronger than you think. She's fighting, even now. I need some time alone with her."
He hesitated, every part of him resisting the idea of stepping away. It showed in the tension of his jaw, in the way his fingers twitched as if they ached to tighten around Hermione's hand again. After a moment, he nodded. He trusted Luna, even when it hurt.
Rising slowly, he bent and pressed a soft kiss to Hermione's forehead, lingering there as he breathed her in, grounding himself in the simple truth that she was still here.
"I'll be right outside," he murmured, voice hoarse, before finally turning away and leaving the room.
As the door clicked closed behind Draco, sealing them into a fragile pocket of quiet, Luna released a slow breath and lowered herself into the chair beside the bed. The soft hum of healing charms filled the room, steady and rhythmic, pressing gently against the silence. Candlelight shimmered across the walls, gold and unsteady, rising and falling in time with Hermione's shallow breaths.
She reached out and brushed her fingers along Hermione's cheek, slow and careful, as though relearning the shape of her face. The warmth beneath her palm was a small, precious certainty, proof that she was still here, still holding on. Luna let her hand linger, grounding herself in that simple truth.
"Hello, love," she whispered. Her voice carried no expectation of an answer, yet she spoke with quiet intent, as if Hermione could hear her somewhere beneath the darkness, as if words alone might anchor her to this world.
Luna shifted closer, her fingers sliding down to cradle Hermione's hand. She traced gentle circles against her palm, a familiar motion, soothing in its repetition. "I've been thinking," she murmured softly. "I know faith matters to you. My grandmother used to take me to church when I was small, and she taught me a prayer that always made me feel safe. I thought maybe I could share it with you."
She closed her eyes and drew in a careful breath. The words were old, carried through generations, shaped by fear and hope and surrender. She spoke them with the same reverence she brought to magic, letting them settle into the room like a blessing.
"When you pass through the waters, I will be with you,
and when you pass through the rivers, they will not overwhelm you.
When you walk through fire, you will not be burned,
the flames will not consume you.
For I am the Lord your God."
Her voice trembled before she could stop it. Luna opened her eyes and looked down at Hermione, her throat tight as she squeezed her hand gently. "You've walked through fire before," she whispered. "You always do. You're stronger than you ever give yourself credit for, Mimi. I believe you'll find your way back to us."
The room stayed quiet, filled only with candle crackle and the soft pulse of the charms watching over Hermione. Yet something eased inside Luna, subtle and fragile, like a door opening just enough to let light through. For the first time since Hermione had been brought here, hope found space to breathe.
The words lingered in the room, settling gently into the air like a prayer spoken under one's breath. Luna opened her eyes and looked at Hermione's face, searching with quiet patience for any sign at all. A flutter of lashes. A shift in her brow. Anything. There was nothing. Only the slow, steady rise and fall beneath the blankets, the calm insistence of breath continuing on its own.
"We're all waiting for you, Mimi," Luna whispered. Her voice held no rush, no strain. Only certainty. "Come back when you're ready. We'll still be here."
She believed it with her whole heart. Hermione had always been strong in ways that mattered, strong in the moments that counted most. If anyone could find their way back from this edge, it would be her.
Luna leaned back in the chair, careful not to loosen her hold. Her fingers stayed wrapped around Hermione's hand, firm and warm, a quiet promise passed through skin and bone. The room settled again into its strange stillness. Healing charms hummed low and constant, their light pulsing softly like a second heartbeat. Candle flames trembled and steadied. Hermione's breathing remained, fragile yet unbroken, a rhythm Luna held onto with everything she had.
Outside the closed door, Draco stood with his back pressed to the wall. His hands were clenched tight at his sides, his eyes shut as if he could will the world to pause long enough for him to breathe properly again. Luna's voice carried through the wood, calm and unwavering, and he let it anchor him. He could not fall apart. Not now. Not when Hermione still needed him standing.
So they waited.
Together and apart. Quiet and aching. Afraid and hopeful in equal measure. Holding fast to the thin, precious belief that Hermione would return to them. That she would open her eyes. That she would speak. That her hand would tighten around Draco's again.
That she was still fighting.
That she was still here.
~~~~~~
The ache never left her. It lived deep in her chest, a hollow pressure that only Lysander's laughter and Pansy's presence ever seemed to ease. She missed her son with a force that stole her breath. The weight of his small body against her, the way his arms wrapped around her neck, the sound of his laughter when she kissed his belly, the absolute trust in his eyes when he looked at her as if she were the whole world. That absence hurt in a way nothing else ever had. And she missed Pansy just as fiercely. She missed the sharp wit, the unshakeable loyalty, the way Pansy could ground her with a single look and make the world feel manageable again.
Her baby was safe. That was the truth she clung to. Lysander was tucked away with Pansy and Neville, far from danger, far from blood and spells and fear. It was the only thing that allowed her to keep going, the only reason she could draw breath when the longing threatened to crush her. She trusted Pansy completely. She knew Pansy would protect him with everything she had. That certainty did nothing to soften the ache of being apart from him.
Pansy would have been here if she had been allowed. Luna knew that with painful clarity. She also knew why Theo had stopped it. Pansy felt everything too deeply, too fast, and fear turned her sharp. This situation would have torn her open. Keeping her away was meant to protect her, and Luna understood that. Understanding did not make it hurt any less.
She sat by the window, the hem of her dress pooling around her feet. Ink stained her fingertips as she finally wrote the letter she had been carrying inside her for days.
Darling,
Hermione is stable for now. She is still in danger, and I will not soften the truth for you. The damage is severe. Worse than we hoped.
She will need more than one surgery. The trauma is extensive.
She has hemiplegia, which means she cannot move the left side of her body.
Recovery will demand intense physical therapy, and even then, there are no guarantees. I do not know if she will ever regain full mobility. What I do know is that she is still here. She is fighting. That matters more than anything.
I miss you in a way that feels physical. Like something inside me is missing, like my body does not quite fit together without you.
Being here without you hurts more than I can explain. I understand why Theo kept you away. I know he believed he was protecting you. I also know you would have torn the world apart to stand here with us.
There is something I need you to know.
If it were you in that bed, I would already be there. I would not hesitate. I would fight for you with everything I am. I would heal you, hold your hand through every moment of pain and fear, and I would never leave. If anything ever happened to you, I would do this for you too, without question. That is love.
Hold Lysander for me. Tell him his mother loves him. Kiss his little fingers for me and tell him I am coming home as soon as I can.
And remember this, even from here, even surrounded by all this darkness. I love you. Always.
Luna
~~~~~~
Pansy strolled in with Crookshanks in her arms and Lysander toddling behind her, a smirk playing on her lips as Draco waited near the doorway, arms crossed.
"Parkinson, I'm warning you," Draco said, his tone firm but exhausted. "You can't disturb her peace."
Without slowing her pace or glancing his way, Pansy scoffed, "Oh, fuck off, Malfoy."
Ignoring her completely, Draco's demeanor softened the moment he knelt down to Lysander's level. He picked up the boy, placing a gentle kiss on his forehead. "Hello, my little prince," he murmured. "Would you like to see Mimi?"
"Mimi!" Lysander's face lit up, clapping his small hands together in pure excitement.
Draco smiled at the boy's innocence and excitement. "Auntie is resting, just like the princess in your bedtime story. Now, I need you to be brave for me, little prince. Can you watch over her and keep her safe?"
Lysander's expression turned serious as he nodded eagerly. "Yess!" His eyes sparkled with the pride of his new responsibility, ready to take on his "prince duties."
Draco chuckled softly, feeling a warmth spread in his chest. "That's my brave boy," he whispered, knowing that Lysander's innocent love brought a sliver of light to the otherwise heavy atmosphere surrounding Hermione.
Draco and Pansy stepped quietly into the room, Crookshanks padding silently behind them. The orange furball immediately leaped onto Hermione's chest, settling down as though it had done so a thousand times before. His purring filled the quiet room, a soothing sound amidst the tension. But when Hermione remained still, Crookshanks gently tapped her face with his paw, as if trying to rouse her.
When she didn't stir, the cat's purring turned into soft, pitiful cries.
Pansy's chest tightened painfully at the sight. Her breath hitched, and she swallowed hard, forcing back the wave of emotions threatening to overwhelm her. She couldn't let Lysander see her break. Not now. Not in front of him.
"There you go, Pumpkin," she said softly, placing Lysander gently on the bed. "Go say hi to Mimi. She's asleep, but I bet she can still hear you."
Lysander stared at Hermione for a long moment, his little face serious as if trying to understand. Needing comfort of his own, he reached out and took Hermione's hand, his tiny fingers curling around hers. Then, with his other hand, he gently stroked Crookshanks, who had nestled on her chest, still purring.
"You see?" Pansy murmured, her voice warm with affection. "You and Crooks are helping Mimi heal, just like the prince in your storybook. You're both taking care of her."
Lysander didn't say a word, but after a beat, he snuggled up against Hermione, resting his head carefully on her chest. "Mimi okay?" he babbled, his voice soft, as though he were speaking directly to her.
The room was quiet, the stillness punctuated only by the rhythmic hum of the medical charms surrounding her. It was a strange, fragile peace, the kind that seemed to hang by a thread.
Pansy knelt beside him, her hands resting lightly on his small shoulders. "She's okay, little love," she said gently, her voice steady despite the ache in her chest. "She's just sleeping right now, like the princess in the story. But she'll wake up. Give her a kiss, and then we'll go find Mummy, alright?"
Lysander's little face scrunched in concentration as he processed her words. "Mummy," he repeated, as though reminding himself of where she was. With careful movements, he leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to Hermione's cheek. His small gesture was filled with a kind of innocent love that made the room feel lighter, if only for a moment.
He turned back to her, his big eyes expectant. "Now Mummy?"
Pansy smiled, though her throat felt tight. "Yes, pumpkin. Let's go see Mummy." She rose slowly, lifting Lysander into her arms. The boy didn't protest; he simply rested his head against her shoulder, his tiny fingers playing with a strand of her hair as she carried him from the room.
As they left, Draco remained seated beside Hermione, his gaze lingering on the door through which Lysander had just exited. The boy's soft inquiry echoed in his mind: Mimi okay? It was such a simple question, yet it carried the weight of all their fears and hopes.
He glanced at Crookshanks, who had positioned himself at Hermione's chest, his purring a steady, soothing sound that filled the silence. The cat nuzzled Hermione's hand, his whiskers brushing against her still fingers as if urging her to wake up.
Draco, who had never been particularly fond of the creature, felt a pang of unexpected sympathy. He reached out, his hand hesitating just above the cat's fur before gently stroking it. "I know, buddy," he murmured, his voice hoarse. "I know."
Crookshanks leaned into the touch, his purring intensifying as if grateful for the shared moment. Draco leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to the top of the cat's head before settling back into his chair. He stayed there, his hand resting lightly on hers, his presence a quiet comfort.
The garden hummed with summer, golden afternoon light slipping through the canopy and settling in warm patches across the grass. Bees drifted lazily from bloom to bloom, the air rich with wildflowers and sun-warmed leaves, the breeze carrying the soft rhythm of a world content with itself. It was peaceful in the way only nature could be, yet nothing compared to the sound of Lysander's laughter. It rang bright and clear, a sound so full of joy it felt like it belonged to the air itself.
Luna's chest tightened the instant she saw him. The weight she carried eased, just a little, as her gaze locked onto her little boy. He was darting between the flowerbeds, curls bouncing wildly, bare feet kicking up grass as he chased a butterfly with wholehearted determination. His hands reached for it again and again, his face set with the serious belief that he might truly catch it this time.
"Mummy!"
The butterfly vanished from his mind the moment he saw her. His arms flew open and he ran toward her, legs pumping hard, balance questionable, commitment unwavering. He wobbled, nearly tipped, then kept going anyway. Luna dropped to her knees just in time for him to collide with her in a burst of warmth and laughter, his arms locking around her neck.
She scooped him up with ease, holding him close, instinctively protective. "Hello, my love," she murmured, kissing his temple. He smelled like sunshine and lavender and something entirely his own, and for a breath, the world narrowed down to just that.
His giggles spilled out as she kissed his cheeks again and again, each kiss earning a delighted squeal. He wriggled happily, fingers tangling in her hair, tugging just enough to make her laugh too.
"Did you have fun with Pansy, my darling?" she asked, shifting him so she could see his eyes. She smoothed his curls, catching threads of gold in the sunlight.
He nodded so hard his whole body rocked. "Pee Pee big jump!" he announced, words tumbling over each other.
Luna's brows lifted, amused. "Did she now?"
He nodded again, face solemn with importance. "Pee Pee say no no," he said, shaking his head gravely. Then his arms flung wide and his grin returned. "Then say okay. BIG BED." He stretched as far as he could, clearly conveying the scale of it.
Luna laughed, already picturing Pansy standing firm for half a second before folding completely. Sharp tongue or not, she had always been helpless when it came to Lysander.
"Well, you are a lucky little sausage," Luna said, kissing his nose. "Pee Pee does not let just anyone jump on her bed."
"Pee Pee soft," Lysander added seriously, clutching Luna's hair. "Like kitty."
"Oh really?" Luna smirked. "So Pansy is a cat now?"
He nodded with absolute certainty. "Pee Pee big kitty," he said, attempting a growl that came out more like a snort.
Luna laughed and pulled him closer. "I will be sure to tell her."
Nearby, Theo leaned against an old oak tree, arms folded, posture easy. The usual tension in him had faded as he watched them. He could have stayed there all day, watching his wife and son glow in the sunlight.
"Looks like someone had a grand time," he said as he walked over, resting a hand on Luna's back. He reached up and ruffled Lysander's curls.
Lysander huffed and swatted his hand away. "No, Dada. No mushy."
Theo chuckled. "No mushy? But Mummy is allowed?"
Lysander thought about this, then nodded decisively. "Mummy always mushy," he declared, snuggling closer into Luna's arms.
Luna laughed softly. "Oh, I see how it is," she teased, warmth curling through her voice.
Before she could add anything else, Lysander suddenly twisted toward Theo, excitement sparking all over again. "Daddy up!" he squealed, chubby hands reaching eagerly.
Theo's mouth curved as he took him from Luna, lifting him high without effort. Lysander shrieked with laughter, the sound bubbling out of him in bright, breathless bursts. "Look at you," Theo said, grinning up at him. "Flying higher than the birds. What are you then, hmm? A dragon? A hippogriff?"
"A DLAGON!" Lysander roared, or at least attempted to. It came out more like an overconfident kitten, and Luna had to press her hand over her mouth to keep from laughing out loud.
Theo laughed too, spinning him in slow, careful circles. "A fearsome one, aren't you? The biggest, scariest dragon in the whole land."
Lysander squealed again, arms flailing. "RAAAHH!" he tried, voice cracking with delight.
"Oh no," Theo gasped theatrically. "I think this dragon's got me. Help, Mummy. I'm finished."
Luna clutched her chest, playing along. "Oh, my poor love. The dragon has claimed him."
Lysander lit up, his entire body shaking with joy at being the center of such drama.
Theo slowed at last, drawing Lysander close as the giggles faded into soft, sleepy sighs. "You've had quite the adventure today," he murmured, kissing the crown of his curls.
Lysander rested his head against Theo's shoulder, the day finally catching up with him. His fingers toyed absently with Theo's collar. "Mummy back now," he murmured, half asleep, like a reassurance spoken into the world.
Luna stepped closer, smoothing his hair gently. "Yes, my love," she whispered, emotion thickening her voice. "Mummy's back now."
Theo shifted and wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her in. Luna leaned into him without hesitation, her head against his shoulder, her hand moving in slow, comforting circles over Lysander's back.
They stood like that, held in the amber light of the setting sun, the garden settling into a quiet hush around them. The laughter had faded, leaving behind a peaceful stillness that felt earned.
Luna closed her eyes and pressed a soft kiss to Theo's shoulder. She knew the world would return soon, with its questions and its weight and the things they still had not said. But for this moment, they were together. They were here.
~~~~~~
The prayers had been answered. After a month that felt endless, heavy, and cruel in its slowness, Hermione finally woke. It happened quietly, without ceremony. Her lashes fluttered, her breath shifted, and her eyes opened with hesitant awareness, like dawn breaking through a sky that had forgotten how to hold light. When her gaze focused, when recognition settled in, the room seemed to exhale with her.
Weeks earlier, Draco had gone to see her parents.
He had rehearsed every possible version of that conversation, every sentence polished and rearranged in his head until none of them felt sufficient. Nothing prepared him for the moment Jane Granger looked at him and understood. The color drained from her face, her knees buckled, and she collapsed into Luna's arms with a sound that tore through the room.
There were no introductions. No polite words. Only grief.
"Thank you," Jane sobbed, clutching Luna as though letting go would shatter her. "Thank you a million times over."
David stood frozen for a heartbeat before stepping forward, his composure finally breaking. His hands shook as he took Luna's, turning them over with reverence, as though committing them to memory. Then, without a word, he bent and pressed a kiss to her knuckles.
"These hands saved our baby girl," he said, voice thick and trembling.
Luna could only nod. Tears burned behind her eyes. "She's still fighting," she whispered. "She's here."
Jane clung to her, held fast, and Luna held her back just as tightly, murmuring quiet reassurances even as her own chest threatened to cave in.
When the sobs finally slowed, Luna guided them into the room.
Hermione lay still in the bed, her breathing steady, her face peaceful in a way that hurt to look at. Alive, undeniably alive, yet so motionless it felt wrong.
Jane sank to the bedside, hands closing around her daughter's fingers as if afraid they might vanish. She kissed them again and again, tears falling freely. "My baby," she whispered. "My sweet girl."
David stood beside her, shoulders shaking openly now. He stared at Hermione's face, at the rise and fall of her chest, at the stillness that did not belong to someone who had once filled every room she entered. A broken sound escaped him.
"Pumpkin," he said softly, the childhood name trembling on his tongue. "Daddy's here. I'm right here."
Luna watched from a step back, her hands clasped together, pain blooming low and sharp in her chest. The love in that room was overwhelming. The relief. The grief. All of it tangled together until it was almost too much to bear.
Draco stood at the doorway, silent and rigid. He watched as Hermione's parents took the place he had held for weeks, and something inside him gave way. He turned before anyone could stop him and stepped into the corridor.
Luna followed.
He leaned against the wall, head bowed, fists clenched, breath uneven.
"She's loved," Luna said gently.
"I know," he answered hoarsely. "I know."
And so they waited.
They waited as her parents poured every ounce of love they had into her unmoving body. They waited as the house, once drowned in silence, filled with soft murmurs and whispered prayers. A mother's devotion. A father's steady reassurance. The quiet scent of home settling around her like a promise.
They waited together, suspended between hope and fear, holding onto the fragile certainty that Hermione would come back to them fully. That she would open her eyes, speak, reach out, live.
And now, after a month of agony and faith stretched thin, she had begun to return.
~~~~~~
Luna stepped quietly into the room, her presence soothing in a way that felt instinctive, almost physical. "Mimi, you're awake," she said gently, her voice soft and light, as though she were afraid of startling her.
Hermione blinked, her vision blurred, her throat painfully dry. "Luna?" The name came out rough, barely more than a whisper.
Luna moved closer, her smile warm and steady. "You're in the safe house," she said softly. "You're safe now." Her blue eyes held Hermione's, calm and unflinching, as if anchoring her back into her body.
Hermione tried to form a question, confusion stirring beneath the fog, but before she could speak, another voice reached her.
"Everyone's here, darling."
Draco stepped into view, exhaustion written plainly across his face. The sharp lines of him had softened, worn down by fear and waiting, but his eyes were full of relief so fierce it hurt to look at. He came closer, careful, like she might vanish if he moved too fast.
"No one's going anywhere," he added quietly. "Even if I tried to send them off."
The faintest flutter stirred in Hermione's chest at the sound of him, at the way his voice wrapped around her like something familiar and safe.
Jane was suddenly there too, tears shining in her eyes. "We've all been waiting for you, sweetheart," she said, her voice trembling. "We're so happy you're awake."
David stood beside her, his expression gentle and overwhelmed all at once. "You're surrounded by family," he said softly. "Every single one of us."
The warmth of it all pressed in on Hermione at once. Love, relief, safety, the sheer weight of being here. Her body could not hold it for long. Her eyelids began to droop, the exhaustion pulling her back under before she could find the words she wanted.
She slipped into sleep again, wrapped in the sound of their voices, held steady by the knowledge that she was no longer alone, that she was safe, that she was loved.
~~~~~~
The road to recovery was brutal, slow, and unforgiving, yet Hermione had never been someone who folded quietly under pressure. She met her healing the way she met everything else in her life, with grit, stubborn resolve, and a refusal to surrender an inch of herself. This time, though, the fight was intimate. The resistance came from her own body, from muscles that refused to listen, from signals that arrived late or tangled or not at all.
Hemiplegia was the word none of them needed to explain to her. She felt it every time she tried to stand, every time her hand lagged behind her thoughts, every time her balance wavered without warning. One side of her body felt foreign, heavy, uncooperative. Each step became a negotiation. Each movement demanded patience she did not always have. Progress came in fragments. Inches. Moments that felt far too small for the effort they required.
Hermione hated the word limitation. She treated it like an insult, brushed it aside with sharp humour and sharper determination. Even on days when her body failed her, she pushed. She cursed. She rested. Then she pushed again. Refusing to name the loss did not make it disappear, but it gave her something else instead, a sense of agency, a feeling that the fight still belonged to her.
Her friends refused to let her do it alone.
They rotated through her room like a carefully coordinated storm, bringing warmth, noise, and chaos in equal measure. Love arrived disguised as laughter, snacks she did not ask for, arguments she did not need to win, and company that stayed far longer than polite visits ever should.
Theo and Blaise, in particular, turned her recovery into a daily spectacle. Between them, they transformed the space into something between an intellectual battleground and an improvised comedy club, where debates spiralled into nonsense and nonsense somehow circled back into insight. One minute they were arguing about magical ethics, the next Blaise was critiquing wizard fashion with theatrical outrage while Theo lounged across the chair like a man deeply committed to being unhelpful.
Theo, to absolutely no one's surprise, had recently developed a fascination with Muggle religious history. He spoke about it with the same confidence he applied to everything else, which meant his interpretations were wildly inappropriate, loosely researched, and delivered with an air of absolute certainty.
"I just think," he announced one afternoon, perched on the edge of her bed with a biscuit he had no right to be eating, "that if you really look at it, most Muggle saints were either unlicensed miracle workers or deeply misunderstood chaos gremlins."
Blaise, seated nearby and pretending to read, did not look up. "You have said that about assassins, healers, and at least three Ministry officials."
"And I was right every time," Theo replied smoothly.
Hermione laughed before she could stop herself. It pulled at her chest, surprised her with its ease. The sound felt like a small victory, one she welcomed just as fiercely as every step she fought for.
Recovery was slow. Painful. Uncertain.
She was still here. Still fighting. And she was surrounded by people who refused to let her forget that she was more than her injuries, more than her frustration, more than the long road stretching out in front of her.
That, she decided, mattered just as much as any spell or therapy ever could.
"So, Granger," he began one morning, sprawled in his usual chair with a grin that promised absolute foolishness, "Jesus was executed because people didn't like what he was saying. Would you say he was the first victim of celebrity cancel culture?"
She gaped at him, a pillow already clutched in her hand, primed for launching. "Theo, what the fuck?"
"No, no, hear me out." He waved a dramatic hand, leaning forward with conspiratorial glee. "The man had a cult following, he made some radical statements, and the authorities decided to 'cancel' him in the most extreme way possible. The blueprint for modern outrage culture, if you ask me."
She squeezed her eyes shut, regretting every life decision that had led her to this moment. "For the love of Merlin, Theo, he was crucified! That is beyond cancel culture!"
Unfazed, Theo tapped his chin. "Fine. I'll give you that." He took a long, dramatic pause before hitting her with, "Okay, next question: what had a bigger cultural impact—'Single Ladies' by Beyoncé, or the entire Renaissance?"
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Stared.
Then burst into laughter.
"It's definitely Beyoncé."
Theo shot up in his chair, pointing both hands at Blaise like he had just won a debate championship. "I TOLD YOU."
"MERLIN HELP US ALL." Blaise groaned, dragging a hand over his face.
And then, without any warning, Theo launched into an off-key, vaguely horrifying rendition of 'Single Ladies.'
"All my ladies get it done, I see you, I do the same, take it to another level, no passengers on my plane!"
Hermione nearly fell out of bed from laughing. "Theo, that's not even close to the lyrics."
Theo paused, blinking in confusion. "Wait… what's an aeroplane?"
She groaned. "Fucking hell, Theo, lending you my MP3 player was the worst decision I've ever made."
"Wrong." Theo smirked. "It's the greatest decision you've ever made. Now, serious question: Who is this Elvis fellow, and what exactly is a 'Hound Dog'?"
Blaise, who had spent the entire exchange silently regretting his life choices, finally snapped his book shut with a deep sigh of resignation.
"Alright, we're moving on before I start drinking at ten in the morning." He stood at her bedside, hand on his hip, voice dripping with theatrical grandeur. "Good morning, you radiant force of resilience."
She raised an eyebrow, already bracing for the ridiculousness to follow.
Blaise leaned in, his voice a low, conspiratorial purr.
"Tits up, bitch. Go be the reason the Devil is nervous today."
For a solid five seconds, she just stared at him.
And then she wheezed—laughter shaking her entire body, the best medicine she could ever receive.
"Blaise." She gasped, pressing a hand to her forehead. "That… is actually helpful."
"Of course it is." He flipped his scarf dramatically over his shoulder. "I live to serve."
Some mornings, he added a little extra flair.
"Listen, you divine little powerhouse," he said one day, surveying her hospital gown with a look of sheer tragedy. "This outfit may be as depressing as a Dementor on Christmas, but it's about the energy you bring to it. And you, Mia cara, are working it."
Their visits were a daily lifeline.*A ritual. A brief, shining moment where she wasn't just Hermione Granger, recovering patient—she was just Hermione, their friend, their sister in mischief. They never tiptoed around her fragility. Instead, they dragged her into their antics, making sure she never felt anything less than unstoppable.
They snuck in contraband snacks. They debated Muggle history. They argued over whether Shakespeare was real.
"Did you know," Theo announced one day, eyes gleaming, "some people think Shakespeare didn't write his own plays?"
"Yes, Theo," she sighed, not even looking up. "I knew that."
Theo crossed his arms smugly. "Next thing you'll tell me America once had a reality TV star for a president."
Hermione nodded.
Theo gasped dramatically. "NO. YOU'RE LYING."
Blaise, rubbing his temples, muttered, "The Muggle world is a lawless place."
And then there were the small victories.
The first time she stood up without help, Theo and Blaise turned the hospital room into a crime scene of celebration. Confetti made from stolen discharge forms rained down from the ceiling, and Theo performed what he insisted was an interpretive dance, though it looked suspiciously like he had lost a fight with gravity.
When she managed to walk from one side of the room to the other, Blaise scooped her up without warning and spun her like a victorious Quidditch captain, laughing so hard he nearly dropped her.
"YOU ARE A QUEEN," he shouted. "YOU ARE A FORCE OF NATURE. THE WORLD SHOULD BE AFRAID."
Every single day, they reminded her through noise, sarcasm, devotion, and unrelenting presence that she was bigger than the bed, bigger than the pain, bigger than the slow grind of recovery.
She was still Hermione fucking Granger.
And nothing would ever take that away from her.
Even Luna, whose patience was famously endless, had moments where she stood near the music system with murder in her eyes, threatening to hex it into oblivion. Those threats never quite landed, because the sound of Hermione laughing from her corner of the room always softened her resolve.
Six months passed. Half a year of pain, grit, and relentless effort. Half a year of waking every morning to the same battlefield, where the enemy lived inside her own body. Muscles that refused to respond. Limbs that lagged behind her intentions. Tasks that once required no thought now demanded strategy, focus, and patience. Walking. Writing. Lifting a brush to her hair.
There were days when frustration burned so hot she had to bite her tongue to keep from screaming. Days when the unfairness of it all pressed so hard on her chest that breathing felt like work. Still, she never stopped. Hermione Granger did not surrender. Even when doubt crept in, even when exhaustion hollowed her out, she fought with every stubborn, brilliant piece of herself.
The victories were small.
They were also enormous.
The first time she stood fully on her own, she expected little more than quiet approval. A nod from Luna. A steady look from Draco. What she received instead was chaos.
Theo threw his arms into the air like she had just won the Triwizard Tournament. "Someone get a trophy," he yelled. "History is being made."
Blaise pressed a hand to his chest, blinking dramatically and dabbing at imaginary tears with the sleeve of a robe that cost more than most houses. "I am forever changed," he announced. "Someone document this moment. Future generations deserve to know."
Luna and Draco exchanged a look from across the room. They shook their heads in perfect unison, resignation written plainly on their faces. Neither of them managed to hide their smiles.
Hermione wanted to roll her eyes. She wanted to comment on how ridiculous they were. She could not bring herself to do it.
Her chest felt too full.
So she smiled instead. Just a little. Long enough for them to see it.
She was still here. Still standing. Still fighting.
~~~~~~
Hermione underwent another surgery, this one meant to finally correct the fractures in her skull that had lingered like a shadow over her recovery. It was described as routine by every healer involved, yet nothing about it felt routine to Luna. When it came to Hermione, nothing ever did. The sterile brightness of the operating room, the low hum of magic threaded through instruments, the hushed voices of friends waiting just beyond the wards all settled heavy in her chest, pressing in with familiar dread.
Luna stood inside the room with her hands clasped tightly together, her calm façade strained by the faint tremble at her lips. She had watched Hermione endure more pain than anyone should have to carry, and this moment felt like another test layered onto an already brutal journey. This surgery was about more than bone and skin. It was about restoring Hermione as fully as possible, about giving her body the chance to match the fierce will that had kept her fighting through months of pain.
With every incision and every precise movement of her wand, Luna felt the ache deepen inside her. Each careful stitch felt symbolic, as though she were weaving something back together that went far beyond the physical. She imagined the magic drawing fractured bone into alignment while also coaxing strength back into places that had been worn thin by fear and exhaustion. She knew the limits of healing better than most. Some wounds lived too deep to be touched by spells, scars that settled quietly into the heart and refused to fade.
Still, she hoped. She whispered prayers under her breath as she worked, pouring intention into every spell, every measured breath. If nothing else, this would be one more step forward. One more act of care offered freely and without hesitation. One more chance to help Hermione feel whole again, or as close to it as magic would allow.
~~~~~~
Eventually, one by one, they drifted back to their own homes, easing quietly into lives that were familiar in shape yet strangely distant in feeling. What they returned to looked the same on the surface, yet it no longer belonged to the versions of themselves who had left it behind.
The months of crisis, of whispered fears and hurried plans carved out in the darkest hours of night, began to blur, dissolving like a lingering fever under the slow warmth of morning light.
The safehouse, once filled to the brim with tension, movement, and shared breath, stood empty at last. Walls that had absorbed laughter and arguments, tears and fragile hope, now held nothing but stillness.
For a while, the quiet felt unreal, as though that stretch of living on the edge of disaster had taken place in another lifetime. The memories remained, hovering at the periphery of thought, yet they no longer carried the same sharp urgency.
The constant adrenaline that had driven every choice had faded, replaced by a cautious calm. Days resumed their predictable rhythm, one folding neatly into the next without the shadow of imminent catastrophe. Still, beneath that surface peace lived an unspoken truth. Nothing could ever return fully to what it had been.
Normal life came back with a sweetness edged by sorrow. Routines that once offered comfort now felt slightly hollow, as if they belonged to people who no longer existed in quite the same way.
The small details of living gained new weight. Morning tea steeping in quiet kitchens, the steady hum of work, rain tapping gently against glass all felt precious in a way they never had before. Each ordinary moment became a quiet affirmation that they had survived, that they were still here to witness these simple acts.
Something fundamental had shifted, and it could not be undone. The bonds forged in those months of uncertainty had settled deep, woven into them in ways no words could fully express.
Love and friendship had grown under pressure, shaped by fear and loyalty and shared resolve. That connection lingered beneath every interaction, steady and unquestioned. It did not need to be named. It simply existed.
They did not live in the past, yet it lived within them all the same. It showed itself in subtle ways, in the way eyes met and lingered, in silences that felt full rather than awkward, in the way they held their loved ones just a little longer and laughed with more abandon.
They had walked through the storm and emerged changed, worn, yet still intact, and that knowledge settled quietly into their bones.
As days stretched into weeks and weeks into months, the sharpness of those memories softened. Fear dulled, urgency eased, and the edges of that time grew smoother with distance.
The safehouse became a place of remembrance, a silent keeper of what they had endured. Life moved forward with its stubborn resilience, and so did they. What remained was a shared understanding of how fragile everything truly was, and how rare it was to pass through something like that together.
In the quiet spaces of their lives, they found gratitude. Not for the storm itself, but for the fact that they had faced it side by side, and that they were still here to carry on.