***
Mum looks at us with that face she makes when she's already had her fun, but doesn't want us to keep going.
"That's enough," she says. "Behave yourselves a bit. Don't bother your dad, he's going to sleep. I have to get ready for my shift."
We both nod.
Mum walks toward the door and, right before closing it, turns back.
"And leave the door alone," she adds, chuckling softly.
She closes it, still smiling.
The room goes quiet.
I don't say anything. Neither does Hadrien.
I grab his hand and tug gently, no force. He understands. He always does. He lets himself be pulled and lies down with me on my bed. Side by side. We stare at the ceiling.
We stay like that for a while.
I breathe.
I breathe again.
"Are we going to tell them?" I ask.
I don't look at him. I keep staring up.
Hadrien takes a moment.
"When we're ten," he says at last.
I wrinkle my nose a little.
"Why? I don't like lying to them."
This time I do look at him.
I see him make this small, strange face. Like when something hurts, but he doesn't want it to show.
"I know…" he says, low, almost a whisper.
He doesn't say anything else.
I squeeze his hand a little.
I turn slowly and look at him straight on. Hadrien does the same.
For a second I don't say anything. My throat tightens. I feel a knot I don't know how to undo.
"Will they still love us?"
My voice comes out tiny. Almost breaks.
I blink fast.
"Will they get scared?"
I swallow.
"Will they… will they abandon us?"
I can't stop it.
My face scrunches up on its own, like it isn't mine. I press my lips together, but it's not enough. The tears come anyway—slow, silent. They run down the sides of my face and soak the pillow.
I see Hadrien blurred. I rub at one eye with my sleeve. It doesn't help.
I breathe wrong. Choppy.
I don't want to cry. But I do.
***
I see her crying and something clenches inside me, hard, all at once.
Not because I don't understand her.
Because I'm not sure either.
I remember reading things. Seeing it in the films. Hermione's parents were happy. Proud. Like magic was a perfect gift.
But that was with one daughter.
Now it's different.
I exist.
And just by existing, I've already changed everything.
I don't know if this time they'll react the same. I don't know if the joy will be the same… or if the fear will come first. I have no way of knowing.
And still… right now it doesn't matter if I'm wrong. She needs me.
I can't leave her alone with that fear.
I move closer and wipe her tears with my thumb, one by one, like I could erase the question too.
"No, Hermione," I tell her. "Mum and Dad love us. They always will."
My voice comes out soft, steady.
"It doesn't matter what we are," I go on. "Or what we do."
I pull her closer and hug her. I hold her head against my shoulder. Just enough, so she can feel me.
"Just like I'm always going to love you," I tell her. "And protect you."
I don't say more.
I let her cry.
I feel her body trembling little by little. I hear her breathing badly, the sniffing, the way it starts to pass. I don't move her. I don't cut it off.
I'm there.
After a while, when she isn't trembling as much, I hear her say, small, almost out of air:
"I love you, Hadrien."
I rest my cheek against her hair.
"I love you too," I answer.
***
Two years later.
I'm working out in front of the TV. Sit-ups. Planks. Push-ups. Then I try to drop into a split.
It hurts.
A little… well, a lot.
I inhale and exhale slowly, keeping the rhythm. It reminds me of taekwondo when I was little in my other life. The same burn.
Mum is sitting on the couch, flipping through a fashion magazine. Sometimes I feel her stare settle on me, even when she pretends she's reading.
It's been more than an hour. When my legs get tired, I do push-ups. When my arms get tired, I go back to the split. And so it goes: one thing for another.
"Sweetheart?" she says at last. "Are you sure you have to push yourself that hard? I've asked around… and it can be dangerous. You're still young."
Her voice sounds worried. But also proud.
"Yes, Mum," I answer without stopping. "I saw it in a book. It's just calisthenics, no weights. It's not dangerous."
She opens her mouth to say something else, but I cut in first.
"I want to be strong," I say. "To protect you, Dad, and Hermione."
I pause and smile.
"Besides, I don't want to end up fat like the neighbour," I add as a joke. "He can barely lift his newspaper."
"Hadrien!" she says, raising her voice a little. Not shouting, but she looks at me seriously. "Don't be rude about Mr. Anderson… even if you're right."
I finish the last set and let myself drop into a sitting position, breathing easier. I wipe my forehead with the towel and walk to the kitchen for water.
"Yeah, yeah," I say lazily, smiling. "Sorry, Mum."
I drink.
Everything hurts. I think I overdid it today… tomorrow I start with a jog around the yard.
I'm ten now. Mum isn't hovering like before. She knows we behave.
I look in the fridge for eggs, ham, and cheese. I'm going to make myself a scramble. I drag over the little step stool Hermione and I use, climb up, turn on the stove, and start cooking.
I catch Mum glancing at me out of the corner of her eye, just in case, but she doesn't say anything. She's used to it now… or I forced her to be, I think, amused.
"Mum, can you turn the TV up, please? And put the music channel on."
I hum while I cook and think about making more for Hermione, but I don't. Maybe she already ate at her friend's house.
Yeah.
My little sister has friends, and I'm happy about that.
I also realise she's become more aware of me. Maybe people teased her for being so clingy with me and now she's less physical with her affection. But she's still my little bunny.
Only eight months left until we turn eleven…
My mood sinks just thinking about it. I have to figure out how to tell our parents and show them without us looking like we're demented.
Truth is, I don't know how. Nothing comes to me. There goes my brain failing me again when I need it most.
I sigh as I finish cooking. I serve myself, climb down from the stool.
I sit down to eat, staring at the flower vase with no flowers.
Blank mind.
Unfocused stare.
I act on pure instinct. Mechanically.
My hand feeds me while I chew slowly.
***
Mum snaps me out of that half-zen state when she walks behind me and shakes my shoulder.
"I'm going to pick up Hermione," she says.
She leans in, smells my hair, ruffles it with her hand, and adds:
"And please, shower before you leave your smell all over the furniture."
She keeps walking toward the kitchen sink. She washes her hands. I watch her back as she leaves and walks out of the house.
The door closes.
Hm.
House to myself. Dad works shifts all week.
Hermione won't be back yet. At least thirty or forty minutes.
No internet.
No computers.
No smartphones.
Honestly, that's what I miss most from my other life.
It sucks…
I don't have many ways to kill time besides reading or practising magical control. And even that isn't simple. I can't improve much more. I can't try spells more complicated than the ones I already know.
Lumos… and other simple tricks.
I don't know how to "move" the magic to do the rest. I don't know wand movements. I can't even mimic them with my arms or fingers and hope the universe takes pity on me.
It's frustrating.
I think I deserve to shut my brain off for a bit.
I stay still for a second, staring at the dull reflection on the screen.
The smell hits me late.
"…almost forgot," I mutter.
I get up from the couch lazily and head upstairs to the bathroom. I strip quickly without thinking too much and turn on the shower. The water comes out warm at first, then hot. I step in all at once.
I don't stay long. I wash my hair in a hurry, rinse off, and let the water run over me for a few more seconds. Just enough to loosen my muscles and clear my head a little.
I turn off the tap. Dry off as best I can. Put on clean clothes and go back down to the ground floor.
The house is silent.
I drop back onto the couch, hair still a bit damp.
Only then do I reach for the remote.
I turn on the TV and start flipping channels without really looking, searching for anything that keeps me awake.
News.
Ads.
A boring programme.
Another channel.
Hm.
Tom and Jerry.
Perfect.
I leave it there. I settle into the couch. The voices and the crashes blend with the soft hum of the TV.
I don't think about anything.
I blink once.
Then again.
And I never knew when I fell asleep.
***
The sound of a door slamming wakes me. I open my eyes instantly.
I hear Mum and Hermione talking softly, laughing, whispering to each other. I close my eyes again. I don't move. I breathe normally again.
There's dampness where my head rests. Hair still half-wet. Brilliant.
Mum says something else under her breath. She tells Hermione she's going out again, that she's going with Dad to buy food on the way back.
The door closes again.
Silence returns.
A moment later, I feel Hermione sit on the couch with me. Her warmth draws closer. She rests her head on my shoulder.
I crack my eyes open and shift slightly.
"Sorry, Hadrien… did I wake you?" she whispers.
"No, Mione…" I answer just as quietly, still half asleep. "The door woke me."
I lean into her the way she leans into me. I look at the TV without really seeing it.
"So?" I ask. "How was it? Did you cause trouble… or talk about boys?"
I'm joking.
Hermione stays quiet for a few seconds.
"Fine," she says at last. "And no, we didn't cause trouble… or at least not how you define it."
She pauses.
"And they talked about boys. I didn't."
I don't think much of it and keep going, without thinking too hard.
"Wow… my little sister is already growing up and drifting away from her handsome, popular brother," I say. "You should introduce me to one of your friends."
Maybe I shouldn't have said that.
Hermione huffs and answers right away, her voice a little deeper, defensive.
"Yeah, sure, of course. And I'm not going to do it for you. Do it yourself, if you care that much."
"No thanks," I reply. "I've got enough with you."
I laugh under my breath.
Hermione jerks away and punches me in the stomach. Just enough to feel it.
"Ugh!" I laugh. "Okay, okay. Sorry. I didn't mean it… you know that, right?"
"Yeah, I know," she says, with a satisfied smile. "But you deserved it."
"Yeah… I deserved it."
She snuggles back against me.
"I'm sleepy…" she murmurs as she yawns and stretches, slow, like a cat before a nap.
I check the wall clock. It's 7:48. The sun is almost down.
"Don't fall asleep yet, Mione," I say. "What about dinner?"
"Ughh…" she complains, scrunching her nose, but she doesn't say anything else.
We keep watching TV. More to kill time than out of interest. The images pass on their own. Time stretches and, at the same time, slips by fast.
Until I hear our parents' car pull into the garage.
"Mione… Mione…" I murmur.
No answer.
Only then do I realise she's already fallen asleep on my shoulder.
I sigh softly.
Mum and Dad come into the house. They pass through the living room toward the kitchen and dining room. They look at us.
Mum steps closer and speaks in a low voice.
"Hadrien," she says, just enough not to wake her. "Let me. I'll take her to her bed."
I nod slowly. Mum lifts her carefully, as if she weighs less than she should, and carries her to her room.
Dad stays with me.
"Son, I brought wings and chips."
I breathe in the smell of chicken in the air and only then realise how hungry I am. I stand up with a bit of effort and head to the table.
"Thanks, Dad."
I sit down and start eating.
After Mum comes back, we talk about anything. Loose things. The day, work, the food.
"Don't eat all the wings," I tell Dad. "Hermione will get mad if we don't save her some."
Dad chuckles under his breath, like it isn't aimed at him. He doesn't answer, but he sets a few aside.
We finish eating. I help Mum wash the plates and glasses. The water runs, the sound steady, calm. I put some food away for Hermione in the fridge, properly covered.
I pour myself a glass of juice. The last one of the day.
"Go to bed," Mum says. "Don't stay up late."
I nod.
Mum's basic talks. They never change, no matter how many times you hear them.
I rinse the glass, leave it on the counter, and go up to my room.
The day is over.
***
I wake up later than usual.
Come on… it's the weekend. I'm ten. Let me sleep a little more. My body needs it.
I look for Hermione in her bed.
She's not there.
I open one eye and check the clock. 9:00 a.m.
I get up and do my daily hygiene routine still half asleep. I go down to the dining room. Mum isn't there, but Dad is, sitting in front of the TV.
"Morning, Dad," I greet him.
"Morning to you too, champ," he answers without looking away from the screen.
"And Mum and Hermione?" I ask. "Where are they?"
"Ah… they must be in the yard," he says simply.
I don't ask more.
I leave him to it, go to the coffee pot, pour myself some, sweeten it, and walk to the sliding door that leads to the yard. As I get closer, I can already hear them talking.
I stay inside, watching through the glass.
Hermione hands Mum clothes while they hang laundry. They move slowly, in sync. At some point, Hermione turns her head, like she can feel me watching. She sees me, smiles, and waves.
I wave back.
I go back to the kitchen, wash my mug, grab the radio, and take it up to the bedroom. I put on some music and do a light warm-up, just to wake my body up.
I stretch.
I breathe.
I move.
I finish. I turn the radio off.
I go back down.
I see them both in the living room watching TV. Hermione is sitting next to Mum, hugged and held like a stuffed toy.
Mum looks at me and asks with that careful kind of affection she saves for her treasures:
"Did you have breakfast?"
She doesn't give me time to answer before she follows immediately:
"Do you want me to make you something, sweetheart?"
"No, Mum," I say. "I already had coffee. I'll wait until lunch."
"But you have to eat something, my baby," she insists, pointing at me. "How are you going to be strong if you skip breakfast?"
"No need, Mum," I reply. "I don't want to waste the heavenly food you make. I'd rather wait."
Mum narrows her eyes.
"Hmph," she goes, pretending to be annoyed. "That silver tongue of yours had better only be used on me, son…"
She pauses dramatically.
"Because if not… your end won't be pretty."
She says it in an exaggeratedly ominous tone, stroking Hermione's head like a villain with her favourite pet.
Dad bursts into loud laughter, slapping his thigh.
"HAHAHAHAHAHA!"
"Dad, please!" Hermione says, startled by the sudden laugh.
Dad tries to calm down, breathing in deep.
"She's got you, son," he says between laughs. "You'd better watch what you say to women."
He laughs again, quieter this time.
"Love," he tells Mum, "our son is quite the Don Juan already, isn't he?"
Hermione nestles a little closer to Mum.
I just smile. Like someone who does not want to continue this conversation.
"He'd better not be…" Mum says.
She leans toward Hermione and completely changes her tone.
"Hermione, my precious girl… my little angel," she continues, with that syrupy voice she uses when she wants to convince her of something. "Keep an eye on your brother, okay?"
"Yes, Mum. Leave it to me," Hermione answers immediately, straight and serious, like a perfect little soldier.
I let out a long sigh.
"Okay, okay… please, I get it, Mum," I say, resigned. "I'm sorry, seriously."
I run a hand down my face.
"Can we drop it now?"
Mum smiles, satisfied. Hermione does too.
I sit down next to Mum on the couch.
"So," she says, "my little babies and… big one."
She glances at Dad.
Dad ignores her with admirable skill, focused on the TV.
"What do you want to eat today?" Mum continues.
"Chicken," I say without thinking.
"No," Hermione says at the same time. "Pasta."
"Chicken," I repeat, looking at her. "Stuffed."
"Pasta," she insists. "With tomato sauce. And meat."
"You always want pasta."
"Because it's good."
"Chicken is good too."
"But pasta is better."
"That's a lie."
"It's not."
"Yes it is."
Dad speaks without looking away from the screen.
"There's chicken."
He pauses.
"And meat."
Hermione and I look at each other.
"With mashed potatoes," she says quickly.
"With chips," I say, not missing a beat.
"Mash."
"Chips."
"Mash is healthier."
"It's the same thing, just a different shape."
Mum puts a hand to her forehead, amused.
"I can also make a meat stew," Dad says, like it's nothing. "Or soup."
"No soup!" Hermione says. "We had it yesterday."
"I like stew… but no," I add.
"You two…" Mum says, sighing. "Always the same."
Hermione looks at me, defiant.
"I want my pasta."
"And I want my stuffed chicken."
"This isn't going to work."
"Yes it will."
"No."
"Yes."
Mum lifts a hand.
"Since you can't decide, we're meeting in the middle, okay?" she says. "I'm making a chicken stew—with pasta and potatoes."
She pauses, looking at both of us.
"Okay?"
"Truce?" I ask Hermione.
"Truce," she replies.
"Perfect," Mum says. "Then everyone's happy."
She gets up and heads to the kitchen to make lunch.
***
The next day, Hermione is sitting with me on my bed. Knees bent. Hands together, still.
She looks at me.
Then she looks away.
There's relief on her face. I notice that right away. But it's not alone—there's something else, small and tight. Like she's afraid that if we talk, everything will come apart.
I feel it too.
It isn't a big fear. It's that discomfort that won't let you sit completely still.
"We could tell them after dinner," she says. "When they're calm."
I nod.
"Or tomorrow," she says.
"Or…" she starts.
And stops there.
The ideas pass between us: tell them together, tell them little by little, show something small, show nothing, wait, don't wait…
Nothing sticks.
As I listen to her, I understand something: it's not that we don't know what to do. It's that none of the ideas make us feel safe.
This won't move forward like that.
I breathe slowly. I shift a little, settling in. Not because I'm calm… but because she needs me to be.
"Mione," I say. "I don't think there's a perfect way."
She looks up.
"We're going to have to do it," I continue. "And show them."
I don't say it loudly. I don't make any gesture. I just leave it there.
Hermione swallows.
"And if…?" she starts.
"I know," I say before she can finish. "Me too."
I place my hand over hers. I don't squeeze. I don't move.
"It'll go however it goes," I say. "But I'm not letting go of you."
I don't add anything else.
Hermione stares at our hands for a second.
Then she nods. Slowly.
***
NA: This is experimental on my part. I don't usually write omniscient narration, only first person… so sorry if the change feels a bit jarring. I did it only for this scene.
***
The next day, the house is silent, but not calm.
In the kitchen, the mother chops vegetables without needing all of them. The knife hits the cutting board with a rhythm a little faster than usual. She isn't thinking of anything specific and yet she carries a persistent feeling: something has been left hanging for days. An unsaid sentence. A look that lasts half a second too long.
In the living room, the father flips through the same newspaper for the third time. He reads the headlines, not the content. He clears his throat, shifts in the armchair, changes the channel. He isn't looking for anything in particular. He's just occupying space.
Upstairs, in the shared bedroom, Hadrien and Hermione are standing.
They aren't holding hands.
For anyone who knew them, that alone would be a sign.
Hermione takes a deep breath. She focuses on not moving her feet. She feels like she's standing at the edge of something very high, even though the floor is solid. She looks at Hadrien once, just to make sure he's still there.
He is.
Hadrien isn't thinking of plans. He isn't thinking of consequences. For the first time in a long time, he isn't calculating. He feels the weight of what he's about to do, but also something like relief. Like when you finally stop holding something too heavy and accept that it's going to fall, no matter what.
They leave the room together.
They go down the stairs as if they're crossing a one-way bridge.
No return.
The mother looks up first. She recognises the look on Hermione's face before she understands it. The father takes a second longer. He lowers the newspaper when he sees them standing in front of them—upright, silent.
"Is something wrong?" she asks.
It isn't alarm. It's an invitation.
Hermione opens her mouth. No sound comes out.
Hadrien steps forward. Not to stand in front of her, but to share the impact.
"We need to show you something," he says.
He doesn't explain what. He doesn't ask permission.
The silence that follows isn't sharp. It's dense.
The mother sets the knife aside. The father puts the newspaper down on the table. Neither smiles. Neither gets angry. Both understand—without knowing how—that this isn't a game or a prank.
"Alright," the father says, slowly. "Show us."
Hermione feels the air slip out of her lungs. For an instant she thinks about running. Hiding. Going back to being 'just a little girl.'
But she doesn't.
The cup on the table trembles slightly. It doesn't move yet. It only shakes, as if it doubts itself.
The mother notices. The father does too.
Neither says a word.
The cup rises.
It doesn't fly. It doesn't lift with force. It barely leaves the wood—awkward, unsure, like it isn't convinced this is possible.
Hadrien takes her hands.
With that contact, the cup steadies.
And in that instant—before the questions, before the fear, before any word—the four of them understand the same thing:
Nothing that comes next is going to put them back exactly where they were before.
But they are still a family.
***
Only then do I realise I moved. I'm a little in front of Hermione. It wasn't on purpose. My body did it before I did.
I feel her hand tighten around mine. Too much. It almost hurts. She doesn't let go.
I don't pull away.
The silence falls in a strange way. Not heavy. Not violent. Awkward—like when someone walks into a room before you've finished adjusting your clothes.
Mum and Dad don't say anything.
They look at each other.
It isn't a long look. It's quick, loaded. Then they look back at us.
Dad is the first to move. He clears his throat.
"So…" he says.
He pauses, like he doesn't really know what comes next.
"Do you… do that all the time?"
I don't know if it's a good question. I don't know if there is one.
"Does it tire you out?" he adds. "Or… is it like breathing?"
Hermione flinches next to me.
She squeezes tighter.
Mum sets aside whatever she was doing in the kitchen. I hear it before I see her: soft, determined footsteps.
She looks at both of us.
She sees me, standing a bit in front without meaning to.
She sees her, trembling.
She doesn't ask anything.
She comes closer and wraps her arms around both of us at once, like it's the most natural thing in the world. She pulls us into her chest.
Hermione sinks in immediately. I take a second longer… but I let go too.
Mum smells like soap and home.
"It's okay," she says softly. "It's okay."
I don't know if she's talking to us… or to herself.
Hermione's breathing is rough at first. Then a bit better. I stay still, feeling that her hand still won't let go of mine.
Dad stays close. He looks at us with that strange expression he gets when he doesn't understand something, but decides to stay anyway.
The world didn't break.
***
4352 Words
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