Chapter 403: Hermione, Heir to Snape’s Legacy

As the six-petaled tulip gently bloomed in the windowsill flowerpot, the world outside the little tavern stirred with the promise of a new day.

Upstairs, in the first guest room on the second floor, soft rays of morning light slipped past the curtains, casting long golden beams across the floorboards.

Ino opened his eyes slowly, the remnants of sleep still clinging to his thoughts. He glanced at the clock on the wall. Half past seven. Still early.

He lay still for a moment, eyes shifting toward the sleeping figure beside him. Hermione's chest rose and fell with quiet regularity, her curls splayed across the pillow like a halo of chocolate and gold. He didn't intend to wake her. Not after last night.

The madness of the evening replayed in flickers through his mind. Perhaps it had been the failure of the last potion. Perhaps it had simply built up over time. But Hermione had finally reached her limit. And when she let go, it was with an intensity he hadn't seen from her before.

She attacked the night with all the bottled frustration of a genius pushed too far, pouring it out in a whirlwind of reckless magic and even more reckless affection. By the end, their battle of exhaustion had stretched well past midnight.

They'd even resorted to using a few unusual potions to recover. That was when things finally calmed down.

Ino couldn't help but marvel again at the resilience of wizards. No wonder Quidditch was such a beloved sport in this world. With the way magic tempered the human body, it all made sense now.

And though last night had drained them both, it wasn't without reward.

That final potion-the Elixir of Life, brewed with slivers of the Philosopher's Stone-had ended up being shared between them not as a legendary remedy, but more like a revitalizing drink between lovers after a mad dash through chaos.

Hermione, inspired by the surge of vitality that coursed through her after drinking it, had suddenly had a revelation. A theory so daring, it sent a chill down Ino's spine even as it filled him with awe.

What if the diluted Elixir could be used as a catalyst to alter the properties of the Wolfsbane Potion? Instead of simply suppressing the curse of lycanthropy, what if it could destroy it altogether?

It was brilliant. And dangerous.

But that, too, was exactly what reminded Ino of someone.

Snape.

Only a student of Severus Snape could come up with a method so elegantly suicidal. Attack the poison by increasing the poison. Cure the disease by risking the host. It was the same logic Snape had used with Harry - weakening the Horcrux inside him by administering something almost fatal.

But Hermione was different in one crucial way.

She had found a way to balance the destruction. Using just the right ratio of Elixir, she believed she could neutralize the damage to the host while still eliminating the wolf curse at its core.

It was only when this new path revealed itself that the night finally drew to a close. After all, with an idea this groundbreaking, she needed rest to preserve the clarity of the insight.

Ino quietly rose from the bed, glancing back once more at the sleeping witch. He dressed without a sound, slipping into his boots and robes, then moved to the door.

He had no intention of disturbing her.

And truth be told, he suspected she was awake. Faking sleep, probably out of sheer embarrassment. After everything that had happened, even Hermione Granger might need a moment to emotionally reboot.

He understood. Intimacy needed space, just as magic needed silence.

And so he left.

Down in the valley, the morning light shimmered on dew-drenched leaves as Ino strolled toward the old well tucked behind the herbal gardens.

It was a simple structure, made of timeworn stones and faded carvings, the edges softened by moss and age. Yet the aura around it buzzed with something ancient and strong.

He knelt beside it, admiring the quiet beauty of the surface, then spoke gently.

"Blue Lantern."

With a shimmer of blue light, a two-foot-tall figure appeared at his side, bowing with crisp elegance.

"Master. At your service."

Ino extended his hand, revealing the glittering Philosopher's Stone cradled in his palm. It shimmered like crystallized starlight.

"Place this at the bottom of the well. Make sure it's secure."

The little guardian bowed again, then vanished with a silent pop.

Seconds later, the well's water, once clear and still, turned a vivid shade of crimson, glowing faintly from within.

Ino dipped his hands into the glowing surface, scooping up a bit of the water. It shimmered as it caught the light, and when he sipped it, the taste was vibrant with life. Just as it had been the night before.

Unchanged. Unspoiled.

Exactly as he'd hoped.

The stone's magic hadn't faded or diluted. As long as the ancient Runesmithing of its creation remained intact, its energy would last. That was the true wonder of Runic Alchemy - it wasn't power that faded, it was understanding that decayed.

But the stories of the Runes were old. Some even believed they predated the Ministry. And Ino had twenty-five more Rune fragments left to refine.

He looked into the red-tinged well and chuckled softly to himself.

It had once felt like the path of magic had reached its end. But here he was again, standing at the beginning of something entirely new.

If he could replicate the Philosopher's Stone - create more fragments through the Runic method - each one could hold miracles.

The valley, isolated as it was from the distractions of the outside world, would be the perfect crucible.

Something told him the real work was only just beginning.

Back at Hogwarts, however, things were far less tranquil.

The castle buzzed with its usual morning chaos, echoing with voices, footsteps, and the occasional screech of an owl that didn't particularly care it was breakfast time.

Whatever had happened the night before last had left an odd imprint on the students. Like waking from a dream they couldn't quite remember, the castle stirred with restless questions and unspoken expectations.

But none of them found what they were looking for.

The second night had passed without anything magical or strange. No visions, no dreams, no whispers in the dark.

It was as if the first night had never happened at all.

At the Slytherin table, Draco Malfoy sat quietly amidst the noisy chatter, disinterested in the chorus of disappointment around him.

The other students were speculating, of course. Theories flew around like confetti, none of them particularly grounded in reality.

But Draco... he knew.

He remembered.

And that knowledge gave him a smug sort of satisfaction.

Whatever mystery the others were struggling to grasp, he already held the answers. And the feeling of being trusted with something others didn't even realize existed was, frankly, delicious.

"Looks like we're in for another mountain of work," came a sleepy voice.

Draco looked up to find Colin Creevey slumping into the seat across from him, yawning so wide it looked like he might inhale his toast.

Draco gave a slight shrug. "That's how legacy works, Creevey. If the magazine's going to survive after we graduate, we need to set the pace now."

Colin groaned, rubbing his eyes. "Sure, but do we have to start this early? I'm still dreaming of Quidditch plays."

"You dream of Quidditch," Draco said dryly. "I dream of ink layouts."

Colin, one of the rare few allowed to eat at the Slytherin table, had become something of a minor legend himself. First-year Gryffindors even followed him around with cameras now, thinking it might bring them luck.

Draco raised an eyebrow as he saw a small boy hovering nearby with a brand-new polaroid camera, watching Colin with starstruck reverence.

Funny. Five years ago, that had been Colin - bounding down the corridors of Hogwarts with a camera slung over his shoulder, eyes wide with wonder.

History, it seemed, had a way of looping back on itself.