Lifelong bond

TW: mention of overdose attempt

The rhythmic motions of her hands, smoothing serums into her skin with practiced ease, were meant to be soothing. The soft glow of candlelight bathed the room in a golden warmth, reflecting off the mirror as she carefully applied her hydrating mask. Each step of her nighttime routine was sacred, a ritual of self-care and control—one of the few luxuries she allowed herself after long, exhausting days.

But in an instant, the fragile calm shattered.

The fireplace erupted into roaring emerald flames, the flickering light sending frantic shadows dancing across the walls. A voice—his voice—split the silence, raw and desperate, barely coherent through the crackling fire.

"Gods, Pansy, please help me!"

Her heart seized.

"Hermione—she tried to—she tried to take her life! My everything... Oh, my lord, Pansy, please, come to St. Mungo's!"

The panic in his voice struck her like a hex to the chest, robbing her of breath, sending a violent tremor down her spine. The mask on her face, once cooling, felt suffocating. Her fingers ripped it away, nails digging into her skin as she barely registered the sting.

Her mind barely had time to process. There was no hesitation, no moment of doubt—only the immediate, gut-wrenching need to move.

"I'm coming!" she shouted, her voice sharp and resolute as she spun on her heel, already reaching for her wand.

The silk robe draped over her shoulders transfigured in a single breath, shifting into something more suited for the cold, sterile halls of St. Mungo's. But she didn't bother checking the result, didn't spare herself a glance in the mirror. There was no time for vanity, no time for anything but the terror clawing its way up her throat.

Her hands shook as she reached for the Floo powder, but she forced them steady. Her mind raced—Hermione. Hermione. What could have pushed her to such darkness? What unseen war had she been fighting, silently, right in front of them all?

Before the thought could fully form, she was already stepping into the flames, the familiar rush of magic swallowing her whole.

The moment the green fire consumed her, the only thing that existed was the desperate need to get to them—to Draco, to Hermione—before it was too late.

~~~~~~

Malfoy had faced horrors most could never comprehend—he had survived a war that left ghosts in its wake, watched as friends fell beside him, and carried the weight of bloodstained choices that would never wash away. But nothing—nothing—had prepared him for this.

The steady crackle of the fire in the hearth was a cruel mockery of warmth, doing nothing to thaw the ice creeping through his veins. His normally impassive mask had shattered beyond repair, leaving him pacing the grand living room with frantic, restless strides. Each footfall echoed through the vast space, a sharp, stinging reminder of the chaos tearing through his mind. His breathing was uneven, ragged, his chest constricting with every excruciating thought.

The image was burned into him, seared onto the inside of his eyelids—Hermione, limp and lifeless, sprawled across their bedroom floor. The empty potion vials had clattered as he dropped to his knees, his hands shaking violently as he checked for a pulse. Too cold. Too still. Too quiet. He had found her just in time, but the sight of her—his Hermione—so fragile, so broken, had carved a new wound into his already battered soul, one that would never fully heal.

The air inside the manor felt suffocating, thick with grief and the what-ifs clawing at his sanity. What if he had been too late? What if she had slipped through his fingers? What if the woman he loved, the only person who had ever truly seen him, had been gone before he even knew she needed saving?

At St. Mungo's, she barely had time to catch her breath before Theo apparated beside her, the force of his arrival sending a gust of displaced air around them.

She turned to him, her heart already in her throat, her voice trembling despite the sharp edge she tried to give it. "Draco, what happened?"

She could hear the fear she was desperately trying to suppress slip through in the way her voice cracked, in the way her hands clenched at her sides, shaking ever so slightly.

Draco swallowed hard, his throat raw, his entire body tensed like a man on the edge of collapse. When he spoke, his voice was a rasp, fractured and thick with an agony that barely held itself together.

"It's bad," he admitted, each syllable cracking under the weight of the truth. "Hermione—she tried to overdose on calming potions."

The words slammed into her, knocking the breath from her lungs. Her body froze, her blood turning to ice, the world narrowing to a single, unthinkable reality.

Hermione had tried to—

Beside her, Theo inhaled sharply, his usual composed demeanor unraveling in real time as the gravity of Draco's words sank in.

"Bloody hell," Theo breathed, his voice barely more than a whisper. His tall frame seemed to sway, as if the weight of what had just been spoken was something physical, something suffocating. "Is she—?"

"She's alive." The words came too quickly, almost desperate, but they weren't steady—not even close. Draco's voice wavered, thick with the kind of raw emotion that threatened to consume him. "But just barely. They said if I hadn't found her when I did..."

He couldn't finish. He wouldn't finish.

The unspeakable hovered between them, thick and heavy, suffocating them all.

She pressed a hand to her chest, trying to quell the unbearable ache spreading beneath her ribs. This wasn't just grief, or fear, or even shock—this was terror.

Draco lifted his gaze to meet hers, and in that moment, the full force of his desperation bled through his carefully constructed walls. His hands trembled at his sides, his jaw clenched so tightly it looked painful. Draco Malfoy never begged, but this—this was as close as it would ever come.

"Please," he rasped, his voice cracking, his eyes searching hers like she was the only thing keeping him from shattering completely. "I need you both to go to the penthouse and collect our things—everything. We're moving back to her cottage. It's the only place where she might feel safe again."

There was no hesitation. Not even for a second.

She and Theo responded in unison, their voices firm despite the hurricane of emotions threatening to consume them.

"Of course, Draco. Anything for her."

~~~~~~

They wasted no time, stepping into the emerald flames of the Floo network and emerging into the sleek, modern space of their shared penthouse. The moment her heels touched the polished marble floors, she was already moving, her sharp strides echoing through the quiet space. Her mind was a storm, racing through the weight of what they had just learned, through the image of Draco, wild-eyed and broken, through the devastating reality of Hermione—Hermione—on the edge of oblivion.

"You know, Draco's always been tough, but this…" Her voice wavered slightly as she crossed the room, her fingers trailing over the elegant furniture that felt far too pristine, far too detached from the life-or-death panic clawing at her chest. "This is different."

Theo, who had already begun sifting through drawers, pulling out anything that might help, paused for just a fraction of a second before nodding. "He's scared," he said simply, his voice lower than usual. "And if anyone knows what it's like to hide fear behind control, it's him."

She exhaled sharply, shaking her head as she pulled open a wardrobe and yanked out a soft, familiar sweater—the one Hermione always curled up in when she was cold, the one that smelled faintly of vanilla and ink. "Yeah, but Hermione… she's strong. The strongest of us all, in a lot of ways. It's just…" Her voice trailed off, her grip tightening on the fabric. "People like that, they crack sometimes. The pressure builds until—"

"Until it all comes crashing down," Theo finished quietly, his hands stilling over a collection of books on Hermione's nightstand. His fingers hovered over the worn spine of Hogwarts: A History—her favorite edition, the one with the pressed flowers between the pages, delicate and preserved, little pieces of a time when things made sense.

She swallowed, nodding. There wasn't time to dwell. They had work to do.

With swift, practiced efficiency, they moved through the space, gathering everything that might offer Hermione even a sliver of comfort—her favorite books, her worn-in writing journal, the quills she liked best, the blankets Pansy had given her in the aftermath of the war, the ones that still carried traces of warmth and safety. Every item mattered. They couldn't afford to leave behind a single thing that might tether Hermione to the world, to them.

As she made her way to the sitting area, her gaze landed on the windowsill, where Crookshanks sat, his golden eyes blinking at her in quiet observation. The ginger half-Kneazle stretched lazily before padding toward her, rubbing his head against her leg in an unbothered greeting.

"Come on, beast," she murmured, crouching down and opening the enchanted carrier, her fingers stroking through his fur before gently lifting him inside. "You're coming with us."

Theo glanced over, now carrying several enchanted bags packed with Hermione's most treasured belongings, each one carefully shrunk for easier transport. He adjusted the weight over his shoulder, his expression unreadable.

"Think we have everything?"

She took one last look around the penthouse, at the place that had been meant to be a home for Draco and Hermione, now just another place haunted by pain. A cold, sinking feeling curled in her stomach as she exhaled slowly and reached for the doorknob.

"Everything that matters," she said, voice steady, before shutting the door behind them.

The green flames roared once more as they stepped into the Floo, vanishing into the night.

~~~~~~

Hermione's cottage had once been her sanctuary. It was nestled in a quiet, secluded area just outside the village of Ottery St. Catchpole, where the sounds of everyday life faded into the background, replaced by the gentle rustling of trees and the distant hum of nature. It had been the one place she'd felt entirely in control of her life, the one place untouched by the complexities of war or politics.

Theo and Pansy Apparated to the front door, and immediately, Pansy set to work. "This place needs to feel like home again," she said, her voice firm.

Theo nodded, taking in the modest cottage. It was charming, with ivy growing along the stone walls and a wooden door that had clearly seen better days. It was worlds away from the grandeur of his Manor, but it was cozy, intimate—everything Hermione needed right now.

They moved quickly, transforming the space with a careful touch. She meticulously placed her belongings around the cottage, making sure everything was exactly how she would remember it. Theo cleaned the place with a few quick spells, tidying up the dust that had settled during her time away. Crookshanks, now free from his carrier, wandered lazily through the house, occasionally rubbing against a chair leg or curling up in his favorite spot near the fireplace.

She paused in the middle of setting up Hermione's favorite books on the shelf and looked around. The cottage was warm again, like it had been before the weight of the world had settled onto Hermione's shoulders. She glanced at Theo, who had just finished setting the table with fresh flowers and tea. "It feels like her, doesn't it?"

Theo nodded slowly. "It does. I hope it's enough."

She exhaled softly, a rare moment of vulnerability slipping through her composed exterior. "It has to be. She's done so much for us... we have to help her find herself again."

~~~~~~

Draco arrived just as the sun began its slow descent, painting the sky in hues of amber and rose, the fading light casting long shadows along the stone path leading to the front door. The cottage stood just as he remembered it—humble, inviting, a world away from the grandeur he had once known. But here, in this quiet space, love had been nurtured, laughter had once filled the air, and for the briefest of moments, happiness had been theirs.

His heart clenched as he stepped forward, each stride carrying the weight of everything that had happened. He needed this to be right. He needed this place to be the safe haven she deserved.

The door creaked open before he even reached it, and Pansy stood there, silhouetted against the soft glow of candlelight from within. There was no teasing remark, no smirk—just a quiet understanding in her gaze. She nodded, the weight of unspoken words settling between them.

"Everything's ready," she murmured, her voice softer than usual, as if afraid the very air might shatter under the heaviness of the moment.

Behind her, Theo lingered in the doorway, his expression lined with concern. "How is she?"

Draco exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down his face before answering. "She's… tired," he admitted, his voice rough, edged with exhaustion. "But she'll be home soon." The words felt like a prayer more than a statement, a fragile hope he wasn't sure he was ready to claim.

Pansy crossed her arms, but there was no defiance in the gesture—only warmth, quiet reassurance. "She's strong, Draco," she said, and for the first time in hours, he let himself believe it. "She's going to come through this."

His throat tightened, doubt gnawing at the edges of his resolve. "I know," he murmured, though the words felt unsteady. His gaze drifted past them, scanning the familiar space—the fresh linens on the couch, the carefully arranged books by the fireplace, the way the softest blankets had been folded just so on the armchair Hermione always curled up in. Every single detail had been considered. "I just… I need to make sure she's okay. I need her to know she's not alone."

"And she won't be," Theo said firmly, stepping closer. "You have us. She has us."

Draco's gaze met Theo's, and for a moment, the weight on his shoulders didn't feel quite as heavy. He turned, taking in the care, the love woven into every inch of the cottage—the small details that had been carefully put together not out of obligation, but out of devotion. Out of love.

A quiet gratitude welled in his chest, though words felt inadequate. He nodded instead, his voice thick when he finally spoke. "Thank you. Both of you."

Pansy smiled, a soft, knowing thing, as she placed a hand on his arm. "We're all in this together, darling," she murmured. "Now go and take care of her."

With a deep breath, Draco cast one final glance at the cottage before stepping past them, the knowledge settling deep in his bones. It was time.

Time to bring her home.

~~~~~~

The night, already thick with the weight of unspoken emotions, was shattered by a rapping on the door. An insistent, almost frantic rhythm that jolted Hermione and Draco from a sleep laced with worry. Draco stirred first, blinking away the remnants of dreams and reaching for his wand, a reflex honed during years of war. The rapping came again, louder this time, a discordant note in the quiet symphony of the night.

With a questioning glance at Hermione, Draco rose, his hand hovering over his wand as he crept towards the door. Hermione followed, her own wand clutched tightly in her hand.

"Who could it be at this unholy hour?" she whispered, her voice barely above a murmur.

Draco shook his head, a sliver of apprehension tightening his features. "Stay behind me, love," he murmured, his voice low and steady despite the disquiet gnawing at his gut.

He cracked the door open with a sliver, revealing a sight that both surprised and relieved him. Pansy, Blaise and Theo stood on the doorstep, their faces etched with concern in the pale moonlight spilling from the doorway.

Pansy, rolled her eyes dramatically, a hint of amusement flickering in her gaze. "Merlin's saggy ball sack, you two look like you've seen a boggart."

Blaise chuckled, his usual sardonic air tinged with genuine worry. "Sorry to rouse you from your beauty sleep, but we figured it was high time for a little reunion, wouldn't you say?"

Theo, the quiet observer of the group, surprised them both with a wide grin. "We wouldn't want you lovebirds to have all the fun recovering, now would we?"

Relief washed over Draco, a wave so powerful it threatened to steal the breath from his lungs. He sighed, a mixture of exasperation and gratitude coloring his voice. "Come in, come in," he said, ushering them inside. "But next time, try knocking at a decent hour, shall we?"

A small smile tugged at the corners of Hermione's lips, the first genuine one in days. Stepping aside to let them in, she couldn't help but ask, "It's good to see you all, truly. But why are you here exactly?"

Pansy shrugged, her usual bravado faltering slightly. "News travels fast, Granger," she said, her voice softer than Draco had ever heard it. "We heard what happened. We were worried, and... well, we wanted to offer our support, in whatever way we can."

Blaise nodded curtly, his gaze lingering on Draco for a moment before meeting Hermione's. "We've all been through our share of darkness," he said, his voice gruff but sincere. "And sometimes, the only way out is to face it together."

Pansy reached over and squeezed Hermione's hand. "We're here for you, no matter what. You're part of our family now."

What a lovely little traumatized family.

The pre-dawn gloom slowly surrendered to the tentative fingers of sunlight, painting the cozy cottage in a warm glow. As the conversation flowed, punctuated by bursts of laughter and clinking teacups, memories unfurled like well-worn tapestries. Stories of past pranks (some successful, some hilariously disastrous), whispered secrets shared under the cloak of invisibility, and the harrowing battles that had forged an unexpected bond – all these threads wove a tapestry of camaraderie.

Despite the darkness that had threatened to engulf them, a sense of peace settled over Hermione. Here, in the flickering firelight and the gentle hum of their shared history, she found a haven. They were not merely survivors, but a chosen family, bound by the invisible threads of empathy and a shared journey through war and its aftermath.

With each shared laugh and murmured word, a silent vow was made. They would face the challenges ahead, together. 

Not as individuals burdened by their past, but as a united front, their strength amplified by the unwavering support they offered each other. As the sun climbed higher in the sky, casting long shadows across the floor, Hermione knew, with a certainty that warmed her from the inside out, that they would emerge from the darkness, a little stronger, a little braver, and forever bound by the unyielding ties of friendship.

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 dimly lit study of the cottage, his movements sharp and restless, the weight of the conversation he knew was coming pressing down on his shoulders like an iron shroud. The embers in the fireplace crackled softly, sending flickers of golden light dancing over the dark mahogany furniture, but the warmth did little to thaw the ice forming in his chest. His fingers itched to pour a drink, to drown the whirlwind of emotions threatening to consume him, but he knew better. It wouldn't help. Nothing would.

The air was thick with tension, each breath he took feeling heavier than the last. He had fought battles, endured torturous nights, and lived through the war with scars to prove it—but this, this was a different kind of agony. This was watching the woman he loved drown in the consequences of a choice she had been forced to make, and he was utterly powerless to pull her back to shore.

The familiar whoosh of the Floo shattered the stillness, a sudden burst of green flames roaring to life in the fireplace. Pansy's sharp voice cut through the quiet like a blade.

"Draco, are you alone?"

There was an edge to her voice, a concern she rarely allowed to slip through, especially not with him. His body tensed at the sound of it. He inhaled deeply, steadying himself before turning toward the fireplace. Her face flickered in the flames, eyes narrowed, jaw tight—she had sensed something was wrong, and there would be no dismissing her easily.

He let out a slow, exhausted breath. "Yes. I'm alone."

A pause. Pansy studied him, her gaze sharp and assessing, peeling back the layers of his carefully controlled exterior with the ease of someone who had known him too long to be fooled.

"What happened?"

His jaw tightened instinctively. "Parkinson, it's a private matter." He tried to sound dismissive, detached, but his voice was taut, strained with the weight of everything he wasn't saying. He should have known better.

Pansy scoffed, unimpressed. "Private? You forget who you're talking to. This isn't some secret you can bury in the Manor walls, Draco. Hermione is family—whether you like it or not. So don't you dare shut me out. What happened?"

A muscle in his jaw twitched. He briefly considered closing the Floo connection altogether, but she was relentless. That infuriating tenacity had always been her defining trait, and in this moment, he hated that it was exactly what he needed.

"You are… unbearable," he muttered, the frustration slipping from his lips before he could stop it.

"Spit it out already," she pressed, her tone sharp, leaving him no room to retreat into his usual brooding silence. "You called me, so clearly, you need me. Stop wasting time."

For a fleeting moment, he hesitated. Speaking the words aloud would make them real. It would solidify the nightmare he had been living in since he found Hermione collapsed on the floor, her breathing shallow, potion bottles scattered around her like shattered pieces of herself.

But Pansy had always known when something was eating him alive. And this secret—it was too heavy to carry alone.

With a sharp exhale, he finally let the words slip free, raw and jagged.

"She was the one who killed my father."

Silence.

Pansy blinked, her usual quick wit and cutting remarks momentarily stunned into nothingness. For all her sharpness, she had not expected that. And yet, after a beat, she exhaled through her nose, her lips curling into something that was neither shock nor disapproval, but… understanding.

"Oh..." her voice, softer than usual, carried something almost like respect. Then, after a pause, her expression settled, and she said, with complete certainty, "Good for her."

Draco stiffened, his gaze snapping to her. "Good for her?" he repeated, incredulous.

Her smirk returned, but there was warmth behind it, something deeper than mere amusement. "Yes, good for her. After everything your father put her through, she deserves a bloody medal. She did what needed to be done. A good girl, that one."

His lips parted slightly, a mixture of anger, resignation, and something dangerously close to relief bubbling beneath his skin. He had spent his whole life fearing the man now buried beneath six feet of dirt, and yet the knowledge that Hermione had been the one to put him there still twisted inside him, still sat uneasily in his chest.

His voice dropped to a whisper, the agony bleeding through. "She couldn't handle the guilt, Pansy. It's eating her alive."

Her face softened, the usual playful arrogance fading as she met his gaze with something more serious. "Of course it is. She's Hermione bloody Granger. She's not like us, Draco. She feels things... deeply. It's one of the reasons she's different."

Draco leaned against the desk, his hands gripping the edge like an anchor. "I thought she could move past it. I thought we could move past it together. But it's killing her, and I don't know how to help."

Pansy was quiet for a moment before speaking, her voice steady but gentle. "You can't erase what happened. No one can. But you can help her carry the weight. She doesn't have to do it alone."

His eyes squeezed shut as the image of Hermione, pale and fragile in that hospital bed, seared itself into his mind. "She won't talk about it. She won't even look at me the same way anymore. It's like… like she's fading away, and I can't reach her."

Her voice was uncharacteristically gentle. "She's drowning in guilt, Draco. And when someone like Hermione is overwhelmed, they shut down. But you—you've always been good at fighting for what you want. Fight for her. Don't let her pull away. Make her see that you're there, no matter how far she tries to run."

His fists clenched, frustration and desperation battling within him. "I don't know if she'll ever forgive herself for what she did."

Pansy's gaze darkened with a rare determination. "Then show her it's not about forgiveness. It's about survival. She saved herself from his sins. She saved you. That's what matters."

The words settled between them like a final, undeniable truth.

Draco straightened, the resolve hardening in his chest. He would kill for Hermione. He would burn the world down before he let her be swallowed by the weight of what she had done.

"She's going to come out of this," Pansy continued, her voice unwavering. "And when she does, she'll be stronger. But until then, she needs you to be strong for her."

He exhaled slowly, nodding as the determination in his eyes sharpened. "You're right."

She smirked, the teasing glint slipping back into her expression. "Of course I'm right. I'm always right."

Draco rolled his eyes, the corner of his mouth twitching despite the darkness still looming in his chest. "Thanks, Parkinson."

"Anytime, darling," she replied, light and casual, but there was an unspoken promise beneath the words—a vow that no matter how unbearable she could be, she would always be there.

As her face disappeared from the Floo, Draco stood alone in the quiet once more. But for the first time in days, the silence didn't feel like a prison.

He had a plan. A purpose.

He wasn't going to let Hermione slip away—not now, not ever.

And no matter how impossible it seemed, he was going to bring her back.

~~~~~~

The evening had long since darkened when Neville stepped through the door of his modest but comfortable home. He could still smell the lingering scent of the earth on his robes from the greenhouse at Hogwarts, where he'd been working late, tending to his plants—his solace after a long day. However, the tranquility he often felt upon returning home was quickly interrupted by the sight of Pansy pacing back and forth across the sitting room, her face pale with worry.

It wasn't like Pansy to look so shaken. Sure, she could be dramatic, but this… this was different. Her usual air of nonchalance had been replaced by a tense energy that seemed to radiate off her in waves.

He dropped his bag by the door, his brow furrowing in concern as he took in her agitated movements. He crossed the room swiftly, gently placing his hands on her shoulders to stop her pacing.

"My love," he said, his voice low and soft, "what's going on? What happened?"

She stopped, biting her lip in a way that told him whatever she had to say was weighing heavily on her. Her hands fluttered nervously, and Neville could tell she was struggling to find the right words—a rare occurrence for Pansy Parkinson.

"I need to tell you something," she began, her voice almost hesitant. His worry spiked at the uncharacteristic tone in her voice. Pansy was many things—blunt, confident, fiery—but hesitant wasn't one of them.

He squeezed her shoulders gently, urging her to continue. "Of course, love. You can tell me anything," he reassured her, his eyes never leaving her face.

Pansy took a deep breath, finally meeting his eyes. "Promise me, Nevie… promise me you won't tell anyone."

Neville's heart rate quickened. Whatever this was, it was serious. He could see it in the way Pansy's hands were trembling slightly. Still, he nodded without hesitation, his loyalty to her unwavering. "Of course, I promise. You know I won't say a word."

Pansy closed her eyes for a moment, steadying herself before speaking again. "It's about Hermione."

The name alone was enough to make Neville's heart lurch. Hermione had been one of his closest friends for years, ever since their time at Hogwarts, and the thought that something might have happened to her filled him with a cold dread.

"What is it?" he asked softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

Her lips pressed together tightly, and for a moment, she didn't respond. Then, in a voice that was far too quiet for the usually loud and brash woman, she said, "She almost overdosed."

The words hit him like a blow to the chest, his breath catching in his throat. "What?" he whispered, his mind reeling with shock. "Overdosed? Hermione?"

She nodded, her expression grim. "On calming drought. She… she wasn't handling things well, and she—" her voice faltered for a moment, but she quickly regained her composure. "Draco found her just in time. She's alive. She's safe now, but…" Her voice trailed off, the unspoken weight of the situation hanging in the air.

He took a step back, his mind racing as he tried to process the information. Hermione had always been the strong one—the one who fought, who never backed down, no matter the odds. The idea that she had been pushed to such a desperate point was unimaginable to him.

"Oh, Merlin," he muttered, running a hand through his hair. His stomach twisted at the thought of how close they'd come to losing her. "Is she okay? I mean… is she really okay now?"

She shook her head slightly. "She's physically fine, but she's not okay, Nevie. She's at her cottage now, recovering. But… it's not going to be easy for her. This wasn't just some minor lapse. She's struggling, more than any of us realized."

He felt a knot form in his throat. "Why didn't she say anything?" he asked, his voice thick with emotion. "Why didn't she tell us she was hurting this much?"

Her eyes softened, and she moved closer to him, reaching out to take his hands in hers. "Hermione's always been the strong one, hasn't she?" She said gently. "She doesn't know how to ask for help. She probably thought she could handle it on her own, until she couldn't."

Neville squeezed her hands, his mind whirling with a mix of emotions—anger at himself for not noticing, guilt for not being there, and overwhelming concern for his friend. "We need to help her," he said firmly, his voice laced with determination. "She can't go through this alone."

She nodded. "She's at the cottage now, with Draco. Theo and I have been helping him get everything set up for her, making sure she's comfortable, but… she's going to need more than that."

His eyes darkened with resolve. "I'll be there. We'll both be there, whenever she needs us."

Pansy smiled faintly, a hint of relief crossing her features. "I knew you'd say that."

He pulled her into a tight embrace, resting his chin on top of her head. "Thank you for telling me," he murmured into her hair. "I'll keep the promise, but we're going to do everything we can to make sure she gets through this. All of us. Together."

She nodded against his chest, her arms wrapping around him. For all her bravado, Neville could feel how much this was affecting her. Hermione wasn't just an acquaintance anymore—she was family, part of the strange, tight-knit circle they had built after the war. And now, more than ever, that family needed to stand strong.

"She's going to be okay," she whispered, though it sounded as much like a reassurance to herself as it did to Neville.

"She will be," he agreed, though his heart was heavy with worry. "We'll make sure of it."

~~~~~~

The days after Hermione's near overdose blurred into a quiet but determined rhythm. Draco had taken her to the cottage, her sanctuary from the world, a small but beautiful place she'd once retreated to before the Marriage Act had upended her life. Now, the place seemed more of a retreat than ever, but not from the world—more from her pain, her guilt, and the overwhelming weight that had driven her to that dark moment.

Draco was her constant companion, his normally sharp, sardonic demeanor softened by his concern for Hermione. But soon, others came. Others who, like Draco, refused to let her fall back into the shadows of her own mind.

One of the first to arrive after Draco had settled her was Pansy, and, predictably, she wasn't alone. She brought with her the one companion that could always coax a smile from the most reluctant of souls: Lady Lemongrass. The moment Pansy stepped through the door of the cottage, Lady bolted across the room, her tail wagging furiously as she launched herself onto the couch where Hermione sat, wrapped in a soft blanket.

"Hello, princess," Hermione murmured softly, scratching the pug behind the ears as the dog snuffled happily against her leg. A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth—perhaps the first genuine smile Draco had seen from her in days.

She, as always, took in the scene with her usual flair, surveying the room before plopping herself down in a chair across from Hermione. "I figured you could use some company," she said casually, as though this visit were just another part of their daily routine. But there was a tenderness in her eyes that wasn't lost on Hermione. Pansy wasn't here just for a social call; she was here because she cared.

"We'll take it one day at a time, alright?" she said after a moment, her voice softer than usual. "You don't have to be strong all the time, Granger. We've got you."

Hermione nodded, unable to find the right words to respond. But the warmth that spread through her chest told her that even without words, Pansy understood.

~~~~~~

The first visit set the tone for the days that followed. Nearly every day, they stopped by the cottage, refusing to let isolation become Hermione's default state. Sometimes, they came together; other times, they trickled in separately, but the message was always the same: You are not alone.

Neville, in particular, was relentless in that quiet, steadfast way that was entirely his own. He never arrived empty-handed, always bringing something with him—fresh produce from the greenhouses, jars of herbs carefully tied with twine, wildflowers that had caught his eye on the way over. He knew Hermione, knew that the grounding presence of nature soothed something in her, and so he made sure she had plenty of it. Some afternoons, they spent hours in the small garden, planting new herbs or simply sitting side by side on the worn wooden steps of the porch, comfortable in the silence that stretched between them.

One morning, as they knelt together, replanting a row of lavender, Neville glanced over, his hands working the soil with practiced ease. "How are you really feeling, Hermione?"

She paused, fingers grazing the soft petals, her gaze unfocused. "I don't know," she admitted, voice barely above a whisper. "Some days, it feels like I'm drowning. Other days… other days I feel okay. But it's hard, Nev."

He didn't push. He never did. He simply nodded, his voice as steady as the earth beneath them. "Then we'll take it slow. One day at a time, like Pansy said."

And then there were the nights when Pansy brought the weed.

It started on a particularly difficult evening. Hermione had been quieter than usual, curled up on the couch, staring into the distance as though she was lost somewhere far beyond the walls of the cottage. Pansy recognized the look. She knew it too well—the way grief could wrap itself around the ribs like a vice, pressing down until even breathing felt like too much effort.

So, without a second thought, she had shown up with a small, discreet package and a wicked glint in her eye.

"Come on, Granger," she said, flopping onto the couch beside her, kicking off her heels with a dramatic sigh. "I think it's time we loosened up a bit." She held up the package, wiggling it between two fingers. "A little herb never hurt anyone. Besides, you desperately need to relax."

Hermione stared at it, brows furrowed in uncertainty. "Is that—?"

Pansy grinned. "Only the finest. Don't look at me like that; this is medicinal."

For a long moment, Hermione simply blinked at her, but then, as if a switch flipped, her lips twitched. "You're incorrigible, Parkinson."

"I know," Pansy said breezily. "But seriously, it might help you clear your mind. And we both know I have excellent ideas."

And so, with the windows cracked just enough to let the crisp night air in, they sat together, passing a joint between them. The tension in Hermione's shoulders eased by degrees, the weight of the day slowly melting away with each inhale. For the first time in weeks, she talked freely—not just about the heavy things but the light ones too, filling the room with stories of Lady's latest antics, of ridiculous things Theo had said, of memories that made them both laugh until their sides ached.

By the time Draco returned from a quick errand and found them sprawled across the couch, giggling uncontrollably over something as stupid as the shape of Lady's nose, he simply raised an unimpressed brow.

"Should I even ask what's going on here?"

Pansy shot him a smug grin, exhaling a slow stream of smoke. "Just helping our girl unwind."

Draco pinched the bridge of his nose but didn't push, mostly because—for the first time in a long time—the air in the cottage felt light. That unbearable heaviness that had settled around Hermione was, for once, nowhere to be found.

Each visit brought something different.

Sometimes, it was laughter—like the night everyone gathered with a Muggle board game none of them fully understood. They had spent hours arguing over the rules, accusing each other of cheating, laughing so hard that tears streamed down their faces. Theo, self-proclaimed master strategist, had been ruthlessly defeated by Ginny, who played the entire game without realizing she was winning.

Other times, it was quieter. Like when Neville sat beside Hermione on the porch, both wrapped in thick blankets, sipping tea as they watched the sky fade into shades of violet and gold.

But always, they showed up. Always, they made sure she never felt like she was facing the darkness alone.

Even Lady Lemongrass had become a fixture at the cottage, following Hermione like a tiny, determined shadow. The pug curled up beside her during her worst days, snoring softly against her leg, as if her mere presence could chase away the nightmares. Some afternoons, Hermione found herself absently running her fingers through Lady's fur, letting the steady, rhythmic breathing ground her when everything else felt unsteady.

One afternoon, as they all sat outside in the garden—Pansy sipping wine, Neville with his tea, Theo sprawled lazily across a lounge chair—Hermione looked around at the people who had become her family and felt something rare: peace.

"I don't know what I'd do without you all," she murmured, voice thick with emotion.

Pansy, ever the deflector, rolled her eyes. "Oh, please, Granger. You'd survive. You'd be miserable, obviously, but you'd survive." Then, as if realizing the moment deserved something more, she sighed dramatically. "But yes, we are pretty incredible, aren't we?"

Neville smiled, reaching over to place a steady, reassuring hand over Hermione's. "You don't have to do anything without us, Hermione. We're here. Always."

Theo, emerging from the cottage with a tray of snacks, smirked as he leaned against the doorframe. "Damn right we are. And honestly, who else would put up with your nonsense? You're stuck with us, Granger."

For the first time in what felt like forever, Hermione laughed. A real, genuine laugh that bubbled up from somewhere deep inside her. And as she looked at them—their faces alight with teasing smiles, their presence solid and unwavering—she realized something.

She believed them. She believed she wasn't alone.

She believed she didn't have to carry the weight of the world by herself.

Because no matter what, they would be here.

Every single day. Every single step of the way.

~~~~~~

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 the redhead—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 there in silence for a while, the weight of their conversation still lingering but softened by the warmth of their connection. Pansy knew that things wouldn't always be easy—life had a way of throwing unexpected challenges at them—but she also knew that, with Neville by her side, she could face whatever came next.

"Let me help you relax, my love," he whispered, his breath warm against her skin. His lips traced a soft, lingering path along her neck, sending shivers down her spine. She gasped, her body arching in response as his kisses found the sensitive spots along her ears.

Her soft moans filled the air, growing more urgent as his hands traveled lower, cupping her breasts with reverence. His fingers expertly teased her nipples, pinching gently until they hardened beneath his touch. His mouth followed, lips and tongue working in tandem as he sucked on her nipples, drawing out deeper, needier sounds from her lips.

Her hands tangled in his hair, urging him on. "Please," she whispered, her voice barely more than a breath, "go lower."

With a knowing smile, he gently guided her to the edge of the bed. Kneeling before her, he placed tender kisses along her inner thighs, savoring the anticipation building between them. When his tongue finally met her wetness, a gasp escaped her as he circled her clit with deliberate, skillful strokes.

Her body responded instantly, hips lifting off the bed, her moans growing louder with each flick of his tongue. He alternated between licking and sucking, driving her closer and closer to the edge, until every nerve in her body was alive with pleasure, ready to unravel in his hands.

His finger slid inside her, and a soft gasp escaped her lips as pleasure surged through her body. He moved slowly at first, teasing, curling his finger just enough to make her hips lift, silently begging for more.

"Deeper," she whispered, her voice breathless with need.

Obliging her plea, he added a second finger, thrusting them deeper inside her, his movements growing faster, more intense. The rhythm he set made her writhe beneath him, her body responding eagerly to every thrust, every sensation.

He could feel her teetering on the edge, her breath quickening, her muscles tensing as she chased the release building inside her. His mouth returned to her clit, his tongue circling and sucking in time with the movements of his fingers, each flick sending her spiraling closer to the brink.

Her moans became desperate, her body trembling as the tension reached its peak. With a final, skillful stroke, her orgasm crashed over her, and she shuddered against him, her body overwhelmed by the waves of pleasure coursing through her.

He stood up, his body flushed with desire, and revealed his cock, hard and ready. Pansy was still trembling from the intensity of her orgasm, but her hunger for more was evident in the way her eyes gleamed with anticipation. Without hesitation, he slid inside her, the sensation of his length filling her drawing a deep, satisfied moan from her lips.

He began slowly, savoring the feel of her warm, tight body wrapped around him, their movements a languid dance of pleasure. But it wasn't long before she started to crave more, her hips bucking against him, her voice breathless as she pleaded, "Faster. Harder."

Her request ignited something in him, and he obliged, picking up the pace, his thrusts becoming wild and urgent. The room was filled with the sound of their bodies meeting, the moans and gasps of pleasure filling the air, and the heady mix of desire between them grew even more intense.

He could feel her building toward another climax, her breath hitching, her moans more desperate with every thrust. Leaning down, he captured one of her nipples in his mouth, sucking and flicking it with his tongue, driving her closer to the edge.

Pansy's body tensed beneath him, then convulsed as another orgasm tore through her, her moans echoing as she gave in to the waves of pleasure rippling through her. Her whole body shuddered, and he groaned, knowing he was close to his own release.

With a final thrust, he pulled out just in time, his own climax overtaking him as he spilled himself over her stomach, their bodies both trembling from the intensity. Pansy, breathless and flushed, smiled up at him, satisfaction written all over her face.

As they lay together, the tension of the night finally slipping away, the steady beat of his heart against her skin lulled her into a peaceful sleep. The first light of dawn filtered through the curtains, casting a soft glow over them, and in that quiet moment, Pansy realized something that calmed her more than anything else had.

She wasn't afraid anymore. Because no matter what came next, they had each other. And that, more than anything, was enough.

~~~~~~

The next day, they visited Hermione as they always did, their presence as steady and certain as the changing tides. She carried a woven basket brimming with fresh herbs, their scents intertwining—rosemary, lavender, chamomile—along with a neatly wrapped selection of pastries from the best bakery in town. Beside her, Neville balanced a small pot of steaming tea, freshly brewed from the plants in his greenhouse, the calming aroma already curling through the crisp morning air. Lady Lemongrass trotted determinedly at their heels, her tiny legs moving in double time to keep pace, a comically serious look on her squashed little face.

When they arrived at the cottage, Draco opened the door, looking like he hadn't slept in days. The shadows beneath his eyes were deep, his usually pristine shirt slightly rumpled, but despite the exhaustion written across his face, there was a flicker of relief when he saw them standing there.

"Thanks for coming," he muttered, voice rough with fatigue as he stepped aside to let them in.

"Always," she replied without hesitation, offering him a brief but reassuring smile before brushing past him into the warmth of the cottage.

Hermione was curled up on the couch, a thick blanket draped over her legs, a book half-forgotten on the armrest beside her. She looked up as they entered, her expression shifting from surprise to something softer, something close to gratitude.

"Hey," she greeted, her voice still holding the fragile edge of recovery, but stronger than it had been before. "I wasn't expecting you today."

"Well, we couldn't possibly stay away," she said, setting the basket down with a flourish. "Besides, I figured your potions cabinet could use a little restocking."

Hermione's lips quirked into something that almost resembled a smile, though the weight of exhaustion still lingered in her eyes. "Thanks, Pans. That means a lot."

Neville stepped forward, holding out the pot of tea with his usual gentle warmth. "Thought you might like some company," he said simply. "And this might help you sleep better."

Hermione accepted the cup, her fingers curling around the ceramic as if drawing comfort from its warmth. "You guys are too good to me," she murmured, voice thick with emotion.

"Nonsense," she scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. "You're ours. That's what we do."

As they settled into the familiar rhythm of their visits—chatting, sharing quiet laughter, filling the empty spaces with nothing but presence—she felt something shift, something settle. It wasn't perfect. There were still hard days ahead, still shadows that lingered at the edges. But in that moment, in this small, quiet sanctuary filled with the people who mattered most, she knew they would face it together.

Because that was what they did. Because that was what family did. And for now, for today, that was enough.