IV. XVI.

Pansy felt hollow in a way she had never experienced before, an aching emptiness settling deep in her chest as though something vital had been torn away, leaving her raw and vulnerable. The weight of Hermione's absence was suffocating, pressing against her ribs with an unbearable heaviness, and no matter how much she tried to push it away, it lingered, wrapping itself around her like an unrelenting specter. She had spent days trapped in this suffocating haze, lost in the torment of watching someone she loved, someone so full of life, reduced to stillness, and no matter how much she tried to steel herself against the grief, it continued to claw at her, dragging her deeper into an abyss she wasn't sure she could escape.

Hermione had always been the strong one, the pillar of their group, the person who never wavered in the face of adversity, the woman who held them all together even when everything else threatened to fall apart. It had always been Hermione who fixed things, who knew what to do, who carried the weight of everyone else's burdens without hesitation. And now, here she was, fragile and unmoving, her body broken, her fate hanging in a precarious balance that none of them could control. Pansy had never known helplessness like this, never known what it was to be utterly powerless in the face of something she couldn't fight, couldn't fix, couldn't undo. The thought of Hermione's laughter, her sharp wit, her relentless spirit now silenced sent a fresh wave of agony crashing over her, a pain so deep that she thought it might consume her whole.

She didn't remember falling asleep, only that the exhaustion had finally claimed her in the early hours of the morning when she had nothing left to give, when grief had worn her down to the bone and her body had finally surrendered to rest. The morning light filtering through the heavy curtains was muted and golden, casting a false sense of warmth over the room as she stirred, the weight of sleep still pressing down on her limbs. 

The rustling sound of wings caught her attention, and she turned her head just in time to see an owl land on the bedside table, its talons clutching a tightly rolled piece of parchment. 

Her breath caught as she sat up, her fingers reaching out with a trembling hesitance that bordered on fear. She knew that handwriting, recognized the delicate loops and curves of the ink before she even opened it. Luna.

For a moment, she couldn't move, couldn't breathe, as if opening that letter would make everything real, as if the words inside might shatter what little composure she had left. 

The seal broke easily beneath her fingers, and she forced herself to unfold the parchment, her heart slamming against her ribs as she read the first line.

Darling,

Hermione is stable. For now, at least. But she is not out of the woods. I won't lie to you, love. It's bad. Worse than we imagined.

She needs multiple surgeries. The damage is extensive. And she is hemiplegic, which means she has lost movement on her left side. She will need an extreme amount of physical therapy to regain even partial mobility. It will be a long road, and I don't know if she'll ever fully recover. But she's still here, Pans. She's fighting. And that's something.

I miss you. I miss you so much that it feels like a part of me is missing, like my bones don't sit right without you here. I need you like I need air, and I hate that I have to be here without you. I know why Theo kept you away. I know he thought he was protecting you. But I also know that you would have burned the world down to be here with us.

And I need you to know something. If it were you lying in that bed, if it were you who needed me, I wouldn't hesitate. I wouldn't think. I would be there, fighting for you, healing you, holding your hand through every nightmare and every painful moment, and I would never leave your side. If anything ever happened to you, I would do this for you too, in a heartbeat, because that's what love is.

So hold Lysander for me. Tell him his mummy loves him. Kiss his little fingers and tell him that I will come home to him soon.

And know that even from here, even through all this darkness, I love you. Always.

Luna.

The weight of that sentence settled deep in her bones, an unshakable truth woven into every letter. She knew what Luna meant. If it had been Pansy lying in that hospital bed, broken and fighting for her life, Luna would have carved through the world with her own bare hands to bring her back. Just as she had done for Hermione.

Just as Pansy should have done. But she hadn't. She had stood there, helpless, watching as Hermione was stolen away, watching as she nearly died. She had done nothing. And now, Hermione was paying the price. The guilt was unbearable, pressing against her chest with a suffocating force, her breath coming in short, shallow gasps as she clutched the letter to her chest, fingers curling around it like it could somehow hold her together.

She needed to see her. She needed to be there when Hermione opened her eyes fully and realized everything that had been taken from her. But what could she say? That if she could trade places, she would? Because she would. In a heartbeat.

With shaking hands, she wiped at her face, forcing herself to take deep, steadying breaths. She would see Hermione. She would be there. And she would never leave her again.

Tears welled in her eyes as she read those final lines. Luna's unwavering loyalty, her endless compassion, was like a lifeline in the storm of emotions swirling inside her. 

She didn't know what she would do without Luna, without the strength and support that their friendship provided. Luna had been there for her every step of the way, and now, she was ready to do the same for Hermione.

But could she really handle this? Could she be strong enough to face Hermione, to look into her friend's eyes and not see the fragility or the pain? She wiped her eyes, forcing herself to focus. Luna's words were a reminder that they had to be strong now, not just for themselves but for Hermione. There was no room for weakness, not when their friend needed them the most.

The letter was still pressed to her chest when she stumbled into the bathroom, her legs unsteady, her vision blurred. She didn't remember how she got there, only that the walls suddenly felt too close, too white, too clean, as if they mocked the mess writhing beneath her skin. The mirror stared back at her, her own face pale and hollow, eyes rimmed red, lips trembling beneath the bright smear of lipstick she hadn't reapplied in days. It was a lie, that color—one of the last remnants of the woman she had been pretending to be.

She gripped the edge of the sink, knuckles white, the porcelain cold and smooth beneath her palms. For a moment, she just stood there, chest rising and falling in short, shallow breaths. Then something inside her snapped.

It was soundless, that fracture. Not a scream. Not a sob. Just the final, silent disintegration of something that had been barely holding together.

Her hand shot out, knocking the entire contents of the shelf onto the floor with a crash so loud it made Lysander cry out in the other room. Glass shattered. Bottles rolled. Perfume bloomed in the air like choking flowers. And she didn't stop.

She tore open the mirrored cabinet and swept everything out—vials, serums, ancient compacts, her favorite lipstick tube—all of it slammed against the tile, breaking like bones, like promises. She grabbed a heavy bottle of foundation and hurled it at the wall. It burst like a wound, splattering beige across the white tiles. She kicked the cabinet door shut so hard it bounced open again, and again she kicked it, heel cracking wood, until it hung at an angle like a dislocated limb.

Then the sob ripped from her throat. Just one. One, awful sound that bent her double over the sink. Her hands trembled as she stared into the broken reflection—fractured into jagged shards—ten versions of herself looking back, all of them crumbling.

"I should have been there," she whispered, voice hoarse and guttural. "I should've—"

But she couldn't finish the sentence. The words died in her throat. She stood there, shaking, blood dripping from a cut on her palm where she'd grabbed a piece of glass too carelessly. Her lipstick was smudged now, half her face streaked with tears and dust, and for a wild second, she looked deranged. Like someone in mourning. Like someone in love.

And then—because she was Pansy Parkinson, and that meant control above all else—she straightened. Wiped her cheeks with the heel of her hand. Pulled her wand from her pocket with fingers that barely obeyed her.

Scourgify. The spell hissed, and the wreckage began to vanish, piece by piece. Broken glass reassembled. Liquids siphoned themselves back into bottles. The wood of the cabinet creaked as it knit together again. Only the blood on her palm remained—she left it. Maybe as a punishment. Maybe as a reminder.

She reapplied her lipstick with brutal precision, staring into the restored mirror. No tears. No wildness. Just the carefully painted armor of a woman who was about to walk into a hospital and pretend to be brave for someone she loved more than life itself.

When she emerged from the bathroom, Lysander was waiting in the hall, rubbing his eyes.

"Pee.Pee sad?" he mumbled, and she scooped him into her arms like he weighed nothing at all.

"No, sweetheart," she whispered, kissing the top of his head, her voice level, her smile tight. "Pee-Pee's fine. Now let's go see Mimi."

Without another thought, she quickly dressed and made her way to the hospital. The journey felt like a blur, her mind racing with thoughts of Hermione—awake, but forever changed. The last time she had seen her, Hermione had been so still, so fragile, but now... now she was awake, and that meant there was hope.

~~~~~~

The room smelled like antiseptic and lavender, two things that had no business existing side by side, but here they were—twisting together in the air like contradiction made manifest. The hospital was quiet, the spells holding her steady barely humming now, tuned so precisely they made his teeth ache with their perfection. It was the silence that unsettled him most. Her absence inside the stillness.

Draco sat in the chair beside her bed, hands steepled against his lips, shoulders curled inward as if bracing for some final blow that hadn't yet landed. He hadn't left the room all night. He couldn't. Not when every moment she remained like this—motionless, silent, undecided—felt like the universe was playing a sick joke with a coin toss that never hit the floor.

She was all wrong like this. Hermione wasn't still. Hermione moved. She paced when she was thinking, gestured with her whole body when she argued, tucked her curls behind her ear a hundred times an hour without noticing. He used to tease her for it. He'd give anything to see her do it again.

He reached for the book in his lap—Arithmantic Theories in Practical Application, Volume III—her favorite, obviously. He'd never read the bloody thing before she got hurt, but now he had it half memorized. His voice was hoarse from reading it aloud for hours, his accent softening on the numbers because she used to correct him when he rushed the pronunciation of formulas.

He didn't read now. He just held it. Something about the weight of it grounded him.

Draco shifted closer, his hand finding hers again like it had so many times in the dark, when she would crawl into bed beside him and twine their fingers together under the covers. Her hand was colder now, but still hers. Still real.

He brushed his thumb along her knuckles. "You're really going to make me beg, aren't you?"

His voice was rough. Barely a whisper.

"I told you I'd follow you anywhere. That was supposed to mean something. It does mean something. So don't you dare decide now that it doesn't."

She didn't move. Her chest rose and fell in soft, careful rhythm, but it wasn't her. It wasn't the woman who yelled at him when he stole all the duvet. It wasn't the woman who used to kiss his mouth mid-sentence just to shut him up, or who whispered brilliant, impossible ideas into the shell of his ear when he couldn't sleep.

He leaned forward, his forehead resting against the back of her hand. "I was supposed to go first," he muttered. "That was the deal. You live. You do your good and change the world, and I burn quietly in the background like the damn footnote I'm content to be if it means you're still breathing."

His eyes burned, but no tears fell. Draco Malfoy didn't cry. Not even for her. Especially not now, not when he felt like if he did, the entire fucking room would come undone.

"I love you," he whispered, because there was no one here to mock him for it. No one to hold it against him. "And I know I've said it before, but I don't think you ever heard it the way I meant it. Not like this. Not when you're the only person I've ever wanted to be good enough for."

He swallowed. The silence rang louder now.

"So come back," he said, his voice cracking open at the edges. "Come back and argue with me about breakfast, and ruin my books with your little notes in the margins, and roll your eyes when I bring you tea you didn't ask for."

He looked at her then, really looked, and it hit him like a freight train that he would wait forever if she asked him to. He would grow old beside this bed if it meant she'd open her eyes again and call him a prat.

Draco lifted her hand to his mouth, pressed a kiss to the inside of her wrist—gentle, reverent, like he was afraid to bruise her.

"I'm not leaving," he murmured. "Not ever."

And then he settled back into the chair. Took her hand in both of his and just breathed.

When Pansy arrived later, armed with sarcasm, couture, and the force of a storm, she found him still there—spine bent, fingers tangled with hers, and his heart laid bare in the quiet, unwavering way that only Hermione Granger had ever been able to see.

Pansy strolled into the safehouse 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, she 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."

He 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 fur ball 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."

Crooks 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 loud, resounding knock on the safehouse door jarred Hermione from her restless sleep. The unexpected noise shattered the quiet, leaving her heart pounding as she fumbled in the dark, her mind barely catching up to reality. Before she could fully process what was happening, the door flew open in a burst of motion and color.

Only one person could make such an entrance.

Pansy Parkinson.

With all the dramatic flair of a diva taking the stage, she strode into the room, heels clicking and eyes gleaming with determination. She was laden with a small army of shopping bags, their designer logos flashing like banners of conquest. Her movements were as bold as her gaze, and she assessed Hermione's half-asleep state with a mix of disdain and amusement.

"Granger!" her voice sliced through the silence. "You look dreadful. But lucky for you, I come bearing miracles!"

Hermione, still groggy, sat up and rubbed her eyes, watching as she marched to the foot of her bed and dumped the bags with theatrical aplomb. Before she could protest, a soft flick of her wand summoned a clothing rack into the room. It wheeled over obediently, draped with garments of every possible color and texture, each one more luxurious than the last. The sheer magnitude of it left Hermione blinking in bewilderment.

"I brought you a new wardrobe!" she declared, gesturing at the rack like a fairy godmother with a particularly sharp wand. "We're talking haute couture here, Granger. None of those frumpy, utilitarian rags you call clothes. We're transforming you into a new woman!"

Hermione opened her mouth, but her sleep-fogged brain could only manage a bewildered "What?"

She wasn't listening. With a flourish, she produced a box from one of her many bags and tossed it onto the bed. The lid popped open, revealing a collection of wigs that spanned the entire rainbow. Bright pink bobs, sleek platinum waves, voluminous curls—it was as if she had ransacked a costume shop. She nudged the box closer, grinning with satisfaction as Hermione stared.

"Go wild,"she urged. "Try them on, let loose. You're in a rut, and I am here to wrench you out of it."

Hermione looked from the wigs to her, who was beaming with the manic intensity of someone fully committed to their mission. "Pansy, I… I really don't think a makeover is going to—"

"Shush," she interrupted, waving a perfectly manicured hand. "You're obviously not thinking clearly. That's why I'm here."

She paused, and for a moment, the mask of relentless confidence slipped. Her expression softened, and she took a small, hesitant step closer. "Look, I know this won't fix everything," she said quietly, a surprising gentleness in her voice. "But sometimes… A small change can make you feel a little bit more in control. Remind you that not everything is spiraling out of reach."

The vulnerability in her tone caught Hermione off guard. She looked up at her, suddenly seeing past the polished exterior to the friend beneath it all. Pansy, for all her dramatics and unyielding sass, was here because she cared. And that thought, more than any wardrobe makeover, made something in Hermione's chest loosen.

Clearing her throat, she quickly regained her composure. "Anyway," she muttered, rummaging through another bag with feigned indifference. "Nevie thought you might need some extra company. Nonverbal company."

Out came a small, wrinkled pug with a face like it had smelled something offensive. With the utmost care, she placed the dog on Hermione's bed.

"This is Lady Lemongrass," she announced with a flourish. "She's hideous, but comforting. Kind of like a stress ball with legs."

Hermione watched as the pug toddled over, sniffed at her hand, and promptly curled up on her lap, its snub-nosed face resting on her thigh. A laugh bubbled up unbidden, soft and disbelieving, and a reluctant smile tugged at her lips as she stroked the dog's squishy face.

"Pansy," she murmured, shaking her head. "You really are full of surprises."

She smirked, a familiar gleam returning to her eyes. "Don't get all mushy on me, Granger. This is just my role in the grand scheme of things. Everyone has a part to play, and this one happens to be mine."

As Hermione was about to reply, the door creaked open again, revealing a sheepish-looking him. He stood in the doorway, looking slightly out of place amid the chaotic display of couture clothing and wigs. His hand clutched a small brown bag, and he offered her a tentative smile.

"'Mione," he said softly. "You look… well, more awake than the last time I saw you."

She let out a snort. "I must have looked really awful, then."

He chuckled, shuffling forward with a faint blush dusting his cheeks. "I, uh, brought you some calming herbs. For sleep, stress… you know."

She raised an eyebrow, giving him a pointed look. "Or," she interjected smoothly, "if you're feeling adventurous, there's… well, let's say I suggested an alternative herb."

Hermione's eyes widened as she caught his embarrassed expression. She couldn't help it; laughter spilled out, weak and raspy but genuine. The idea of him timidly suggesting weed was so absurdly out of character that it broke something inside her, letting warmth seep into the cracks.

"I think," she managed between giggles, wiping at her eyes, "I'll take both."

"Good choice, Granger," she approved, nodding with satisfaction.

As the laughter faded, a comfortable silence fell over the room. Lady Lemongrass snored softly on Hermione's lap, her tiny body rising and falling with each breath. He set the bag of pot on the nightstand, giving her a reassuring pat on the shoulder before retreating to the windowsill, where he began quietly fiddling with a plant, an anchor in the soft chaos of her company.

Pansy, however, lingered. Her arms crossed, she fixed Hermione with a searching gaze, one that softened as she took in the fragile expression on Hermione's face.

"Don't shut us out," she said softly, almost as if the words pained her to admit. "We're not going anywhere. Not until you're back on your feet."

Hermione swallowed, feeling a sudden rush of gratitude that made her chest ache. There, amidst all the ridiculous wigs, couture gowns, and squishy-faced pugs, was a strange, beautiful comfort. They were here—her friends, her chosen family. And in a world that felt uncertain and chaotic, that was something she could hold onto.

"I won't," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "Thank you. For everything."

She gave a brisk nod, her usual sharpness creeping back as if she couldn't bear the tenderness any longer. "Good. Now, try on that wig. It'll look smashing with your complexion."

Hermione let out a soft laugh, lifting the wig as her brow arched with smug approval.

"Oh, and don't worry," she added with a wink. "I've concocted a potion that'll have your hair grow back in a month, tops. My crowning achievement, if I do say so myself."

And as Hermione placed the absurd brown wig on her head, a deep warmth spread through her, a flicker of light in the midst of darkness, reminding her that maybe, just maybe, things would be alright.

~~~~~~

The safehouse, once a place of quiet desperation and tense recovery, had transformed into an unlikely sanctuary—one forged in the fires of love, loyalty, and shared determination. Four families, bound not by blood but by a singular, unyielding devotion to Hermione, had come together, weaving an existence that felt, against all odds, like home.

Laughter now echoed through the halls, a stark contrast to the sterile quiet that had once weighed heavy in every corner. The once somber space had evolved into something warmer, something filled with life. Pansy wielded her razor-sharp wit like a weapon against worry, spinning scandalous stories and wickedly exaggerated tales that left them all breathless with laughter. 

Nevie brewed calming teas infused with exotic herbs, each batch an experimental elixir promising relief—some more successful than others, as evidenced by the occasional disastrous side effects. 

Draco, whose carefully maintained composure had cracked under the weight of fear, had developed a habit of reading to Hermione for hours on end, his voice an anchor in the storm, his presence a silent vow that he would not leave her side.

Even Hermione's parents, once hesitant and overwhelmed by the sheer madness of the world their daughter had married into, had begun to shed their trepidation. Slowly but surely, their cautious hope had blossomed into something stronger, something unbreakable. 

They joined in the impromptu dance parties that erupted in celebration after particularly triumphant physical therapy sessions, their hesitant sways eventually giving way to unabashed laughter and twirling through the living room as though nothing had ever been broken.

Hermione, though still bound by the fragile state of her body, found herself clinging to the joy these moments brought. The shared meals—filled with laughter, whispered confessions, and the occasional heated debate over the superiority of treacle tart versus pumpkin pasties—became her lifeline. The nights spent huddled around the fireplace, deep in discussion about the most absurd of topics, reminded her that life, despite its cruelty, still had so much to offer.

The infamous "medicinal herbs" he had procured, initially met with Draco's disdain and Hermione's skeptical eyebrow raise, had proven to be more effective than any potion in easing her aching muscles. Though it took some coaxing, even she had to admit that the relief was worth the initial hesitation. And so, on more than one occasion, they found themselves in fits of laughter, Hermione helplessly giggling as she tried—and spectacularly failed—to coordinate her limbs, collapsing into Draco's arms as he muttered about how utterly insufferable they all were.

These months, though laced with the constant, gnawing worry for Hermione's recovery, had become something precious. They were a time of healing, of mending not just her body, but the wounds left in all of them by the war, by old prejudices, by the ghosts of who they used to be. Here, in this in-between space, where the past no longer defined them and the future had yet to be written, they found solace. They found each other.

But none of it could erase the reality of what Hermione had endured. She had undergone three grueling brain surgeries, each one robbing her of more strength, leaving her body weaker, her spirit dimmed by the relentless assault of pain and exhaustion. 

The skull reconstruction surgery that followed was nothing short of harrowing, a brutal necessity that left her in a state of vulnerability that terrified them all. To see her like that, fragile and still, hooked up to machines that hummed and beeped in eerie contrast to the woman they knew her to be, was a cruel reminder of how close they had come to losing her. It haunted them in different ways, each of them carrying the weight of that image—the stark fragility of life, the unrelenting fight required to hold onto it.

And yet, despite everything, Hermione fought. Even in her weakest moments, she endured. And so, they would endure with her.

~~~~~~

The kitchen was dim and quiet, save for the occasional creak of the old floorboards beneath Pansy's bare feet and the gentle hum of the cooling charm wrapped around the pantry door. The house had finally gone still, the kind of stillness that came only after the longest kind of day—the kind that scraped you hollow and left you stitched together by nothing more than breath and obligation. It was nearly three in the morning, and Pansy stood at the stove with a chipped teacup in her hand, watching the kettle boil even though she'd long since forgotten what kind of tea she was making, if any at all. Her other hand was wrapped in a bandage, the one she hadn't let anyone ask about.

The soft shuffle of footsteps behind her didn't startle her. Only one person in the house moved like that—light, unhurried, like they were drifting through the edges of reality. She didn't turn around.

"Don't say anything whimsical," Pansy said quietly, the words falling into the low warmth of the room like stones into a lake. "Not yet. I don't have it in me."

Luna said nothing at first, just padded softly across the floor and took the seat at the far end of the long kitchen table, folding her legs beneath her like she belonged there, like this was her temple and the night was holy. The silence stretched, not uncomfortable, just full , the way it always was between them when neither knew how to begin.

Pansy finally exhaled. Not a sigh. Something lower. Something closer to a surrender.

"I thought she was going to die," she said, her voice so low it nearly disappeared into the hiss of the kettle. "I thought she was going to die and there was nothing— nothing —I could do."

The kettle screamed, high and sharp and accusatory. She didn't move to silence it. Luna rose quietly, crossed the room, and flicked her wand toward the burner with a soft charm. The kettle quieted, the heat stilled, and Pansy stood there motionless, tears welling unshed in her eyes like pressure behind a dam she refused to let break.

Luna didn't reach for her. She didn't offer comfort the way most would, with hands or soft sounds. She simply stood beside her, not too close, not too far, and said nothing for a long moment.

Then, softly, she spoke.

"You know," she murmured, her voice somewhere between lullaby and myth, "sometimes stars collapse. Their cores collapse under their own weight, and for a while it looks like the end of everything. Just darkness. Just ruin. But then... something strange happens."

Pansy's throat was tight. She didn't look at her.

"The explosion," Luna continued, her gaze somewhere far away, like she could see past the walls of the house, past the bruised sky, into the marrow of the universe itself. "It scatters stardust across the galaxy. Bits of brilliance, flung into the dark, and those pieces—they form new things. Planets. Suns. Life. So even in that destruction, even in collapse... the universe finds a way to scatter their light anyway."

Pansy swallowed hard, her hands clenched too tightly around the ceramic cup, breath shaky in her chest. "And you think that's what Hermione is?" she asked, her voice breaking, bitter and reverent all at once. "A collapsed star?"

"I think," Luna said, eyes luminous in the kitchen's half-light, "that she burned brighter than the world could handle. And now she's building something new from the ashes. And so are you."

Pansy let out a sound that wasn't quite a sob, wasn't quite a laugh. "You make it sound beautiful."

Luna looked at her then, not with pity, not with softness, but with something truer—recognition. "It is."

Pansy finally moved, setting the cup down with trembling fingers, her body folding into the nearest chair like it had lost the ability to hold her upright. Luna sat beside her, not touching, not pressing, simply there , a strange kind of lighthouse in the middle of a storm that didn't need to say "I love you" out loud because it was etched into the way she listened.

"I don't know how to do this," Pansy whispered after a long pause, voice raw, the confession dragging something ancient out of her ribs. "I can fix things. Brew potions. Solve problems. But this... this grief, this fear... I don't know how to hold it."

Luna tilted her head, eyes soft. "You don't have to hold it alone."

And Pansy—so sharp, so bitter, so tired —let her eyes close, the dam in her chest cracking quietly as the weight she'd been carrying shifted, just enough to let her breathe.

They sat like that for a long time, the kitchen quiet again, the stars still turning far above them, and in that stillness, something fractured between them mended—not perfectly, not permanently, but enough to keep going.

Enough to scatter the light.

~~~~~~

Pansy did what she had always done best—she took charge, seized control, and transformed the situation into one that only she could orchestrate with the level of precision and perfection it required. 

And if there was one thing Pansy Parkinson never failed at, it was ensuring that those she loved looked nothing less than their absolute best. If she couldn't undo the pain, if she couldn't erase the trauma, if she couldn't take away the cruel scars that marred Hermione's body and soul, then she would do the next best thing—she would give Hermione back a piece of herself.

She refused to stand idly by while Hermione mourned the loss of her wild, untamed curls, that mane of chaotic beauty that had been a part of her identity for as long as they had known her. It wasn't just hair. It was Hermione. It was the way she tucked it behind her ears when she was deep in thought, the way it frizzed in the humidity and made her mutter curses under her breath, the way it whipped around her when she was storming into battle, eyes ablaze with righteous fury. 

Pansy knew, in ways that others might not fully comprehend, that losing it had been yet another cruel theft—one more piece of herself that had been stripped away without her consent.

She had spent sleepless nights in her private laboratory, sleeves rolled up, hair a mess, vials bubbling with shimmering liquids as she pored over ancient texts, determined to find the perfect formula. 

She would accept nothing less than perfection—no patchy regrowth, no dull strands, no weak, lifeless locks. If she was going to do this, then Hermione was going to have hair worthy of the gods themselves.

It was a labor of love, though she would never admit it aloud. Pansy did not do sentimentality. But the truth was, as she watched the first soft tendrils of curls sprout from Hermione's scalp, she had to bite back the lump in her throat. It was working. The potions were working. 

Hermione hadn't meant to look in the mirror—not yet, not like this, not when the muscles in her left side still ached with the stiffness of disuse and the towel wrapped around her shoulders felt like a weight rather than a comfort, not when the steam still clung to her skin like a memory and every part of her body carried the ghost of too many surgeries, too many healers, too much pain, and far too little of the woman she remembered herself to be—but the flicker of motion in the glass caught her attention anyway, something golden and strange curling at the edge of her vision, and despite herself, despite the whispering voice inside her that said not yet, not yet, not yet, her eyes lifted to meet her reflection, and the breath punched out of her chest so violently she had to grip the edge of the sink to stay standing.

She blinked once, then again, as if trying to reconcile the vision in the mirror with the dull, lifeless image she had grown used to—the girl with too-pale cheeks and bandages at her temples, the one who couldn't remember the last time she had felt beautiful or whole—but this woman, this new reflection staring back at her, was something entirely different, something wild and radiant and her, unmistakably, defiantly, gloriously her, because the curls had returned, not neatly or perfectly or in some neat, photogenic halo, but in the untamable, riotous cascade she had thought lost forever, and they framed her face with a familiar weight, spilling down her neck and shoulders in thick waves that caught the morning light like threads of fire and honey, ungovernable and sacred, and for a long moment she simply stared, unmoving, watching the way they bounced gently as she tilted her head, watching the way they fell into the same parting they always had, like they remembered the shape of her even when she had forgotten.

Her hand trembled as she lifted it to touch one of the strands, her fingers threading through it with reverence, and the moment she felt it—the texture, the weight, the realness of it—something deep inside her cracked, not in pain, but in overwhelming relief, in awe, in a breathless, gasping return to self, because it was hers again, her hair, her crown, her chaos, and she didn't realize she was crying until the tears blurred her vision and she had to close her eyes against the unbearable tenderness of it all.

And then she felt it—not a sound, not a touch, but a presence, so familiar it might as well have been her own heartbeat stepping through the doorway behind her, the quiet inhale of someone holding his breath at the sight of her, and she didn't need to turn around to know who it was, didn't need to speak or move or acknowledge him, because he had always existed in the background hum of her life like a note she could never quite stop hearing, and now here he was, as always, saying nothing and yet filling the room entirely, and their eyes met in the mirror, not through surprise but through inevitability, like a gravity neither of them had ever really escaped.

Draco looked at her like he was watching something holy, like something he had prayed for in silence had finally been returned to him, and Hermione felt the weight of that look settle into her bones, not heavy, not suffocating, but grounding, steadying, and for a long moment she said nothing, just watched the way his eyes searched her face, not for flaws or damage or scars, but for proof that she was still here, still fighting, still hers, and he didn't speak, didn't offer some grand speech or romantic line, but instead stepped forward slowly, reverently, like she might shatter if he moved too quickly, and when he reached her he didn't touch her immediately, just lifted his hand, hovering close enough that she could feel the heat of his palm above her curls, like he was asking permission with the space between them.

She nodded—barely—and his fingers slipped into her hair with the gentlest care she had ever felt from him, not tentative but deliberate, as if every curl he touched reminded him of every version of her he had ever loved, the stubborn girl with ink-stained fingers and fury in her voice, the quiet woman who healed others and forgot to ask for healing in return, the friend, the lover, the storm, the home, and she turned to face him slowly, her balance uneven, her body still learning how to be whole again, but he was there, close, eyes wide and glassy, and when she reached for him, her palm resting warm against his cheek, she felt him lean into it like it was the first breath he'd taken all day.

She whispered his name—just once, soft and raw—and he answered with silence, with a kiss pressed to the center of her forehead, full of everything he couldn't say aloud, full of every night he had stayed awake watching her sleep, full of fear and devotion and something that tasted dangerously like forever, and as she closed her eyes and rested her head against his chest, she thought that maybe this was what coming back to life felt like—not a miracle, not a spell, not a singular moment, but a slow unfolding of love in the shape of hair and mirrors and hands that never let go, no matter how far she fell.

The moment hung suspended between them, a rare, unshattered stillness in the safehouse's chaos, her breath pressed against his shirt, his heartbeat steady beneath her hand, and she thought—just for that sliver of quiet—that perhaps the world had granted them this, a breath of peace, a breath of them, unsupervised and unbroken, until the unmistakable sound of expensive boots on tile interrupted the reverence like a well-placed hex, and then came the voice, sharp as glass, rich with dramatics and entirely unimpressed with the sanctity of the moment.

"Well," Pansy declared from the doorway, arms full of silk bags, potion vials, and something that looked suspiciously like a tiara made of glass butterflies. "I leave you two alone for ten minutes and come back to find the bathroom transformed into a bleeding Shakespearean tragedy."

Hermione didn't move, just blinked slowly and let out a breath that was equal parts laughter and resignation, while Draco stiffened slightly, as if preparing for impact, though he didn't pull away, his hand still tangled protectively in her curls, his body still a quiet fortress behind her.

Pansy stepped fully into the room, her hair piled atop her head in a bun so sharp it looked like it could puncture a lung, eyes sweeping over the scene with a clinical assessment that made it clear she had noticed every emotional micro-expression and catalogued them for future blackmail. She dropped her many parcels on the counter with a sigh so dramatic it should have been accompanied by orchestral strings, then crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow.

"I assume the crying means it worked," she said, her tone dry but eyes glittering with something unspoken, something ferociously proud, something fiercely maternal in the way that only she could manage while wearing leather boots and yesterday's eyeliner.

Hermione, who had only just managed to pull herself back from the edge of tears, turned toward her, the mirror still reflecting the soft chaos of her curls and the quiet adoration written all over Draco's face, and nodded once, her voice not yet steady enough to speak.

Pansy didn't need words. She strode forward and cupped Hermione's face in both hands, her fingers cool against flushed skin, her thumbs brushing under her cheekbones like she was inspecting a sculpture she'd personally restored from ruin.

"You look like a goddess," she whispered, low and reverent, as if confessing something sacred. "A terrifying, righteous, chaotic goddess. Just as it should be."

Hermione let out a laugh—breathless, broken, real—and Pansy rolled her eyes immediately as if to cover the tenderness.

"Alright, enough of that," she sniffed, stepping back and busying herself with a series of ridiculous vials that clinked together like alchemical jewelry. "I brought two different curl-setting elixirs, one gloss enhancer, a series of restorative scalp tonics—just in case you fancy extra volume—and a silk bonnet embroidered with runes to protect against magical humidity. You're welcome."

Draco made a sound that could only be described as a soft scoff of disbelief, but wisely said nothing, his expression settling somewhere between exasperated and grateful as he leaned against the wall, arms folded, watching Pansy fuss with the same intensity one might expect from a battlefield medic.

Hermione didn't try to stop her. She just watched, her chest tight with unsaid gratitude, the kind that lived deep in the bones, that didn't need flowery words because it had been earned, not spoken. Pansy was—had always been—a storm in heels, the kind that tore through grief with glitter and sarcasm and refused to leave anyone behind, and as she lined up her bottles like soldiers on a shelf, muttering about hair density and spell-receptive follicles, Hermione realized she'd never once told her how much she mattered.

"I saw my reflection," Hermione said quietly, interrupting whatever elaborate lecture Pansy was mid-way through. "And I looked like me again."

Pansy went still, her hands hovering above a bottle of serum, the sarcasm stripped from her expression in an instant. Her throat worked once, twice, and when she finally spoke, her voice was softer than Hermione had ever heard it.

"Good," she whispered. "Then it was worth it."

Then, in typical Parkinson fashion, she cleared her throat, lifted her chin, and said, "Now. Sit. You've been using hotel soap and I'm offended on a molecular level."

Draco choked on a laugh, Hermione flushed with the kind of warmth that wasn't just gratitude but love, pure and undiluted, and the moment might have been ridiculous, might have been too much, but here in the bathroom, surrounded by glittering vials, freshly grown curls, and the strange, unwavering devotion of the people who refused to let her drown, Hermione felt something she hadn't felt in a long time—safe, adored, and home.

~~~~~~

A bittersweet goodbye had ushered Hermione's parents out the door just a few moments ago. The safehouse, once filled with the sterile hum of recovery, now buzzed with a familiar, comforting energy. 

She, still a little weak from her ordeal, leaned against Draco's shoulder at the head of the table. The "found family" was back, gathered to celebrate their reunion with a delicious spread prepared by Luna.

He nervously fussed over Pansy as she sputtered in mock outrage. Apparently, Lysander, in a fit of artistic exploration, had used the tablecloth as his canvas, leaving behind a trail of colorful "smudges" that resembled exploded fireworks.

Neville, bless his heart, was attempting to explain the medicinal properties of beetroot juice in stain removal while Pansy, with a theatrical flourish, declared the tablecloth "utterly ruined."

Across from them, Luna, eyes sparkling with amusement, simply patted Pansy's hand. "Don't worry, Pansy dear," she chirped, "a little charmwork and it'll be as good as new. Besides, the tablecloth looks rather… expressive now, wouldn't you say?"

Draco chuckled, a warm sound that filled the room. Hermione couldn't help but smile, her heart swelling with gratitude for this unlikely band of people who had become her chosen family. The past few months had been a rollercoaster, filled with pain and fear, but also moments of unexpected joy and unwavering support.

As Lysander, his face smeared with beetroot juice, proudly declared his artwork a masterpiece, she realized that this, right here, amidst the chaos and laughter, was where she belonged. It was a messy, imperfect, utterly wonderful life, and she wouldn't trade it for anything.