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.

She clutched the letter to her chest, closing her eyes for a moment as she took a deep breath. She could do this. She had to. Hermione needed her, and she would be there—no matter how broken she felt inside.

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.

~~~~~~

Pansy strolled in with Crookshanks in her arms and Lysander toddling behind her, a smirk playing on her lips as Draco waited near the doorway, arms crossed.

"Parkinson, I'm warning you," Draco said, his tone firm but exhausted. "You can't disturb her peace."

Without slowing her pace or glancing his way, 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.

"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.

~~~~~~

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.

And so, Pansy did what she did best—she fixed it. Because if there was one undeniable truth about Pansy Parkinson, it was that she was always right. And she had known, from the very moment she saw the hollow sadness flicker behind Hermione's eyes when she first caught sight of herself in the mirror, that she would make this right.

She had thrown herself into the work, concocting potion after potion, each one meticulously brewed with the finest ingredients, some of which were so rare that she had to call in more than a few favors to obtain them. 

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. 

And when weeks passed and Hermione's hair grew thicker, lusher, glossier than it had ever been before, when those familiar curls returned, cascading down her back in waves that caught the light in ways that made her look almost ethereal—Pansy knew she had done something truly extraordinary.

And of course, because she was Pansy Parkinson, she made sure to be there the first time Hermione saw herself in the mirror. She watched, arms crossed, lips pursed in that signature smirk, as Hermione reached up with tentative fingers, brushing them through the mass of curls as if she couldn't quite believe they were real. 

She saw the way Hermione's breath caught, the way her lower lip trembled ever so slightly, the way her eyes, wide with disbelief, shimmered with unshed tears.

"Well?" Pansy arched a brow, feigning impatience. "You look divine, obviously, but I assume you have something to say other than gaping at yourself like a daft first-year seeing magic for the first time."

Hermione turned to her, her expression a mixture of gratitude and sheer, overwhelming emotion. "Pansy, I—"

Pansy held up a hand, cutting her off before she could get too sentimental. "Don't bother thanking me. I already know I'm a genius. It was only a matter of time before you realized it, too."

But Hermione wasn't fooled by the bravado. She knew, better than anyone, that this had been more than just potions and vanity for Pansy. And so, instead of words, she stepped forward and pulled Pansy into a tight, lingering embrace, one that spoke of gratitude, of friendship, of a bond that had grown into something unbreakable.

Pansy huffed, rolling her eyes, though she didn't pull away. "Alright, Granger, no need to suffocate me with feelings. Merlin, your curls aren't even dry yet."

But secretly, she held on just a little longer. Because in the end, she had done what she had set out to do—she had given Hermione a piece of herself back. And that, in itself, was the greatest victory of all.

~~~~~~

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.