Draco approached fatherhood with the same ruthless intensity and strategic precision he had once wielded in business negotiations and political maneuvering. Except this time, there were no adversaries to outsmart, no rival factions to subdue—only the looming, breathtaking prospect of shaping a future far more important than any deal or empire he had ever built. In truth, he might have outdone himself.
Since Hermione's revelation, the idea of becoming a father had rooted itself so deeply within him that it had become his primary focus—no, his purpose. Not in a way that overwhelmed him, but rather in a way that sharpened his instincts, refining them into something fierce, something unshakable. Every detail mattered, and Draco Malfoy had never been a man to leave anything to chance.
He tracked her cycles with the same meticulousness he had once devoted to studying complex potion formulas, ensuring no variable—no moment—was overlooked. He knew the rhythm of her body as intimately as he knew the turning of the seasons, the waxing and waning of the moon. It wasn't about control, nor was it an effort to micromanage fate. No, it was something far more primal—an almost instinctual need to be prepared, to anticipate, to build. Because the moment it happened, the moment their world shifted from two to three, everything would change. And Draco Malfoy did not enter new territories unprepared.
But beneath the rigid planning and the quiet, relentless determination, there was something deeper—something raw and unspoken, something he had never dared to put into words, not even with Blaise or Theo. This wasn't about obligation. It wasn't about magical decrees or the Forced Marriage Act that had once dictated the course of their lives. It wasn't about fulfilling societal expectations or even redeeming himself from the sins of his past.
This was about choice.
For the first time in his life, Draco Malfoy was choosing—deliberately, irrevocably choosing—something that had nothing to do with duty or legacy. He was choosing a future that he wanted. A future they wanted.
A family.
His family.
And fuck, if that didn't terrify and exhilarate him in equal measure.
Draco wanted to propose to Hermione.
Not because of obligation, not because of some archaic law dictating their future, and certainly not because anyone expected it of him. He wanted to propose because he loved her—deeply, entirely, and with a certainty that had woven itself into his very being. The realization had not come in a dramatic epiphany but rather in quiet, unshakable moments—the way she fit perfectly against him when she curled into his side at night, the way she rolled her eyes at his dramatics but still indulged him, the way she challenged him, softened him, made him feel like something more than just his name.
It wasn't a fleeting desire or an obligatory next step. It was a conscious decision, deliberate and absolute. He needed her to know that she wasn't just his partner because fate or politics had decreed it. She was his partner because she was his choice.
And so, in true Malfoy fashion, he obsessed over it.
The proposal had to be perfect—flawless, meaningful, something so undeniably clear in its intent that she would never, even for a second, question whether this was just another step in their arrangement. It had to be Hermione-level brilliant, something breathtaking, something worthy of the woman who had unraveled him and remade him into someone who wanted. Who hoped.
He planned in secret, poring over books, analyzing locations with the same ruthless intensity he once reserved for business deals and war strategies. Would he propose in the garden, under the twinkling fairy lights where she always paused to admire the night sky? Or in the library, where the scent of parchment and ink wrapped around them like something sacred, where whispered debates had become whispered confessions?
Paris had crossed his mind—a city of love and grandeur—but it felt too easy. Too predictable. Hermione deserved something more than borrowed romance.
Something that belonged solely to them.
And yet, for all his meticulous planning, for all the rings he had silently considered, the words he had rewritten in his head a hundred times, there was something else that consumed him just as much—the thought of their child.
If he were being honest, he wasn't sure which idea had taken deeper root: the proposal or the vision of her carrying their child, their lives expanding in ways he had never dared to imagine before her. The idea of fatherhood wrapped around him like a storm—powerful, relentless, impossible to ignore. He approached it with the same intensity he had applied to every challenge in his life, except this wasn't a battle to win or an empire to rebuild. This was something infinitely more delicate, infinitely more terrifying.
He researched parenting spells until the books blurred before his eyes. He tested baby-proofing charms on their home, much to Hermione's exasperation, securing corners, shelves, and staircases that did not yet need securing. He bought impossibly soft blankets, tiny robes embroidered with constellations, and a plush dragon toy that would, upon squeezing, flap its wings and growl ferociously.
She mocked him for it, of course.
"You do realize this is all a bit premature, don't you?" she asked one evening, arms crossed, amusement twinkling in her eyes as she leaned against the nursery doorframe. Her lips twitched as she watched him struggle with a self-rocking chair that refused to cooperate.
"Premature?" he scoffed, barely looking up as he scowled at the offending piece of furniture. "Preparation is everything, mon trésor. You don't leave things to chance with something this important."
She had laughed, shaking her head, dubbing him a "nesting dragon" before retreating to the couch with a book. But he had seen it—the way her fingers brushed the edge of the crib he had insisted on buying just in case, the way her smile softened when she thought he wasn't looking.
Because the truth was, his preparation wasn't just for the baby.
It was for her.
Every action, every carefully thought-out decision, every impossibly small but meaningful detail was another way for him to prove—silently, steadily, unmistakably—that he was in this for the long haul. That this wasn't about duty or necessity.
It was about her.
And it was about them.
Because Draco Malfoy was no longer just a man fulfilling an obligation. He was a man choosing his future, choosing her, choosing the life they would build together—one promise, one vow, one forever at a time.
And he would make damn sure that when he asked, when he finally dropped to one knee and held out a ring, she would understand exactly what that meant.
It meant she was his heart, his home, his always.
And he would spend forever proving it.
For nearly four years, their marriage had been one of obligation—a bond forged by law, necessity, and the expectations of others. But now, everything had changed.
Draco didn't just want Hermione as his wife by decree—he wanted her by choice. He wanted her to wear his ring, not as a symbol of duty, but as proof of the love that had reshaped his very existence.
The thought consumed him. This proposal had to be perfect, not in extravagance, but in meaning. He didn't want her to question for even a second whether this was just another step in their arrangement. It had to be undeniable, a moment worthy of the woman who had turned his world upside down.
He had planned every detail—the location, the timing, the words he would say. The ring had belonged to his grandmother, a family heirloom that had survived generations, but to him, it wasn't about the Malfoy legacy. It was about their legacy. He imagined slipping it onto Hermione's finger beneath a canopy of stars, the warmth in her eyes reflecting a future built not on obligation, but on love.
Their journey had been anything but easy. They had fought, forgiven, and torn down walls only to build something unexpected in their place. She had seen every scar, every flaw, and yet she had stayed. She had become his home, the axis around which his world now revolved.
He had never believed himself capable of a love that didn't destroy, yet with her, he had learned how to create. How to hope. How to be whole.
And now, as he sat in his study, the weight of the ring heavy in his palm, he knew one thing with absolute certainty: Hermione wasn't just his future.
She was his forever.
~~~~~~
Draco waited for her on their wedding anniversary—a day that, in years past, had been lost to the chaos of their lives. There had always been something pulling them apart: responsibilities, battles fought in both the physical and emotional sense, and the ever-present weight of their history. But tonight was different. Tonight, there was no war to fight, no ghosts lingering at their door. Tonight, they had carved out time for each other—not just to mark a date, but to honor the improbable, beautiful journey that had led them here.
As the clock struck the hour, she appeared, stepping into the soft glow of the fairy lights that lined the garden. The moment he saw her, his breath caught. The gentle shimmer of candlelight flickered in her eyes, reflecting something warm and unguarded, something that had the power to unravel him completely. He stood beside the table he had painstakingly prepared—every detail chosen with care, with love. Silverware gleamed, her favorite flowers filled the air with their delicate scent, and the night seemed to hold its breath for them.
"Hello, my love," he said softly, his voice carrying the weight of every unspoken word, every moment that had brought them to this one.
Her lips curved into a radiant smile as she took it all in, then stepped into his arms without hesitation. "Draco," she whispered, pressing her forehead to his. "It's beautiful. You've thought of everything."
He kissed her temple, lingering as if imprinting the moment into his memory. "Only the best for you," he murmured. "Tonight is ours. No interruptions. Just us."
They dined beneath the stars, the evening unfolding in a symphony of shared glances and laughter. Each dish was a nod to their past—a meal from the nights they had barely made it through, an indulgence from rare, stolen moments of joy. She teased him when she caught his smirk at the sight of her favorite dessert, and he, in turn, reveled in the way her laughter softened the air around them, making it feel as though the world had shrunk to just this garden, just this night.
As the last of their meal disappeared, Hermione leaned back, gazing at the twinkling lights above. "This," she murmured, voice laced with wonder, "is more than I ever dreamed of." Her eyes found his. "Thank you, my love."
He took her hand in his, thumb brushing lightly over her knuckles. "You gave me more than I ever thought I deserved," he admitted, voice thick with emotion. "You taught me how to hope. How to be… more."
She squeezed his hand, eyes brimming with quiet certainty. "You were always enough, Draco. You just had to see it."
For a long moment, they simply looked at each other, the night air thick with unspoken truths. The world outside faded, leaving only the space between them—steady, unshaken, eternal.
Then, with a steadying breath, he stood.
Hermione's brows knitted slightly as she tilted her head in curiosity, but before she could speak, he slipped a hand into his coat pocket. When he lowered himself onto one knee, her breath hitched, her hand flying to her mouth as realization dawned.
The velvet box in his palm caught the candlelight, its dark exterior a stark contrast to the fragile, shimmering hope between them. His fingers tightened around it for a moment before he looked up at her, silver eyes searching hers, as though memorizing every flicker of emotion across her face.
"Hermione," he said, his voice steady, reverent. "You changed everything for me. You taught me what it means to love, to be truly seen, and still be accepted. Before you, I never understood what it meant to belong. And now… I can't imagine a life without you."
Her lips trembled, her eyes glistening.
"I don't want to wait another day to show you how much you mean to me," he continued, his voice softer now, raw with sincerity. "I want to spend the rest of my life by your side—not because of obligation, not because of a contract, but because I choose you. I'll always choose you."
He opened the box, unveiling a delicate ring that shimmered softly in the candlelight, yet his gaze never wavered from hers, as if the entire universe had narrowed to the depth of her eyes.
His voice, low and rough with emotion, broke the quiet. "Hermione," he murmured, his breath uneven, "do you know I could break beneath the weight of all the love I still carry for you ?" He paused, as if steadying himself. "I would walk a thousand miles just to bear the ache of truly knowing you."
She exhaled sharply, her chest tightening with emotions too vast to name. Memories flickered through her mind—fiery clashes that had stripped them bare, laughter that had mended the fractures, whispered confessions in the stillness of night. Their love had not come easy, but it had come alive, fierce and undeniable.
"I didn't choose you," he admitted, his voice steady but thick with meaning. "Nor did you choose me—not at first. The Ministry decided our fates before we could even understand what we had to lose."
Her fingers curled, pressing against her lips, her throat constricting. It was the truth. They had been bound by decree, by necessity. But somewhere along the way, amid battles fought with both words and silence, they had found something real.
"But now," he continued, his voice growing rough, fervent, "I choose you. Every day, I choose you—in ways that defy reason, in ways that terrify me." He swallowed, his silver eyes searching hers as if imprinting this moment onto his soul. "I would know you in total darkness. Even if I were deaf, even if you were mute, I would still find you. In another lifetime, in another time, in a different world—I would love you through it all, until the last star in the universe burns out into nothing."
A quiet sob escaped her, a tear slipping free before she could stop it. His words weren't just declarations; they were vows, raw and sacred, spoken not just to her ears but to something deeper—to the part of her that had once feared love like this could never be hers.
"Please," Draco whispered, his voice dipping into something almost reverent, "do me the honor of marrying me… truly, fully. Not because of obligation, not because of a law. Just us. A fresh start. A forever we choose."
A laugh, broken and breathless, spilled from her lips as she wiped at the tears falling freely now. Her heart swelled, so full it felt like it might burst, and yet, it had never felt lighter.
"Yes," she whispered, the word trembling with all the love she could never quite put into words. "Yes, Draco. A thousand times, yes."
Relief, unguarded and pure, flooded his expression, and the smallest, most vulnerable smile curved his lips as he reached for her hand. His fingers trembled as he slid the ring onto her finger, the cool metal settling against her skin like a promise made tangible.
Then, suddenly, she was pulling him up, her hands cupping his face, and before he could speak, she kissed him. It was slow, deep, filled with everything she couldn't say—gratitude, devotion, love so boundless it defied even time itself. He melted into her, his arms winding around her waist, pulling her flush against him as if to prove, to reassure, that this moment was real.
When they finally broke apart, her fingers traced along his cheek, marveling at the way he looked at her—like she was something holy, something he had spent lifetimes searching for.
"Draco," she whispered, her voice thick with wonder, "I never imagined we'd find our way here." She smiled softly, reverently. "But I wouldn't change a thing. I can't imagine it any other way."
His grip on her tightened just slightly, his voice unwavering as he vowed, "And you never will. Not as long as I live."
Standing beneath the glow of fairy lights, the scent of her favorite flowers perfuming the air, they were no longer bound by the scars of their past. No longer just two people thrown together by fate.
They were simply Draco and Hermione—two souls who had chosen each other, against all odds, for forever.
Hermione crashed her lips against his, raw and desperate, pouring every ounce of her hunger into the kiss. She needed him—right then, right there. Her hands roamed over him, grasping at his broad shoulders, pulling him closer, her nails biting into his skin as if anchoring herself to reality.
Draco, sensing the urgency in her trembling body, lifted her with ease, placing her onto the cold marble of the kitchen table. The contrast against her heated skin made her shiver, but he was there, pressing his body against hers, grounding her in his warmth. His fingers moved with purpose, undoing the buttons of her blouse one by one, taking his time, savoring every inch of skin revealed to him.
"You're everything," he murmured, his breath hot against her collarbone before his lips followed, leaving a trail of fire in their wake.
She whimpered, impatient, tugging at his shirt, sliding her hands across the hard planes of his chest, feeling the flex of muscle beneath her touch. Her fingers traced over his shoulders, his arms—every inch of him, hers to explore.
His hand drifted toward her favorite scone on the counter, dipping two fingers into the delicate swirl of whipped cream. His smirk was pure sin as he smeared the sweet treat over her breast, the cool contrast against her burning skin making her gasp.
"You always taste sweet," he murmured before his tongue flicked out, licking the cream away, slow and deliberate. His lips closed over her nipple, sucking with an intoxicating mix of tenderness and greed. He devoured her, savoring her whimpers, the way she arched into him, offering more.
Her hand found him, stroking his cock with slow, teasing precision, tracing the ridges, feeling the pulsing heat of him in her palm. He groaned against her breast, nipping lightly before pulling away, his gaze dark and feral.
"Lie back, doll," he commanded, his voice rough with desire. "Let me taste you."
She barely had time to catch her breath before he sank to his knees, spreading her thighs apart. He licked his lips, savoring the sight of her before diving in, tongue dragging through her folds with unrelenting hunger.
He lapped at her like a man dying of thirst, his grip firm on her thighs as he held her open for him. The flick of his tongue, the way he circled her clit before sucking it into his mouth, sent tremors through her body. Then, as if reading her mind, he slid a finger inside her, crooking it expertly, his signet ring pressing against her swollen clit with every movement.
She keened, her body twisting beneath him, her thighs trembling. "Draco—"
He chuckled darkly against her, the vibrations making her cry out. "That's it, love. Let me feel you come."
His free hand ventured lower, teasing, pressing against the tight ring of muscle at her bum. She gasped as his finger pushed in, the sensation overwhelming, intoxicating. Her orgasm hit like a tidal wave, her body convulsing as pleasure shattered through her.
A guttural groan rumbled from his chest as he withdrew his fingers, his chin glistening with her release. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before locking eyes with her, predatory and proud.
"I'll give you a baby right now if you squirt on my face," he said, his voice dark and commanding. "Show me your little trick, doll."
She whimpered beneath him, every nerve in her body screaming for more.
His fingers returned to her dripping cunt, pressing, curling, coaxing her back to the edge. The slick sounds of her arousal filled the air, obscene and delicious. With a wicked smirk, he slid his fingers deep and added just enough pressure—
She screamed, her body seizing, the flood of her release drenching his face. He groaned, licking his lips, looking positively wrecked with satisfaction.
"Good girl," he murmured, his fingers slipping into her mouth, making her taste herself.
Then, without warning, he aligned himself with her entrance, his thick cock pressing against her soaked heat before he thrust inside, slow, deep, stretching her open inch by inch.
Her nails raked down his back, her moans turning to breathless cries as he filled her completely. "Fuck—Draco—"
He gritted his teeth, fighting for control, watching her take him. "That's it, love," he praised, rolling his hips, dragging himself almost all the way out before slamming back in.
His pace was slow at first—torturous, deliberate. But as she clenched around him, as she begged for more, he lost the last of his restraint. His thrusts grew faster, deeper, merciless.
His thumb found her clit, rubbing tight circles, determined to make her unravel beneath him. "Come for me, doll," he growled. "Give me everything."
"Baby, I can't—" she sobbed, her body tensing, the pleasure teetering on the edge of unbearable.
"You can," he growled, his grip on her hips tightening. "And you fucking will."
The sharp command sent her spiraling. With a choked scream, her body convulsed around him, dragging him into his own release.
"Fuck," he groaned, his thrusts becoming erratic as he spilled inside her, claiming her completely. He kept going, riding them both through the aftershocks, his lips finding hers in a searing, desperate kiss.
As their bodies slowed, as their breaths evened out, he cradled her against him, pressing soft, reverent kisses along her temple.
"You're mine," he murmured, voice rough but filled with something achingly tender.
She traced her fingers down his spine, holding him close, her voice a breathless whisper against his lips.
"And you're mine."
~~~~~~
Hermione had just settled onto her plush sofa, a steaming cup of tea cradled in her hands, when her front door slammed open with the force of a minor explosion.
She jumped, nearly sloshing tea onto her lap, as the unmistakable voices of Pansy and Luna echoed down the hall. Their footsteps were quick, purposeful, and—judging by Pansy's dramatic huffing—accompanied by some kind of mission-level urgency.
She barely had time to blink before they stormed into the room.
Pansy, dressed to kill in a tailored emerald-green cloak, tossed her perfectly curled hair over one shoulder like she was about to announce her royal ascension. Luna, floating along beside her in an effortlessly elegant sunflower-yellow dress, exuded an air of calm serenity that was entirely at odds with Pansy's dramatic energy.
Hermione barely had time to put her tea down before Pansy pointed a perfectly manicured finger at her and declared, "Granger, I have something incredibly important to tell you."
Hermione arched a brow, bracing herself. "Do I need another cup of tea for this?"
Pansy waved the comment away, stepping forward with a theatrical flourish. "I am pregnant," she announced, as though she were delivering the opening line of a Shakespearean play. "It will, of course, be the most significant event of the century, so I thought it only right to tell you personally."
Hermione's jaw dropped. "Oh—Pansy! That's amazing! Congratulations!"
Pansy tilted her chin up, preening. "Thank you, thank you. Naturally, I expect all of you to cater to my every whim until the baby arrives, and then, obviously, for an unspecified period afterward."
Before Hermione could respond, Luna interjected, her voice light and knowing. "Oh, Hermione, I think there's something you need to tell us ."
Hermione stiffened, her heart skipping a beat. "W-what?"
Luna merely smiled, a soft twinkle in her eyes.
Pansy turned to Luna with a slow, wicked smirk and held out her palm expectantly. "Pay up, Lovegood. I told you."
With a long-suffering sigh, Luna reached into the pocket of her dress and produced five gleaming galleons, dropping them into Pansy's waiting hand.
Hermione gaped. "You bet on me?!"
Pansy pocketed the coins without an ounce of shame. "Don't be so dramatic, Granger. We were going to find out eventually, weren't we?"
Hermione sputtered, torn between outrage and laughter. "That is not the point!"
"Oh, please, we had to pass the time somehow ," Pansy said airily, inspecting her nails. "It's not like the Prophet publishes anything worthwhile these days, and frankly, there's a shocking lack of good scandal in our social circles lately." She gave Hermione a pointed look. "So, spill. Are you pregnant or not?"
Hermione hesitated, pressing a hand to her still-flat stomach, feeling the warmth of possibility blooming there. A slow smile spread across her lips. "Not yet. But soon, I think."
Luna clasped her hands together, beaming. "Oh, that's wonderful, Hermione."
Pansy gasped, clutching her chest dramatically. "That's it. We're expanding the coven. Five babies in our little circle? The absolute chaos! I, for one, cannot wait to witness Draco trying to change nappies. It will be the single greatest joy of my existence."
Hermione groaned, already envisioning the chaos ahead. "Merlin, help me."
"Oh, he won't," Pansy said with a smug smile, flopping onto the couch beside her. "But I will be there with a camera."
Hermione buried her face in her hands while Luna simply hummed, reaching over to squeeze Hermione's hand.
"This is going to be beautiful," Luna said softly, her voice full of warmth.
Pansy sighed dramatically. "Yes, yes, beautiful and exhausting . Which is why I demand a nap schedule that includes me as well."
Hermione shook her head, unable to contain her laughter any longer. "You are impossible ."
"And yet, you love me," Pansy quipped, flipping her hair.
The three of them dissolved into laughter, the room filling with warmth, the kind of unshakable, ridiculous, wonderful bond that had carried them through the years.
And as Hermione leaned back against the cushions, surrounded by her best friends and the promise of a future filled with love and a bit of mayhem, she realized she wouldn't have it any other way.
~~~~~~
Hermione swirled her wine slowly, watching the deep red liquid twist and curl inside the glass as if it held answers to the thoughts pressing heavily on her heart. The firelight flickered against the glass, painting golden reflections along its rim, but she barely noticed. She set it down carefully, the soft clink against the wood breaking the warm, companionable silence between them.
She took a steadying breath, her fingers tightening around the stem of her glass before she looked up, her gaze flicking hesitantly between the two women before landing on Luna.
"Babes," she started softly, but her voice wavered, unsteady.
Luna's attention snapped up immediately, her blue-gray eyes locking onto Hermione's with an unwavering calm. She tilted her head slightly, that quiet, knowing expression already in place, as if whatever Hermione was about to say had been written in the stars long before she found the courage to speak it aloud. "Yes, Mimi?" she murmured, her voice gentle but steady, an anchor in the moment.
Hermione swallowed hard, blinking rapidly against the sting in her eyes. She had thought about this conversation for months, tried to find the right moment, the right words—but now, sitting in the glow of their shared warmth, the emotions crashed into her all at once.
"I don't think…" Her throat tightened. She took another breath, forcing herself to continue. "I don't think I've ever properly thanked you."
Pansy, reclining on the sofa like a queen at court, raised an arched brow, swirling her juice as if deeply unimpressed. "Granger, is this a heartfelt speech?" she drawled. "Are we about to have one of those emotional breakthroughs I've heard so much about?" She sighed theatrically, already dabbing at her eyes. "I should have worn waterproof mascara."
Hermione shot her a glare, but the warmth behind it softened the edge. "Shut up, Pansy," she muttered, though her voice cracked between a laugh and a sob.
She turned back to Luna, her resolve firming despite the tears now slipping freely down her cheeks.
"Luna… you saved my life."
The words hung in the air, raw and unfiltered, carrying a weight that pressed against all three of them. Hermione let out a shaky breath, her hands trembling as she gripped her own fingers, grounding herself in the truth she had long wanted to say.
"I wouldn't be here if it weren't for you," she continued, voice thick with emotion. "You didn't just heal my body—you gave me my life back. You gave me a second chance."
Luna's face softened, her ethereal calm tinged with something deeper—something unbreakable. She set her glass aside and reached for Hermione's hands, pressing them gently between her own. "Oh, Mimi," she whispered, her eyes glistening, her thumb brushing over Hermione's knuckles. "You don't have to thank me for that. You're my family. I would do it a million times over."
Hermione let out a choked laugh, shaking her head. "That's just it, Luna," she said. "You didn't hesitate. You stepped in when I was broken—when I was barely holding on—and you stayed. You fought for me when I couldn't fight for myself." She squeezed Luna's hands tightly. "And I will never forget that. Never."
Pansy shifted uncomfortably, clearly trying to pretend this entire exchange wasn't affecting her, but the way she blinked rapidly and crossed her arms a little too tightly said otherwise. "This is getting ridiculously sentimental," she grumbled, clearing her throat. "If either of you tells anyone I got misty-eyed, I will hex you both into oblivion."
Hermione turned, smiling through her tears. "You're part of this too, you know."
Pansy scoffed. "Obviously. I'm the best part of this friendship."
Hermione ignored the remark, taking a steady breath. "I didn't thank you properly either. Not for what you did when Draco was kidnapped."
Pansy waved a hand dismissively, though her ears turned slightly pink. "Oh, please. You'd have done the same for me."
"No," Hermione insisted, shaking her head. "It wasn't nothing. You didn't have to help me, but you did. You stormed in like some terrifying, impossibly well-dressed force of nature, demanding answers, kicking down walls—literally—and you didn't stop until we brought him home."
Pansy smirked, though her eyes gleamed with unshed emotion. "Well," she said, flipping her hair, "I do look fabulous saving the day." Then, after a beat, she muttered, "Let's not make a habit of it, though. Sand in my stilettos? Never again."
Hermione let out a laugh, a real one this time—one that felt light, a release of all the emotions she had kept bottled up.
For a long moment, she stared at the women before her, feeling the kind of warmth that no fireplace or candlelit room could replicate. "At one point," she admitted, voice quieter now, "I thought Draco was the only one who truly loved me. The only one who would fight for me, no matter what." She lifted her gaze, meeting Luna's, then Pansy's. "But you two showed me I was wrong. You showed me what it means to have people who stand by me. No matter what."
Luna's fingers curled around hers. "You're our family, Hermione," she said softly. "Always."
Pansy lifted her juice, rolling her eyes even as a smirk played at her lips. "Well then," she said dramatically, "to the most ridiculous, unlikely, chaotic trio in the wizarding world. The brightest, the quirkiest, and, of course, the most fabulous."
Luna giggled, raising her glass. "To us."
Hermione lifted her wine, her heart swelling with so much love she thought she might burst. "To us," she echoed.
The glasses clinked softly, the sound ringing through the air like a quiet promise—one made of unwavering loyalty, endless love, and the kind of bond that neither war nor darkness nor the cruel hand of fate could ever break.
Luna leaned back in her chair, cradling her wine glass between her slender fingers, the firelight casting a golden glow over her serene expression. She studied Hermione for a moment, a knowing look settling in her gaze before she spoke.
"Mimi," she said, her voice warm and laced with quiet amusement, "you do realize you're forgetting someone from this quartet."
Pansy, draped across the couch like royalty, groaned dramatically and threw her head back in frustration. "Oh, for Merlin's sake, Luna, please don't bring Red into our fabulous trio," she drawled, swirling her drink with flair. "We are finally having a civilized evening without her fiery dramatics."
Hermione's lips twitched into a reluctant smile, but the tension in her shoulders betrayed her. She avoided Luna's gaze, staring into the flickering flames instead. "Ginny and I…" she started hesitantly, her voice faltering.
Luna tilted her head, unwavering but gentle. "Have you actually talked to her since everything happened?"
She sighed, fingers idly tracing the rim of her glass. "We spoke," she admitted. "At your baby shower…"
Pansy snorted, unimpressed. "Oh, yes—because trading pleasantries over miniature sandwiches and onesie decorations really counts as talking, doesn't it?"
Luna ignored her, her focus solely on Hermione. "No, Mimi," she said patiently, her voice soft but firm. "Not small talk. Not formalities. Not a polite 'how are you?' while you were both saving Draco. I mean really talking. Saying what you feel. Listening."
Hermione winced, the weight of Luna's words settling heavy in her chest. She swallowed against the lump forming in her throat. "Not really," she admitted quietly, regret thick in her tone.
Luna leaned forward, her expression both kind and unyielding. "You and Ginny were inseparable once," she reminded her gently. "She's been part of your life for so long, through so much. Don't let pride or fear keep you from fixing what's broken."
Pansy raised a perfectly sculpted brow, tapping a manicured nail against her glass. "Look, Granger," she said, her tone softer than usual, "I'm the last person to advocate for emotional heart-to-hearts, but even I know that holding onto grudges isn't worth it. Especially with her. Red is stubborn as hell and temperamental beyond reason, but—" she sighed, tilting her head slightly "—she cares about you. And if you two were close enough to fall out this badly, then there's something there worth fixing."
Hermione let out a shaky breath, dropping her head into her hands for a moment before looking up. "It's not that simple," she murmured, her voice tight. "We've hurt each other. And sometimes, it feels like we're not even on the same page—not even in the same book. Same library"
Luna reached for Hermione's hand, squeezing it gently. "That's the thing about friendships that matter," she said. "They're not perfect. They can't be. They bend, they break, they get messy—but they don't just disappear. They're worth fighting for."
Pansy sighed, shaking her head in reluctant agreement. "Fine," she muttered, rolling her eyes. "I'll play devil's advocate. Again. Ginny's been through a lot too. She's not perfect, and let's be honest, she thrives on unnecessary drama. But she's also loyal to a fault. If you just talk to her—properly—maybe you two can stop acting like tragic heroines and go back to being, I don't know, normal."
Her throat tightened, her chest aching with the weight of it all. "But what if I don't know how to fix it?" she whispered, the vulnerability cracking through her voice. "What if I say the wrong thing, or—or it's too late?"
Luna leaned closer, her presence warm and unwavering. "It's never too late," she promised. "You don't need the perfect words, Mimi. Just honesty. Tell her how you feel. Listen to how she feels. If you both want to make this right, you will."
Hermione let out a shaky breath, emotions brimming at the surface. "You really believe that?"
"I know so," Luna said simply, her blue-gray eyes glowing with certainty. "Friendships like yours don't just vanish. They may tangle, they may tear—but they're never beyond repair."
A sudden burst of determination flared in Hermione's chest, her emotions shifting from fear to resolve in a single breath. She sat up straighter, wiping at her tear-streaked face. "We should go. Right now."
Pansy, who had been lounging comfortably, nearly choked on her juice. "Oh, for fuck's sake, Granger! Why must you ruin my perfectly peaceful evening of beverages, firelight, and not dealing with Weasleys?"
Hermione turned to her, desperate. "Because I can't do this alone. I'm scared."
Luna tilted her head, smiling as if she had known all along this was where the conversation would end. "You're not alone, Mimi," she reassured her. "You've got us." Then, her gaze flicked mischievously toward Pansy. "And besides, Pansy loves a bit of drama, don't you, Sassy?"
Pansy scoffed, her expression indignant. "Oh, yes, nothing thrills me more than revisiting my least favorite ginger," she said dryly. Then, narrowing her eyes at Luna, she added, "And before you say it—no, Luna, Charlie does not count. He's the exception."
Hermione clasped her hands together, turning fully to Pansy, her gaze imploring. "Please, Pansy. I need you both. You might pretend you don't care, but I know you do. You've been there for me through everything. Please don't let me face this without you."
Pansy groaned, throwing her head back in agony before flinging her wine glass onto the table with dramatic flair. "Fine! I'll come. But if she starts hurling hexes, I'm Apparating straight back here and finishing this bottle without either of you."
A smile broke across Hermione's face, warm and full of gratitude. "Thank you. Both of you."
Luna stood, smoothing down the flowing fabric of her dress as she beamed. "Well then," she said with that infuriatingly knowing glint in her eye, "off we go. Let's mend some bridges, shall we?"
Pansy let out an exaggerated huff, standing reluctantly and snatching her cloak with unnecessary force. "This better be worth it, Granger. If she's still in one of her holier-than-thou, self-righteous fits, I will hex her myself."
Hermione chuckled, nerves and excitement coiling in her stomach as she grabbed her own cloak. "She won't be," she said, more to herself than to them. "At least… I hope she won't be."
Luna winked, looping her arm through Hermione's. "Let's go find out."
And with that, they stepped into the night—three unlikely allies, bound by chaos, love, and an unshakable loyalty that no amount of fire, war, or Weasley dramatics could ever break.
~~~~~~
The words "And I love you too…" had barely left Ginny's lips before the three chaotic demons masquerading as witches tumbled through the Zabini residence fireplace like they had been hurled through the very gates of hell.
A fine, suffocating cloud of soot exploded into the air, settling over the expensive Persian rug like the aftermath of a volcanic eruption. The scent of burnt magic lingered, and standing in the middle of the mess, looking entirely unimpressed, was Hermione, Luna, and Pansy—covered in ash, looking like deranged pyromaniacs.
Hermione coughed dramatically, brushing a layer of soot off her pristine navy cloak, her curls frizzing with betrayal. "Why does this always happen when I Floo?" she muttered, stomping her boot against the floor in frustration. "It's a magically regulated system. Why the fuck does it still hate me?"
Pansy, who had been too busy dramatically fanning herself like some scandalized duchess, was the first to pause mid-motion. Her dark eyes widened to the size of Galleons, her painted lips parting into a gasp of unfiltered glee as she took in the sight before her.
Because what a sight it was.
Blaise Zabini. Shirtless. Wearing a violently neon-green face mask. Glowing.
His hands were firmly gripping Ginny's hips, his mouth still attached to hers, and judging by the sheer ferocity of the kiss, they had just interrupted something entirely too intense for their delicate sensibilities.
Ginny, blissfully unbothered, wiped her lips with all the grace of a queen who had just conquered a nation. "Oh! Hello, girlies! Lovely of you to drop in!"
Blaise, however, looked like he had just been violently betrayed by the gods themselves.
He practically threw himself off Ginny, spinning around with all the grace of a man caught mid-orgasm in the middle of war. His face shifted through about seven different stages of mortification in the span of two seconds.
"WHAT. THE. FUCK." he hissed, arms flailing like a man possessed. The drying face mask cracked as his mouth fell open in absolute horror. "GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!"
Pansy, thrilled beyond belief, clutched her chest like a society matron about to faint from scandal. "This," she breathed, voice filled with unholy amusement, "is going to be my core memory of you, Zabini."
Hermione, who had just begun recovering from her initial Floo-induced trauma, took one look at Blaise's neon-green, half-dried face and completely fucking lost it.
Her entire body collapsed into uncontrollable laughter. "It's… it's the neon green for me," she wheezed, gripping her stomach.
Pansy joined in instantly, doubling over, wiping a completely fake tear from her eye. "You are stunning, darling. Like a very expensive Slytherin goblin."
Blaise looked five seconds away from committing murder.
Ginny, as if she wasn't the reason he was currently experiencing a complete mental breakdown, patted his arm soothingly. "Don't worry, tesoro. I'll make sure they never mention this again."
Blaise eyed her suspiciously. "Somehow, I doubt that."
Ginny only smiled sweetly. "Now, why don't you go check on the baby?"
Blaise, still visibly rattled, wiped his hands on his sweatpants and groaned in pure defeat. "Fine. But next time, WARN ME before your friends come bursting into my home like uninvited demons."
He turned to leave, but Luna, as composed as ever, smirked. "Oh, Blaise, do not talk to me about vulnerability. You personally witnessed me completely naked, mid-shag, with my husband. So spare me the dramatics."
Blaise recoiled. "Luna, WHY would you bring that up?!"
Hermione, who had just barely recovered from her laughing fit, had the unfortunate luck of hearing Ginny, completely nonchalant, add: "Well, Ferret saw me getting railed right on this dining table."
Silence.
Dead. Fucking. Silence.
Pansy's jaw hit the floor. "WHAT?!" she screeched, her voice an octave higher than usual.
Hermione sputtered, looking personally victimized. "On this dining table?!" she whispered, looking at the elegant, very expensive, very polished mahogany like it had personally betrayed her.
Luna, unphased, merely nodded. "Oh, that's… quite normal in my household."
Blaise, who had been mid-step toward the nursery, froze, turned right the fuck around, hands in the air. "GOODBYE, BITCHES. I'M DONE."
As he stormed off, muttering about zero privacy, uninvited house invasions, and needing a fucking drink, Ginny collapsed into absolute laughter, delighted by the chaos she had just unleashed upon the world.
Pansy, still looking deeply offended on a personal level, slowly turned back to Ginny, her nose wrinkled as if she had just been forced to endure some unspeakable trauma. "Honestly, Ginevra, there are BOUNDARIES. Some of us prefer to eat our meals at furniture that hasn't been defiled."
Ginny, still wiping away a tear of laughter, grinned without a single ounce of remorse. "Oh, come on—what's life without a little excitement?"
Luna, ever the ethereal optimist, clapped her hands together as if she had just witnessed a truly enlightening religious experience. "Well, I personally think this was a lovely visit. Very… illuminating."
Hermione, who looked several shades too pale, dragged a tired hand down her face, still processing the unholy violation of the dining table. "I am never sitting there again. Ever."
Ginny smirked. "Suit yourself." She took a leisurely sip from her wine glass before adding, "More room for me and Blaise."
Hermione whimpered.
Ginny, finally simmering down from her reign of terror, turned back to them, her smile softening just a bit. "But seriously," she said, her voice warm now, her teasing edge melting away. "What's up? What brings you all here?"
Hermione shifted uncomfortably, suddenly feeling a bit foolish for the way she had dramatically stormed in like she was on an Auror raid. She shot a silent glance at Pansy and Luna, clearly begging for backup, before clearing her throat. "We… we were thinking about you," she admitted, tucking a stray curl behind her ear, looking oddly vulnerable. "And we came to talk."
Pansy, already beelining for Blaise's bar cart like a woman on a mission, muttered under her breath, "I'm just here for the alcohol. Where's the good stuff?"
Ginny chuckled and wordlessly flicked her fingers toward the top shelf of the liquor cabinet. "Knock yourself out."
Luna, the only one remotely behaving like an actual adult, stepped forward with a gentle smile, her presence as calming as ever. "What Mimi's trying to say is… we miss you. And we wanted to see Valerius." She clasped her hands together, her voice kind but firm. "You've been on our minds. And we're here to make amends."
Hermione nodded quickly, her cheeks flushing slightly. "And I… I want to make things right between us."
Ginny blinked, clearly taken aback. The room stretched into a heavy silence, just long enough for Hermione to start visibly squirming under her gaze. Then, finally, Ginny exhaled, and to everyone's relief and minor shock, she broke into a warm, genuine smile.
"Thank you," she said softly, her voice tinged with something real, something unguarded. "That means a lot, coming from you."
Pansy, who was already pouring herself an obnoxiously large glass of firewhisky, sighed dramatically. "**Alright, now that we've gotten the mushy part out of the way—**where's the baby? I came to drink and judge Zabini's parenting skills."
Ginny rolled her eyes, grabbed a throw pillow from the couch, and hurled it directly at Pansy's head. "Vali is sleeping, you menace! You are not traumatizing him."
Luna giggled, ever the voice of reason. "He's not even two, Pansy. Give him a chance."
Pansy, unimpressed, swirled her drink with a bored flick of her wrist. "Fine. But for the record, I do miss you, Red." She paused, making a face like she'd rather eat nails than be sentimental again. "I'd just rather hex myself than say it out loud again."
Ginny grinned, stepping forward to pull Hermione and Luna into a tight hug. "You lot are ridiculous," she murmured, her throat tightening slightly despite herself. "But I wouldn't have it any other way."
Pansy, watching from the sidelines with her drink, lifted it lazily into the air. "To the unlikeliest and most dramatic friendships in wizarding history."
Ginny smirked. "And to never discussing Blaise's face mask again."
Luna sighed dreamily. "Oh, but it was such a lovely shade of green."
As the laughter finally settled into something comfortable, Ginny eventually cast a glance toward the dimly lit hallway, where the nursery was tucked away. Her expression softened, her fingers idly twirling her wine glass, lost in thought.
"You know," she murmured, her voice a touch quieter now, more contemplative, "Blaise has been telling me for months that I should just invite you all over. Said I'd regret it if I didn't."
Pansy, never one to let an opportunity for mischief pass her by, arched a perfectly sculpted brow, her lips curling in amused disbelief. "Wait, wait, wait—hold on. Are you telling me that Zabini—Mr. 'I Have No Emotional Investment in Anything'—was actually advocating for reconciliation?" She leaned forward, her dark eyes gleaming with scandal, her voice taking on a tone of pure mockery. "The same man who once said, and I quote, 'If it's not my problem, it's not my concern'? That Zabini?"
Ginny snorted, shaking her head, her smirk betraying just how ridiculous she found it, too. "Yeah, well, he's full of surprises, isn't he?" Then, turning to Luna with mock-seriousness, she added, "Speaking of surprises—you, my dear, are next in line for babysitting duty."
Luna, as if she had been waiting for this very moment, clasped her hands together in delight, her face lighting up like she had just been offered the greatest honor known to wizardkind. "Oh, I would love to! Babies are tiny vessels of curiosity and wonder." She sighed happily, her faraway gaze softening as she continued, "And I have been wanting to introduce Valerius to my collection of enchanted gemstones. He should be acquainted with the natural energies of the earth as soon as possible."
Pansy groaned, flopping back onto the couch like she was the tragic heroine in a dramatic stage play, one hand thrown dramatically over her forehead. "This is exactly why I don't babysit. I refuse to compete for attention with a teething child. Do you know how humiliating it is to be upstaged by a baby?"
Luna, completely unfazed, merely took a calm sip of her drink, her smile knowing, serene. "Pansy, please. You practically live at my house, babysitting Lysander and Seline." She tilted her head, watching Pansy over the rim of her glass. "You're obsessed. So, kindly, fuck off with your dramatic monologues."
Ginny cackled, crossing her arms, eyes dancing with mischief. "Parkinson, riddle me this: why are you in my house, drinking my firewhisky—which, by the way, I suspect you've corrupted into non-alcoholic swill?"
Pansy rolled her eyes, the deep, exhausted roll of someone forced to explain something painfully obvious to mere peasants. Swirling her drink for emphasis, she let the words drop like a bomb.
"Ugh, fine. I'm pregnant."
Silence.
The kind of silence that stretches too long, that settles too thickly, where every second is more unbearable than the last.
Pansy sighed dramatically, waving a lazy hand in the air like this was old news. "And since this is going to be my entire personality for the next eight months, I suggest you all get used to it." She took a measured sip of her wine-that-was-no-longer-wine, and muttered, "And for the record, I happen to like the little tingle non-alcoholic wine gives me." Then, narrowing her eyes at Ginny, she added, "Say something nice, Weasley."
Ginny blinked, momentarily caught off guard, before her face split into a wide grin. "Well, congratulations, Pansy! That's amazing news!"
Hermione, who had been sitting unusually still, suddenly cleared her throat, the action far too forced, her entire demeanor shifting. Her cheeks flushed as she smoothed nonexistent wrinkles from her skirt, fidgeting like she was about to confess something monumental.
"And, um…" she hesitated, voice just a bit too high-pitched, fingers twisting in her lap. "Draco and I… we're… well, we're planning to start a family soon, too."
Her words tumbled out all at once, like she had been holding them in too long, like she wasn't entirely sure what kind of reaction she was expecting.
The room froze. Again.
Ginny's grin faltered, just slightly, her gaze flickering over Hermione with something almost unreadable—nostalgia, warmth, maybe even something deeper. Then, with genuine sincerity, she murmured, "Oh, well—congratulations to you too, Hermione." A pause, a breath, a moment that stretched between them. Then, with quiet conviction, she added, "You and Draco… you're going to be amazing parents."
Hermione exhaled, her entire body relaxing, like she hadn't realized how much she needed to hear that until now.
Luna, ever the sensitive one, sensing the shift in the air, suddenly grabbed Pansy by the arm and started dragging her toward another room. "Come on, Sassy. We have much more interesting things to gossip about."
Pansy dug in her heels, like a stubborn hippogriff, glaring at Luna with outright betrayal. "But I want to stay and be part of the shouting! This is my evening too, Lovegood!"
"No. Absolutely not," Luna said, eerily calm, yanking Pansy along with mystical, otherworldly strength. "You're coming with me. Be a good girl now."
Pansy sighed like a woman carrying the weight of the world, casting one last, longing glance toward Hermione and Ginny, as if she were leaving behind a great battle. "Fine," she muttered, allowing herself to be dragged, "but I better get some actual gossip out of this, or I'm hexing you both in your sleep."
Luna merely patted her arm, her voice light, knowing. "Yes, yes. We'll find you some scandal."
And just like that, they disappeared into the next room, leaving Hermione and Ginny alone—at last—with only the quiet hum of the fire between them.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Once they were out of earshot, Ginny turned back to Hermione, her playful demeanor slipping like a mask she no longer had the energy to hold. The room felt quieter now, heavier, as if the air itself had thickened with the weight of their past, their choices, their unspoken pain. She took a slow, measured breath, her lips pressing together as her expression wavered between warmth and hesitation, between the love she had once held for Hermione and the anger that had settled in its place.
Leaning back against the sofa, she crossed her arms, the soft glow of the chandelier casting a flickering light over her fiery hair. In the dim room, she looked almost ethereal, but there was nothing soft about her now. Her eyes were raw, edged with something sharp, something vulnerable beneath the carefully controlled exterior. "So," she said finally, her voice quieter now, more careful, like she wasn't sure if she wanted the answer. "Are we going to talk about why you really came here? Or are we just going to pretend this is about catching up over firewhisky and pregnancy announcements?"
Hermione's fingers twisted together in her lap, her nails pressing into her skin. Her heart pounded against her ribs, too fast, too loud. "So you're not happy for me?" she blurted out before she could stop herself, the words falling into the space between them like a fragile thing she immediately wished she could take back.
Ginny's eyes widened slightly, as if Hermione had managed to surprise her for the first time in a long time. Then, just as quickly, the fire in them dimmed, her shoulders dropping with a quiet, exhausted sigh as she pinched the bridge of her nose. "Hermione," she said, her voice gentler now, though no less firm. "Of course, I'm happy for you. You'll be an incredible mother. That's never been a question." There was a pause, a beat of silence that made Hermione hold her breath. Then, Ginny's voice hardened, cutting through the air like a blade. "But not with him. Not with a psychopath."
The words hit her like a slap. Hermione's jaw clenched, her entire body tensing, heat rushing to her face as something bitter curled in her stomach. "I could say the same about your husband," she shot back, her voice sharp, shaking with restrained fury.
Ginny's temper flared instantly. She took a step forward, dropping her arms to her sides, her fists clenching like she was ready for a fight. Her eyes burned—not just with anger, but with something deeper, something wounded.
"He killed my brother."
The words were ice. Final. A cold, undeniable truth that filled the space between them like an unforgiving storm.
Hermione's breath caught, her throat tightening at the sheer weight of it. The silence that followed was deafening, pressing down on her until it felt impossible to breathe. She opened her mouth, lips parting in shock, but the words wouldn't come. What was there to say? What could possibly be enough? But then—she had to try.
"And I'm here to mend our friendship, Ginny!" she burst out, her voice thick, desperate, trembling under the force of her emotions. "You were my best friend. My sister."
Ginny's mouth opened like she was about to spit something cruel, something unforgivable, but the ache in Hermione's voice stopped her cold. The rawness of it, the way it cracked, the way it settled between them like an old wound torn open. For a moment, she just stared, and Hermione pushed forward before she could lose her nerve.
"I don't care how angry you are at me," Hermione continued, her voice unrelenting, fierce with the kind of desperation that only came from losing something that had once meant everything. "Or at Draco. You throw the fact that you changed my bloody diaper in my face like it's some badge of loyalty you can revoke whenever you feel like it. But when Draco was kidnapped—" Her voice broke, and she sucked in a sharp, shuddering breath before forcing herself to steady. "When he was taken, you were there for me. In a heartbeat. You dropped everything. You didn't hesitate. You didn't stop to think about your anger or your pain or your resentment. You came for me."
Ginny looked down, her gaze darkening, her fiery exterior dimming with something far more complicated than anger. Something like guilt. A flicker of hesitation passed over her face, just for a second, before she whispered, almost too quietly to hear, "Of course, I was." Her voice was softer now, stripped of all its usual fire. "How could I not be?"
But Hermione wasn't done. She refused to let Ginny shrink away from this.
"I'm not finished," she snapped, her voice regaining its strength. She leaned forward, her hands gripping her knees like she needed to anchor herself, to keep herself from falling apart completely. "I want to say I'm sorry for what Draco did. For what happened to Ron. He didn't deserve to die the way he did."
Ginny stiffened. Her entire body went rigid, her face hardening into something cold, something distant.
"No," she said, her voice flat, final, merciless. "He didn't deserve it." A humorless, bitter laugh escaped her lips, sharp and cutting. "What he did deserve was a beating. From me, first and foremost. And that's where I failed him." She exhaled sharply, shaking her head as if the thought itself made her sick. Her voice dropped lower, quieter, tired. "I should've seen the signs. I should've known he was hurting you. That he was—" She stopped, biting her lip like she physically couldn't say it. Like saying it would make it too real. "I should've done something."
The words hung between them, heavy and suffocating, wrapping around their chests like chains neither of them could break.
The room fell silent.
The weight of everything unsaid hung between them, pressing down like a storm that had yet to break. The past still clung to the air, thick and suffocating, a reminder of everything that had been lost, everything that had fractured between them. Hermione swallowed hard, her throat tight as she whispered, "You couldn't have known."
Ginny's jaw tensed, her nails digging into her arms where they were crossed over her chest. "Intent doesn't erase the outcome," she muttered, voice low, nearly a whisper. "Ron is still gone. And it doesn't matter how angry I was at him, how much he deserved to be called out for his actions… I can't forgive Ferret for taking that choice away from me." Her voice cracked, but she quickly swallowed it down, blinking rapidly against the tears that threatened to spill.
Hermione nodded slowly, pressing her fingers against her lap as if she could steady herself through the sheer force of will. "I don't expect you to forgive him. I don't even expect you to forgive me." She inhaled sharply, her ribs tightening with the effort to stay calm, to push through the tension clawing at her chest. "But I couldn't go another day without trying to fix this. Without trying to fix us. Ginny, I miss you. I miss the late-night talks, the laughing until we couldn't breathe, the feeling that I could tell you anything." Her voice wavered as she reached out, hesitant, her fingers just barely brushing Ginny's wrist. "You're the closest thing I've ever had to a sister."
For a moment, Ginny didn't move. Didn't breathe. And then—her face crumpled, a shaky breath escaping her lips, tears slipping down her cheeks despite the way she clenched her fists as if trying to physically stop them. "I miss you too," she admitted, her voice cracking under the weight of everything she'd been holding in for so long. "But it's so hard, Hermione. Every time I look at you, I think about Ron. I think about how everything went so wrong. And I hate that I let my anger take away my best friend."
Hermione leaned in, voice soft but unwavering, fingers tightening slightly around Ginny's hand. "Gin, you know how much I love Draco. I never would have agreed to this marriage if I had even the slightest inkling it would cost Ron his life. I would've fought harder. I would have found another way."
Ginny nodded, though her expression was still twisted with pain. Her voice was barely above a whisper when she said, "I know. Deep down, I do. But grief does… strange things to people. It warps your perspective. It blinds you to reason." She exhaled shakily, her fingers tightening around her glass. "I've spent so long blaming you because it was easier than facing how much it hurt."
Hermione squeezed her hand, her grip firm, grounding. "I understand. Truly, I do. But you need to understand this too: no matter what happens, no matter the circumstances, I will always choose my family. My future child, my husband—" she took a deep, steadying breath, "—they are my world now." She held Ginny's gaze, fierce and unyielding. "And you? You're still part of that world. You'll always be family to me."
Ginny sniffled, her lips trembling as she absorbed Hermione's words, emotions flickering across her face in a chaotic whirlwind of longing, resentment, grief, and something softer—something she had been too afraid to let herself feel for so long. "I know," she murmured, voice small. "And I've been so unfair to you. You're right. Family comes first. I've always known that… but I let my anger cloud everything."
Hermione gave her a small, encouraging smile, the corners of her eyes still damp. "Then prove it to yourself. Choose your family, Gin. Be there for Val, for Blaise. Let yourself heal."
Ginny let out a slow, shuddering breath, her eyes flickering to the doorway as if searching for an escape, a way to avoid the emotions suffocating her. "I do," she whispered. "I choose them every day. But Gods, Hermione, I missed you so much. It's been unbearable without you."
Hermione swallowed hard, nodding, barely trusting herself to speak. "I missed you too." Her fingers curled slightly, her nails pressing into her palm as she hesitated before adding, "And I've wanted to meet Valerius for so long. Two years, Gin. Two years without holding him, without being part of his life. It's been too long."
Ginny hesitated, conflict rippling across her features—longing, uncertainty, something deeper than words. Then, with a slow, careful breath, she lifted her chin and met Hermione's gaze with unwavering resolve. "He can't be near that psychopath, though," she said firmly, her arms crossing over her chest as if bracing herself for an argument. "Not yet. Not with all the history."
Hermione reached for her hand, gripping it tightly. "I promise you, Draco will respect that boundary. This isn't about him. This is about me meeting your son. Please, Ginny. Let me see him."
The words stretched between them, hovering in the air like a test, like a challenge, like something fragile and desperate that could shatter at any moment.
Ginny sighed, her fingers clenching and unclenching at her sides, her chest rising and falling in slow, measured breaths. And then, finally—a small, hesitant nod.
"Would you like to see him now?"
Hermione's breath caught in her throat. "If I'm allowed."
Ginny didn't reply. She just turned and led Hermione down the dimly lit hallway, their footsteps muffled against the rich wooden floors, the air thick with unspoken words and emotions pressing between them like ghosts of the past.
The walls were painted in soft, warm tones, the flickering glow of enchanted sconces casting long shadows that danced with every step. The familiar ache in Hermione's chest swelled—this was Ginny's home now. Blaise's. Valerius's. A life she had never been part of, a family she had been shut out of for too long.
The weight of everything unsaid pressed down on Hermione as she followed Ginny through the dimly lit hallway, each step feeling heavier than the last. The house was warm, quiet in a way that spoke of a life built carefully, of love woven into the very walls. This was Ginny's home, her sanctuary, a world Hermione had been shut out of for too long. As they reached the nursery door, Ginny hesitated, fingers tightening around the handle, her posture tense. A flicker of something passed across her face—uncertainty, reluctance—before she finally exhaled and pushed the door open.
The room was bathed in soft silver light, the moon spilling through the sheer curtains in gentle waves. Shadows stretched long across the walls, giving the space an almost ethereal glow. The scent of lavender hung in the air, warm and familiar, wrapping around Hermione like a whisper of a memory she had no right to claim. It was peaceful, untouched by the chaos that had fractured so much of their lives.
And at the very center of it all—Valerius.
Her breath hitched the moment she saw him.
Two years. Two years of silence. Two years of missed milestones. Two years without knowing the sound of his laugh or the weight of him in her arms. She had seen him once before, fresh into the world, tiny and fragile, his fingers curling around Ginny's like he already knew she was his anchor. But that moment had been fleeting, tainted by everything that followed. And since then… nothing.
Now, here he was. No longer a delicate newborn but a beautiful little boy, his chest rising and falling in steady, deep sleep. His tiny hands rested against the soft fabric of his blanket, his face peaceful in a way that made Hermione's chest tighten. A head full of dark curls framed his features, familiar yet entirely his own.
Something inside her cracked.
He should have known her voice by now. Should have recognized her, should have reached for her the way he did for the others. Should have—
She swallowed hard, fighting the lump forming in her throat. "He's beautiful, Gin," she whispered, voice barely audible.
Ginny let out a quiet, breathy laugh, one that was equal parts pride and something softer, something almost fragile. "Yeah," she murmured, gaze locked onto her son. "He is, isn't he?"
A sudden noise interrupted the moment, a muffled snore breaking through the stillness.
Hermione turned, startled, only to find— Blaise.
Sprawled in an oversized armchair in the corner, long legs awkwardly stretched out, mouth slightly open, one arm draped dramatically over his face, a plush dragon nestled against his shoulder as though someone had placed it there mid-sleep.
The sight was so absurdly domestic, so perfectly Blaise, that Hermione had to clamp a hand over her mouth to stifle the laugh bubbling up in her throat.
Ginny rolled her eyes, crossing her arms. "That idiot fell asleep again," she muttered, exasperation laced with undeniable affection. "He swears he's the baby-whisperer, but somehow, he's always the first to pass out."
Hermione turned back to Valerius, warmth blooming in her chest. This was Ginny's life now—soft moments, whispered lullabies, a sleepy husband too in love with his family to stay awake. This was the world Hermione had missed.
She looked at Ginny, eyes shimmering with emotion. "I should have been here."
Ginny's expression faltered, the easy warmth in her face slipping into something more vulnerable. "Yeah," she admitted softly, a quiet ache in her voice. "You should have."
The truth of it settled between them, heavy but not crushing. It wasn't an accusation. It was just fact.
Hermione's fingers brushed the edge of the crib, reverent, hesitant, wishing. "It won't happen again," she said, voice thick with emotion.
Ginny inhaled sharply, her gaze lingering on Hermione for a long moment before she nodded.
"Good."
Silence stretched between them again, but this time, it was different. Not suffocating, not drowning. Just quiet. A moment suspended between what had been and what could be.
Then Ginny spoke again, her voice barely above a whisper.
"I choose them first. Always."
Hermione nodded, understanding. "That's what you should do."
Ginny's lips parted slightly, as if she wanted to say something else, and then, after a pause— "But I also choose you."
Hermione's breath caught.
There it was. The bridge between them, fragile and trembling, but there.
"I want my best friend back," Ginny admitted, voice breaking at the edges. "I don't know how to fix everything. I don't know if I can. But I miss you, Hermione. I miss you so much."
That was all it took.
Hermione surged forward, wrapping Ginny in a fierce, desperate embrace. Ginny clung to her just as tightly, breath shuddering against Hermione's shoulder, like she was afraid to let go.
"I'm here," Hermione whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "I never left. Not really."
A loud creak shattered the moment.
They both turned as Blaise stirred, rubbing his eyes groggily. He blinked at them, still half-asleep, then stared at their embrace like they had just performed a resurrection spell in front of him.
A slow, shit-eating grin spread across his face.
"Bloody hell," he muttered, stretching lazily. "Took you long enough."
Hermione rolled her eyes. "Shut up, Blaise."
He smirked, rubbing a hand over his face, voice still hoarse from sleep. "No, no, I refuse. Do you have any idea how long I've had to endure Gin's dramatic rants about you? I deserve an award for my patience."
Ginny, clearly done with his nonsense, grabbed a throw pillow and hurled it at his head.
Blaise caught it one-handed. Barely flinching. "See? Violent." He stood, cracking his neck before giving Ginny a lazy kiss on the temple. "Now, if you're done crying all over my wife, can we get some sleep? I'd like one peaceful night before she makes me rearrange the bloody nursery again."
Ginny groaned. "I asked once if the bassinet should be closer to the window."
"You also asked if the entire wall should be moved."
Hermione watched their easy banter, warmth spreading through her chest. This—this— was what she had missed.
Ginny turned back to her, eyes red but lighter now. "I still need time, you know."
Hermione nodded. "I know."
Ginny exhaled slowly before reaching for Hermione's hand, squeezing it once. "But I want you to meet him properly. Tomorrow. When he's awake."
Hermione's throat tightened, but her smile was steady. "I'd love that."
Ginny smiled back. Not a hesitant, forced one. A real one.
They turned toward the crib, where Valerius slept on, blissfully unaware of the wounds being stitched back together around him.
For the first time in years, the air between them felt lighter. They weren't fixed, not yet.
But maybe…
Maybe they were finally on their way.