ME AND THE DEVIL- Dramione

.1

Hermione opened her eyes slowly, her vision blurred as the dim light filled her senses. The room around her looked as though it had been crafted by some ancient magic. Soft, golden light filtered through curtains as thin as gossamer, casting delicate, ethereal patterns across the walls, which seemed to breathe with an otherworldly warmth. Her gaze drifted upward, where a lattice of fairy lights wove across the ceiling, their glow soft but alive, like a thousand captured stars mirroring the peaceful beauty of a night sky.

Each wall bore a different scene, hand-painted with meticulous care—enchanted forests filled with ancient, towering trees, their boughs dripping with moss and mystery. Blossoming wildflowers and serene, green meadows stretched toward a distant, painted horizon, blending realism with fantasy. A plush armchair by the window, upholstered in soft, rich fabric, sat as though waiting to embrace anyone who dared venture too close, inviting them to sink in and reflect on life's quieter moments.

To her right, the antique clock ticked softly, its face almost hidden beneath vines and delicate leaves carved into the polished wood. The hands pointed to four sixteen, an early hour where the world was still hushed, caught between the last whispers of night and the first breaths of dawn. The stillness seemed almost fragile, like the quiet peace might shatter at the faintest sound.

And so it did.

"Draco!" Her voice cracked, hoarse and raw, a desperate call breaking the silence as if she could summon him with sheer force of will.

The door burst open so swiftly it startled her, and he appeared, eyes wide with a mix of panic and overwhelming relief. His face softened as he saw her, his expression one of barely contained disbelief, as though he was witnessing a miracle he'd long ago stopped believing in.

"Hermione," he breathed, crossing the room in three quick strides. His hands cupped her face, trembling slightly, as if afraid she might disappear. "My love," he murmured, voice breaking under the weight of his relief. He brushed his lips softly against her forehead, each kiss a silent vow. Relief mixed with a darker, simmering anger in his gaze, his jaw clenched tight with the rage he felt for anyone who had dared to harm her. It was anger at the world, at fate, at himself.

"I thought… I thought I'd lost you." His voice trembled, the words catching in his throat. He swallowed hard, brushing away tears that slipped down her cheeks, though his own eyes were shining. He wanted to gather her into his arms, to feel the solid warmth of her against him, to reassure himself that she was real. But a plastic tube taped to her wrist and the quiet hum of machines around them reminded him of how fragile her recovery still was.

Hermione, her eyes still damp, lifted a weak hand to touch his cheek. The touch was barely there, her fingers trembling with the effort, but it was enough. It was a connection, a spark bridging the chasm of despair he'd been drowning in. He grasped her hand gently, threading his fingers through hers, clinging to her as if she were his lifeline.

"Draco…" she whispered, her voice a mere breath. She had so many questions—about the attack, this sterile room, the weight of his distress—but those could wait. Right now, the most urgent need was simply to know he was here.

He leaned forward, his eyes searching hers, worry creasing his brow. "Are you in pain? Do you need anything?" His voice was thick with emotion, the desperation to help etched into every line of his face. "I can call Luna, or I can—"

"No," she interrupted, shaking her head ever so slightly. "Just you." Her voice was barely a whisper, but it was enough to silence his frantic concerns. "Just you."

Relief washed over him, and he gave a small, tearful smile. He pressed her hand to his cheek, the simple contact grounding him. "I'm here," he said softly. He sat down beside her on the bed, his gaze locked onto hers as if he could pour every bit of his love, his regret, his sorrow into that one, unbreakable connection.

But as they sat there, a new wave of guilt clouded his face, his expression darkening. "My love… I'm so sorry," he said, his voice choked with shame. "For everything. I should have been there. I should have protected you." His hand tightened around hers, his regret palpable.

Her own tears fell, warm and silent, as she squeezed his hand. "You did enough," she replied, her voice soft but resolute. "You found me. That's all that matters."

They stayed like that for a long moment, their shared silence speaking louder than words. The room around them faded into the background—the glow of the fairy lights, the hum of machines, the morning light just beginning to press against the horizon. It was as if, in this moment, the world held its breath, creating a sanctuary just for them.

He leaned forward, resting his forehead against hers, his fingers intertwined with hers in a silent pledge. The vulnerability in his eyes, the raw, unfiltered emotion, was something he rarely showed. "We're going to get through this," he whispered, though his voice trembled with emotion. "Whatever happens next, we'll face it together."

Her heart steadied, calmed by his words and the warmth of his presence. In this sterile, cold room, she felt a flicker of warmth, a fragile sanctuary where, for a moment, they were shielded from everything else. "Together," she echoed, her voice steady, the word a promise.

As the first light of dawn crept into the room, it cast a gentle glow over them, filling the sterile walls with a soft, almost magical warmth. The night had been long, and though it had granted them a fragile peace, they both knew the fight was far from over. There would be wounds to heal, questions to answer, and battles yet to face. But for now, with the dawn casting away the shadows, they held onto each other, finding strength in their shared determination.

With a final, silent vow, they drifted off to sleep, a promise etched into their hearts to face whatever darkness might come, hand in hand, as the new day unfolded around them.

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She drifted awake, her senses slowly reeling in the fragments of her surroundings. A familiar voice, breaking and filled with the raw vulnerability of love, murmured softly, "My baby girl." The sound reached deep into her, tugging her from the haze of sleep, each word like a lifeline tethering her back to herself. She felt the gentle weight of a warm hand cradling her left foot, a tender touch that grounded her amid her confusion. And then, another gentle hand brushed across her forehead, smoothing her hair in a comforting, familiar rhythm.

Through the fog, she blinked, her vision blurring with tears as she slowly took in the figures around her. A soft sniffle caught her attention, and she turned her head, finding her mother seated beside her, shoulders hunched, a tissue twisted tightly in her fingers. Jane's face was streaked with silent tears, and her usually lively eyes were dimmed with worry, lines of fear etched deeply into her expression.

Opposite her, David sat rigidly, his jaw clenched, the muscles in his face tight with barely restrained emotion. But as much as he tried to remain stoic, a slight tremor in his hand betrayed his raw, unguarded concern. Her heart ached at the sight of them, their worry so palpable that it filled the room with a quiet sorrow.

She managed a raspy, "Mummy," the childish term spilling from her lips before she could think, an instinctive plea for comfort. It was a soft, vulnerable cry, barely audible, but it felt like a bridge spanning the aching gulf between them.

Jane's head shot up, her eyes widening in stunned relief. In an instant, she was by her daughter's side, clutching her hand with a fierce, almost desperate grip, as though fearing that Hermione might slip away again if she let go. Tears spilled down her cheeks, mingling with the dampness of Hermione's own. "My pumpkin," Jane whispered, her voice raw with the depth of her relief. "We're here. We're right here, darling."

David rose abruptly, his chair scraping harshly against the floor, and began pacing the small room. His hands were balled into fists, his expression a tangle of frustration and grief. "We were so afraid," he said, his voice thick, almost breaking. "We should have been there, to protect you." His gaze bore into her, a mixture of helpless anger and fierce, unwavering love in his eyes.

She looked into her father's eyes, her own filling with a tearful gratitude. "You're here now," she whispered, her voice trembling with relief that pierced the ache she'd carried. 

Her mother's fingers gently brushed across her brow, and Jane leaned down, pressing a tender kiss against her forehead. "We couldn't stay away," she murmured, her voice catching. "We had to be here, Hermione. We had to hold you, to see you." Each word was thick with the weight of their reunion, and Hermione clung to her mother's hand as though it was the only thing tethering her to reality.

David's grip tightened around her other hand, his strength a quiet anchor. His gaze was filled with a grief-stricken intensity. "They told us you might not make it," he admitted, his voice cracking, betraying the agony he'd been holding back. "I couldn't bear the thought of losing you. I'm so, so sorry, baby girl."

"No," she said softly, feeling the deep, overwhelming need to reassure him. Her own tears slipped down her cheeks, but for the first time, they weren't just tears of fear. "You didn't fail me. You're here now… that's all that matters. I've missed you both so much." She squeezed his hand, trying to pour all of her love into the simple gesture.

Jane wiped away her tears and traced her fingers along her brow. "We're here to stay, sweetheart. No matter how long it takes, we'll help you through this." Her mother's hand felt warm, grounding her in the present moment, and Hermione closed her eyes, finding a sense of peace in the touch.

A few paces away, he stood quietly, observing the reunion with a pang of gratitude. He understood deeply how much she needed this moment, a salve to the fear and pain that had plagued her. Draco felt an odd sense of peace, seeing Hermione enveloped in the love and comfort of her parents. 

At last, Jane glanced at him, her expression softening, a look of deep gratitude in her eyes. "Thank you," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "Thank you for looking after our Hermione."

His usual stoicism melted, and a warmth filled his gaze as he met Jane's eyes. "She's… she's my world, Mrs. Granger," he said quietly, the words falling like a confession, raw and unguarded. "More than my world, actually. She's the light that chases away the darkness, the reason I know happiness. I'd do anything, absolutely anything, for her happiness." His voice was laced with the kind of devotion that left no room for doubt, a testament to the fierce love he held for Hermione.

Jane smiled at him, the silent connection between them conveying a trust beyond words. And in that shared understanding, he felt his heart swell. He was no longer just a man in love; he was part of a family, bound by their mutual love for her.

Her hand shifted, clutching his, a silent gesture of her acknowledgment, her gratitude. Together, they all settled into a comfortable silence, each absorbing the presence of the others, the unspoken promises, and the shared relief that they were finally here, together.

For a while, they stayed like that, wrapped in each other's presence. The room was filled with the quiet hum of the machines, an ambient background to their silent vigil of love and reassurance.

As the sun began to rise, casting a soft golden light across the room, Hermione stirred, a flicker of panic tightening in her chest. "Darling," she whispered, her voice strained, "my head… it hurts."

He moved quickly, concern flashing in his eyes as he sat beside her, taking her hand in his. "It's alright, love," he soothed, his voice a steady anchor as his fingers brushed lightly against her brow. But then her hand lifted, grazing her head, and her fingers met the strange, smooth surface where her wild mane had once been. She froze, her eyes widening as the realisation washed over her.

Her breath hitched, a strangled sob escaping. "I… I don't have any hair," she whispered, her voice thick with grief. Tears welled up, blurring her vision as the memory of her familiar, unruly curls filled her mind. Her hair had been with her through everything—late-night study sessions, fierce duels, romantic moments. It was as much a part of her as her magic.

His heart broke for her. He leaned forward, his hand coming to rest gently on her cheek. "Shh, darling," he murmured, brushing away her tears with his thumb. "It's just hair, love. And even if we don't… you're still you, my beautiful, brilliant Hermione." He placed a feather-light kiss on her forehead, willing her to feel the love he held for her, regardless of any physical changes.

She managed a nod, though her tears didn't stop. And then, as if summoned by her pain, another figure entered the room. "Mimi, you're awake," a familiar voice said softly. Hermione looked up, and there stood Luna, ethereal as ever, her expression radiating warmth and compassion.

"Luna?" her voice cracked with relief, reaching for her friend's hand. Luna stepped closer, wrapping her hands around hers, the soft, calming presence she exuded filling the room.

"This is our safe house," Luna said gently, her blue eyes wide and comforting. "You're safe now, Mimi."

For a moment, she let herself relax, the quiet assurance of Luna's words calming her. She glanced back at her parents, and then at Draco, her heart swelling with gratitude for each of them. They had stood by her, through the darkest hours, and now, together, they would face whatever came next.

"We're here, all of us," he said softly, his fingers entwined with hers, his voice filled with unshakable resolve. "No one leaves your side, no matter what."

A small smile tugged at her lips, despite everything, a warmth filling her chest. She was surrounded by love—by family, by friends, and by her loving husband, who had shown her a depth of loyalty she'd never dared to dream of.

As the morning sun cast its golden rays over them, Hermione felt a small spark of hope kindling within her. The scars she bore, both seen and unseen, would take time to heal, but she wasn't facing them alone. Surrounded by her loved ones, she closed her eyes, letting the warmth of their presence wrap around her like a protective shield.

And as sleep claimed her once more, she felt at peace, ready to face whatever lay ahead with her family and friends by her side.

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When she woke again, the sterile silence of the room was broken by a soft voice, floating through the dim light like a balm against her aching mind. It was a familiar voice, gentle yet strong, its tone laced with that comforting mix of warmth and conviction that only Ginny possessed.

"... wonder is the beginning of philosophy," Ginny murmured, her voice hushed, almost reverent. "That's what Socrates believed. And here you are, battered but unbroken, a testament to the resilience of the human spirit." Her words wrapped around her like a blanket, a strange yet soothing contrast to the antiseptic chill of the room.

She managed a weak smile, a spark of humour creeping into her weary eyes. "I never saw you read anything besides textbooks," she croaked, the effort of speaking tugging at her fragile strength, but the tease lighting up her face.

She looked down, a soft chuckle escaping her lips, through her eyes glistened with barely-held tears. "Ferret told me you'd been reading this one before... everything. Thought you'd want to catch up." She reached for Hermione's hand, cradling it gently, as if Hermione were as delicate as spun glass.

But her expression suddenly faltered, a flicker of something dark and raw breaking through the haze of drowsiness. "I saw you, Ginny," she whispered, voice trembling, and the weight of her words settled heavily between them. "I saw you... stab Jelena. Over and over..." Her voice caught, tears slipping down her cheeks as the memory tore through her.

Ginny's eyes grew fierce, unwavering as she met Hermione's haunted gaze. At that moment, she understood: Ginny would have done it all over again without hesitation if it meant saving her.

She tried to sit up, the effort sending sparks of pain radiating through her body. "Can we go for a walk?" she managed, her voice barely a whisper. She needed to feel something real, to know that she was truly here, alive.

Ginny's face crumpled, a hint of something darker tugging at her smile. "Love," she began softly, her thumb brushing over Hermione's knuckles. She took a deep, shuddering breath, as if summoning the strength to deliver the words. "During the attack... your left side... it was paralysed." Her voice cracked, her control slipping as her chin quivered. She closed her eyes for a brief moment, a silent prayer escaping her lips. 

"It's okay," Ginny whispered finally, squeezing Hermione's hand as if willing strength into her. "We'll get through this, I promise." But there was a tremor there, and Hermione could feel the unspoken fear lurking beneath the words.

Swallowing against the rising panic, her fingers drifted upwards, brushing her scalp. A strange, cold smoothness met her fingertips, a jarring absence where her wild curls once tumbled down. Her stomach twisted, nausea rising as she fought to understand. "What happened to my hair?" she choked, her voice strained and brittle.

Ginny closed her eyes, her lips pressing into a thin line. "Brain surgery," she whispered finally, as if even the words themselves were a betrayal. "They had to operate, Hermione. That's why... your hair..." Her hand trembled as she stroked Hermione's fingers, grounding her as the reality sank in.

The shock of it hit her like a tidal wave, the enormity of what had happened unravelling slowly, painfully. "How long?" her voice was barely more than a rasp, desperation bleeding through every syllable.

Ginny hesitated, her own tears brimming. "It's... it's been weeks, babe." She drew in a steadying breath. "It's April 16th now."

April. The word hung in the air like an accusation, as if the universe had taken more from her than she could comprehend. Weeks vanished, entire days stolen like pages ripped from her life. A void stretched before her, an emptiness that filled her with a silent scream, echoing within the depths of her heart.

Her hand trembled as she gripped Ginny's, tears slipping down her cheeks unchecked. She was lost in a sea of confusion and loss, the familiar landmarks of her life obscured by a thick, impenetrable fog.

"Ginny..." she croaked, her voice a cracked whisper. She clung to her friend, as if Ginny were her anchor in the middle of a storm.

Ginny's face twisted, her eyes flashing with anger and helplessness. "Draco..." she spat, the name a raw sound, filled with venom and the memory of unspeakable acts. "Draco sliced that... that bitch up. There was so much blood. Blaise and Theo... they had to clean it up. Even the ceiling was covered." Her voice shook, a grimace tightening her features, as if the memory itself was too horrific to bear.

A shudder wracked her frail body, the image of Draco drenched in blood searing through her mind, twisting her stomach with nausea. The man she loved, so noble and steadfast, transformed into something fierce and dangerous for her sake. It was both terrifying and heartbreaking.

"And Luna..." Ginny continued, her tone softening, a hint of reverence slipping through. "Luna's the one who healed you. She wouldn't let anyone else touch you. We couldn't take you to a hospital, not with everything. So we brought you to the safe house. We've been here, all of us, since then."

The revelation washed over her, her chest tightening with emotion. This place, this hidden sanctuary, had been their fortress, a place of healing and defence. And each one of them, her friends, had been her protectors, sacrificing safety and stability just to keep her alive.

As Ginny's words settled, she felt a profound exhaustion wash over her, her mind a storm of memories and fractured thoughts, half-formed and elusive. She had lost so much, but she was not alone. Ginny's presence was a lifeline, a quiet assurance that whatever darkness lay ahead, they would face it together.

Ginny's hand squeezed hers, the promise of her friendship an unspoken vow. "Rest now, love," she whispered, her voice gentle, filled with the fierce love of a sister. "We'll tell you everything soon. There's no need to rush it. Just... just know we're here. All of us."

Her eyes drifted closed, her fingers curling weakly around Ginny's hand. She felt her friend's lips press a soft kiss against her forehead, a farewell as she drifted back into the dark warmth of sleep.

For the first time, the darkness felt less like a void and more like a gentle embrace, filled with the steady pulse of loyalty, love, and a silent, unbreakable promise.

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Her parents never left. Her chosen family never left. And the love of her life never left.

In the waking hours of each day, there was triumph—a hard-fought victory over the haze of injury and loss that clouded her mind. But even as she celebrated the small, precious gains, a familiar frustration gnawed at her. Her body, once agile and responsive, now felt foreign. Her arms, legs, even her fingers moved sluggishly, each movement requiring intense concentration and patience. She felt trapped inside herself, her mind sharp and determined but encased in a shell that no longer obeyed her commands. 

But she wasn't alone in this struggle. Her parents and friends, were a constant presence. Each morning, her parents arrived first, their faces lined with worry and love. Her father would sit at her bedside, his eyes soft as he held her hand, whispering stories from her childhood, bringing back memories that glimmered like sunlight breaking through fog. Her mother, always watchful, would fuss over her, brushing stray hairs from her forehead, adjusting blankets, and offering gentle encouragements with the kind of fierce tenderness only a mother could bring.

And then there was Ginny—unwavering, determined Ginny. Every morning, her warm, steady hand would clasp hers, a silent promise of friendship and strength. She never missed a day, sitting beside her with a resilience that she found both comforting and inspiring. Sometimes Ginny would talk about the little things, bits of news, or random memories. Other times, they'd simply sit in silence, Ginny's hand always there, a reminder that she would never let go. She would read Hermione poetry she knew by heart, reciting each line in a soft, steady cadence that filled the room with hope. She read as if each word was a lifeline, something solid and grounding in the midst of Hermione's turbulent recovery.

Then Luna would arrive, floating in like a quiet, calming breeze, her presence always accompanied by the faint scent of lavender. She'd bring little charms and trinkets, each one a symbol of healing and comfort. A vial of calming tea, a soft feather charm meant to bring sweet dreams, a handful of fresh herbs wrapped in cloth. Luna moved around the room, placing her charms and arranging flowers, infusing the sterile space with a sense of warmth and peace. She would hum softly under her breath, a lilting tune that seemed to echo in Hermione's chest, bringing a strange, comforting warmth to the ache within her.

And always, in the corner, stood Draco. He'd sit by the window, his gaze often distant, his usual stoic mask softened into something raw and vulnerable. There were days when he barely spoke, his presence quiet but unyielding, as though his very being was an anchor keeping her tethered to the world. He'd brought along her favourite books, their worn covers a testament to how often she had read them. Every day, he'd read to her, his voice a deep, soothing rumble that sent shivers of familiarity down her spine. Sometimes, he would glance up, catching her eye with a small, wry smile, the ghost of the Draco she remembered before this ordeal. 

In those moments, as he read to her, she felt a sense of calm unlike anything else. His voice filled the room, reciting words that once sparked her curiosity and fueled her mind. He chose passages that mirrored their memories—scenes of courage, of battles fought and won, of friendships that withstood the test of time. With every page he turned, he gifted her fragments of the life they had shared, rebuilding her spirit piece by piece. She knew he hurt too, saw it in the tightness of his jaw, in the way he clutched the book a little too tightly, as if the words could offer some solace.

Yet, amidst the warmth and love, her frustration simmered just beneath the surface. Her mind was agile, alive, and ready to return to the world, but her body lagged behind, dragging her down with its uncooperative limbs and stiff joints. She'd clench her fists beneath the covers, fighting back tears when even the simplest movements—raising her arm, turning her head—felt like monumental tasks. She hated the helplessness, the vulnerability. But every time despair threatened to overwhelm her, there was always a hand to steady her, a voice to pull her back, a familiar face reminding her of her strength.

Her parents were tireless in their devotion, their love unyielding. Her mother would stroke her hair, murmuring encouragement, while her father would recount every adventure, every scraped knee, and every hard-won lesson of her youth. Each story brought a flicker of the old Hermione back to life, reminded her of the fierce, determined girl who had never shied away from a challenge.

Ginny remained her rock, unwavering, filling her silences with stories and anecdotes, of a world that was still waiting for her return. When Hermione grew frustrated with her slow progress, Ginny was there to pull her back, to remind her of her victories, however small. Ginny had faced her own battles, Hermione knew, and her strength was a reminder that they could get through anything together.

Luna, ever the healer, brought a sense of calm that reached into the depths of Hermione's fear. She would place a cool hand on Hermione's forehead, her touch light and reassuring. And with each visit, Luna would leave small charms in the room—bits of moss for resilience, tiny crystals for courage—tokens of hope that infused the sterile walls with life.

And Draco… Draco was her constant shadow, a figure who had once seemed so distant, now closer than ever before. He never showed his own pain, but in quiet moments, she saw glimpses of it in the way his gaze would linger on her, the subtle clench of his jaw when she struggled with simple tasks. He bore her pain alongside her, silent but present, every glance a reminder that she wasn't alone. His voice, steady and sure, would carry her through the darkest hours, the words he read a balm to her wounded soul.

Some days, he would lean in closer, his fingers brushing her hand, grounding her. When their eyes met, she saw not pity, but respect and determination. He believed in her recovery, believed in the strength she couldn't yet see within herself. And somehow, that belief made her want to fight harder, to reclaim the life she'd lost piece by piece.

As the days passed, surrounded by their unwavering presence, Hermione felt herself slowly begin to mend. It was an arduous journey, marked by victories as small as a single step, a hand lifted, or a finger moved. Yet, each accomplishment was celebrated—her father's proud smile, her mother's tearful embrace, Ginny's triumphant laughter, Luna's whispered words of encouragement, and Draco's rare but radiant smile that told her he'd never doubted her.

They were her light, her strength, and her hope. They were the reminders that she was not merely a shadow of her former self but a fighter, a survivor, and, above all, deeply loved. And in those quiet hours, when the pain receded and her heart softened, Hermione realised that her battle wasn't hers alone; it was shared by all of them, each lending their strength, binding their lives to hers in a way she could never have foreseen.

Each morning, she awoke with a little more strength, each day a little more determined. The world outside her hospital window was waiting, and one day soon, she would rejoin it—not as the same person, but as someone made stronger, someone forged in the fires of love and resilience. And she knew, with absolute certainty, that when that day came, she would not be stepping into it alone.

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Theo and Blaise became her daily visitors, filling the hospital room with relentless questions, endless banter, and a sense of mischief that could only come from the two of them. Their inquiries ranged from genuine curiosity to utterly bizarre, particularly when Theo found himself deeply invested in his latest obsession: the history of Christianity, and specifically, Jesus.

"So, Granger," Theo settled into his usual chair, a sly grin already spreading across his face, "Jesus was killed because people didn't like what he was saying. Would you say he was the first victim of celebrity cancel culture?"

She raised her eyebrows, exasperated and amused in equal measure.. "Oh my gosh, Theo, what the fuck?"

"No, no, hear me out," he insisted, holding up a hand, his eyes bright with excitement. "Jesus stirred up controversy, got a huge following, and then they cancelled him—literally!"

She rolled her eyes but couldn't hold back a laugh. "Theo, please. He was crucified; that's a bit beyond cancel culture."

Unfazed, Theo shrugged. "Fine, I'll give you that. But here's an even better question," he said, leaning forward as if about to unveil some grand revelation. "Which do you think was more culturally significant—'Single Ladies' by Beyoncé, or the entire Renaissance?"

Hermione opened her mouth to respond, then closed it, genuinely pondering. After a moment, she burst into laughter. "It's definitely Beyoncé."

Theo clapped his hands in exaggerated delight. "Knew it. Cultural icon," he declared, then, with no warning, launched into an off-key, offbeat rendition of "Single Ladies"—or at least, his approximation of it. "All my ladies get it done, I see you, I do the same, take it to another level, no passengers on my plane!"

Hermione was laughing so hard she could barely breathe. "Theo, that's not even close to the lyrics!"

"Granger," he said, pausing and looking at her with a puzzled expression, "what's an aeroplane anyway?"

She shook her head, trying to compose herself. "Fucking hell, Theo, it was definitely a mistake to lend you my MP3 player."

He grinned. "Wrong. It's the greatest decision you've ever made. Now, I have to ask—who is this Elvis chap? And what exactly is a 'Hound Dog'?"

Meanwhile, Blaise took a different approach. He'd stroll in every morning, unflappable and dripping with sass, and stand at her bedside like a personal cheerleader with a penchant for colourful affirmations.

"Good morning, you stunning stack of sunshine!" he'd announce, his voice dripping with a theatrically deep sincerity. "Tits up, bitch. Go be the reason the Devil is nervous today!"

Hermione couldn't help but snort with laughter, the combination of his words and his delivery breaking through her early-morning drowsiness. She grinned up at him. "Thank you, Blaise. That... is actually helpful."

"Of course it is," he said, flipping his scarf over his shoulder. "I live to serve. And listen—today, you're going to radiate so much fierce energy that everyone within a ten-mile radius is going to spontaneously develop better taste."

Some mornings, he'd even deliver one-liners tailored specifically for her current hospital attire. "Listen, you divine little powerhouse," he'd say with a smirk, "this hospital gown may be as tragic as a failed potion, but it's about the energy you bring to it. And you, Mia cara, are working it."

Their antics and endless banter had become the best part of her day. Theo and Blaise's daily visit was a ritual—a time for laughter, for distractions from her struggles, and a reminder of life beyond her recovery. They'd often arrive with snacks they weren't supposed to bring into the hospital, and they'd conduct little "lessons" in Muggle history based on whatever new tidbit Theo had managed to dig up online.

"Did you know, Granger," he'd say one day, eyes gleaming with newfound knowledge, "that some people think Shakespeare didn't write his own plays? What a scandal!"

"Yes, Theo, I did know that," she'd respond, amused.

Theo leaned back, crossing his arms with a pleased smile. "Fascinating stuff. Next thing you know, you'll tell me that America once had a reality TV star for a president."

"Actually—" she began, but Theo cut her off with an exaggerated gasp.

"Merlin! You're joking! The Muggle world is a wild place."

Some days, when she felt exhausted or frustrated with her slow progress, Theo and Blaise's antics were the only thing that lifted her spirits. They would keep her laughing until her cheeks hurt, sharing ridiculous stories, challenging each other to Muggle trivia, and generally filling the room with so much energy and warmth that she could almost forget the hospital walls around her.

One afternoon, as Blaise helped her prop up her pillows, he leaned in with a serious expression. "Remember, you radiant queen of resilience, today is about reminding this place that you're stronger than all their potions combined. You hear me?"

Hermione rolled her eyes, her mouth curling into a smile despite herself. "Yes, Blaise, I hear you."

"And don't let anyone forget it," he added with a wink, then nudged Theo, who was busy rifling through her MP3 player.

"Oi, Theo," he called, "if you're going to keep torturing us with your off-key singing, at least do it to a proper song."

Theo raised an eyebrow, turning to Blaise with a smug grin. "Fine, I'll sing the most popular song of all time. Brace yourselves." Clearing his throat dramatically, he began belting out an even worse rendition of "Bohemian Rhapsody" while Blaise pretended to conduct him with exaggerated, sweeping motions.

"Galileo! Figaro!" Theo wailed, his voice cracking terribly, as she and Blaise dissolved into laughter.

The days stretched on, but with each visit, her spirits lifted a little more. She started to look forward to their antics, their ridiculous debates, and the curious questions Theo never seemed to run out of. As her recovery progressed, they were right there with her, celebrating every small victory. The first time she managed to stand unaided, Theo and Blaise practically threw a party right there in the hospital room, showering her with improvised confetti made from hospital forms and paper towels.

Days turned into weeks, but no matter how slow her progress felt, Theo and Blaise kept her spirits lifted. They brought a world of humour, sass, and unconditional friendship into her sterile hospital room, brightening the dull monotony with each visit. And in those moments, as laughter filled the air, Hermione felt a spark of hope—a reminder that she would get through this, and when she did, her friends would be right there beside her.

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Today's victory was small – wiggling her toes, one by one. Yet, the room erupted in cheers. Tears welled up in her eyes, a mixture of relief and gratitude. Every day was a battle, a slow, arduous climb back to normalcy. But with love as her compass and her chosen family as her strength, she knew she wouldn't face it alone.

The indignity of it all burned in her throat. Here she was, a grown woman, a witch who had faced down basilisks and Death Eaters, reduced to needing help with the most basic functions. Like a baby.

Her parents, bless their hearts, fussed over her with a tenderness that bordered on smothering. Their gentle attempts to change her diaper were a stark reminder of how far she'd fallen. A tear escaped, tracing a warm path down her cheek.

Shame battled with a fierce protectiveness within her. Shame that she couldn't care for herself, that she was a burden on the people she loved most. The protectiveness was for them – she didn't want them to see her like this, broken and vulnerable.

"Let me try," she rasped, her voice weak.

Her mother, eyes brimming with unshed tears, hesitated. "Are you sure, baby?"

She forced a smile, a pale imitation of her usual confidence. "Yes, Mummy. I can manage."

It was a lie, a desperate attempt to regain a sliver of independence. But even the smallest movement sent a jolt of pain through her, forcing her to abandon the effort.

Frustration welled up, a bitter counterpoint to the love that surrounded her. Recovering was a slow, humiliating process, and the once-proud Hermione grappled with the reality of her situation.

She felt like a failure, a burden. 

Next time I'll be braver. I'll be my own saviour. Standing on my own two feet.

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Draco paced the safehouse library, the dim light casting shadows across his face as he moved with restless energy. He'd barely slept in weeks, haunted by memories of her broken and bloodied, fighting for her life. The new healer's whispers drifted down the hall, urgent but muffled, yet every word seemed to echo in his mind. He had called on the finest healers from across the wizarding world, pulling every string and favour he'd amassed over the years. He'd even sought out obscure potions masters and old war medics, hoping one of them could ease her pain, could quicken the agonisingly slow healing process. But despite all this, the nagging question remained: was it enough? Could he truly bring her back to the fierce, brilliant woman she'd been?

Finally, unable to stand the waiting any longer, he pushed open the door to her room. The hushed voices fell silent, healers bowing slightly as they made their way out, leaving the two of them alone. Hermione's face was ashen against the stark white sheets, her skin thin and fragile like porcelain, and yet, when she saw him, her lips curved in a small smile.

"Love," she rasped, her voice barely a whisper, "you don't have to do all of this."

He moved to her bedside in an instant, sinking into the chair next to her. Taking her hand, he held it firmly, as though his touch alone could shield her from the pain. "All of this?" he murmured, brushing his thumb gently over her knuckles. His gaze met hers, intense and unyielding. "Hermione, I would do anything for you. Don't you understand that? Your pain is my pain. Your suffering... it's mine to bear, too."

A tear slipped from her eye, trailing down her cheek. Not from pain, but from the overwhelming surge of love she felt for him—a love so deep it left her breathless, even in her fragile state. "But you've done so much already," she whispered, her voice quivering. "I don't want to be... a burden."

Draco's jaw tightened, and he shook his head, his gaze fierce, almost defiant. "You are not a burden. You are my heart, my everything." His voice softened, his tone laced with unshakable resolve. "Seeing you like this... it breaks me. But I will move heaven and earth to help you heal, to bring you back to me. I'll fight for you every single day, no matter how long it takes."

Her hand trembled as she squeezed his, her eyes filling with both gratitude and a faint spark of hope. "Thank you, darling," she managed, the words barely a whisper.

He leaned down, brushing a tender kiss to her forehead, lingering as though he could infuse her with his own strength, his own will to fight. "You don't need to thank me. You're my everything. I'll be here, always. You'll never face this alone."

The days turned into weeks, and his dedication became an unbreakable lifeline. Every morning, he was there, coaxing her through the smallest exercises, celebrating each victory as though it were monumental. A simple nod, a twitch of her fingers, even the slightest shift in her posture—each one was met with words of encouragement, his voice steady, unyielding, a quiet storm of support.

Some nights, when the world was dark and silent, he would read to her, his voice a soothing balm to her restless mind. He read her passages from her favourite novels, and sometimes even his own letters—scribbled, raw thoughts he'd written to her during the darkest hours of their separation. His words painted a picture of love so vast and enduring it brought her to tears. Through his voice, she remembered who she was, remembered the strength that had carried her through countless battles.

One cold, early morning, as dawn crept through the window, he sat beside her, watching her as she stirred from sleep. She opened her eyes, still fogged with drowsiness, and saw him there, the familiar warmth in his gaze.

"Darling," she murmured, her voice still raspy, but stronger than before. "I think... I think I can try sitting up."

He stilled, his heart leaping at her words. He offered her his hand, bracing himself as she struggled to push herself up. Her arms shook, her breaths came in shallow gasps, but inch by inch, she rose until she was sitting upright, her body taut with effort.

For a moment, there was silence. Then, his face broke into a smile, a pure, unguarded expression of pride and joy. "You did it," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "I knew you could."

She leaned against him, exhausted but triumphant, her head resting on his shoulder. "I... I feel like I'm myself again," she whispered, and though her voice was weak, there was a fire in her eyes that hadn't been there in weeks.

He wrapped his arms around her, holding her close, his hand smoothing over her hair. "That's my girl," he murmured. "You're stronger than you know, my love."

Slowly, her strength began to return. The exercises grew longer, her movements more certain, her voice steadier. And every step of the way, he was there, his presence a quiet, powerful force that grounded her. When her legs gave way, he caught her. When despair threatened to overwhelm her, he reminded her of the victories, no matter how small. He never let her lose sight of how far she'd come, how much she'd endured.

One day, as the spring sun warmed the safehouse garden, she took her first steps. They were shaky, each one a battle against weakness and fatigue, but she held her head high, her gaze meeting his with a fierce determination.

He watched, his heart pounding, as she took one trembling step, then another. She stumbled, catching herself, and looked up at him with a wry smile. "See? I'm not giving up."

He crossed the space between them, taking her hands in his. "I never doubted it," he replied softly, his eyes shining. "You're unstoppable, my love."

In that moment, under the soft glow of the afternoon sun, he realised that their love, tested by darkness and pain, had emerged stronger, unbreakable. She was whole again—not the same woman she'd been, but someone braver, more resilient. And as he held her hand, Draco knew that, together, they could face anything the world threw at them.

Every scar, every setback, had only deepened his love for her, transforming it into something fierce and boundless. And with each step she took, she knew she was not just walking toward recovery, but toward a life with him—a life they would build together, stronger than ever before.

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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 colour.

Only one person could make such an entrance.

Pansy Parkinson.

With all the dramatic flair of a diva taking the stage, Pansy 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!" Pansy's 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 Pansy marched to the foot of her bed and dumped the bags with theatrical aplomb. Before she could protest, a soft flick of Pansy's wand summoned a clothing rack into the room. It wheeled over obediently, draped with garments of every possible colour and texture, each one more luxurious than the last. The sheer magnitude of it left her blinking in bewilderment.

"I brought you a new wardrobe!" Pansy 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?"

Pansy 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 Pansy had ransacked a costume shop. She nudged the box closer, grinning with satisfaction as Hermione stared.

"Go wild," Pansy 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 Pansy, 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," Pansy 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," Pansy 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 spiralling out of reach."

The vulnerability in her tone caught her off guard. She looked up at Pansy, 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, Pansy quickly regained her composure. "Anyway," she muttered, rummaging through another bag with feigned indifference. "Neville 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, Pansy placed the dog on her bed.

"Lady Lemongrass," Pansy 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."

Pansy 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 she was about to reply, the door creaked open again, revealing a sheepish-looking Neville. 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 pot. For sleep, stress… you know."

Pansy 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."

Her eyes widened as she caught Neville's embarrassed expression. She couldn't help it; laughter spilled out, weak and raspy but genuine. The idea of Neville 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," Pansy approved, nodding with satisfaction.

As the laughter faded, a comfortable silence fell over the room. Lady Lemongrass snored softly on her lap, her tiny body rising and falling with each breath. Neville 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 Pansy's 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 her 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."

She 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."

Pansy 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."

She let out a soft laugh, lifting the wig as Pansy's brow arched with smug approval.

"Oh, and don't worry," Pansy 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 tense recovery, had blossomed into a haven of unlikely camaraderie. Four families, bound by circumstance and a fierce love for her, found a way to create a makeshift family of their own.

Laughter echoed through the halls, a stark contrast to the sterile silence that had once hung heavy. Pansy, surprisingly adept at deflecting worry with humour, kept everyone entertained with her cutting wit and outrageous stories. Neville, ever the nurturer, brewed calming teas and concocted fantastical pain-relief salves (some more effective than others). Draco, his face etched with worry lines he hadn't known he possessed, would spend hours simply reading aloud to her, his deep voice a soothing balm. Even her parents, their initial fear slowly melting into cautious hope, joined in the impromptu dance parties that erupted after particularly successful physiotherapy sessions.

Hermione, though her body remained fragile, revelled in the unexpected warmth. The shared meals, filled with laughter and whispered secrets, were a testament to the strength they found in their unity. Evenings were spent huddled around the fireplace, arguing playfully about the merits of pumpkin pasties versus treacle tart, or debating the best way to smoke the "medicinal herbs" Neville procured (much to his initial disgust). The weed, though initially met with scepticism, proved to be a surprisingly effective muscle relaxant, leaving her giggling uncontrollably as she attempted (and failed) to master the art of walking again.

These months, though tinged with the ever-present worry for her full recovery, were a time of unexpected connection. Amidst the chaos and uncertainty, they found solace in their shared purpose, forging a bond that transcended past prejudices and wartime allegiances.

She endured three harrowing brain surgeries and a gruelling skull reconstruction surgery. Each procedure left her weaker, her once vibrant spirit dimmed by the relentless assault on her body. The sight of her fragile form, hooked up to machines, haunted those who loved her, a painful reminder of the fragility of life and the enduring strength required to fight for it.

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The soft morning light filtered through the curtains, casting a warm glow over the small hospital room. She stirred, her eyelids fluttering open slowly, blinking against the light. As her eyes adjusted, she saw Narcissa Malfoy seated beside her bed, her usually composed face etched with a mixture of worry and relief. The sight of Narcissa's tear-streaked face was unexpected, and she blinked in surprise.

"Good morning?" her voice came out hoarse, strained from disuse.

Narcissa's breath hitched, and in an instant, she was sobbing, her hand trembling as she reached for hers. "Oh, Hermione... my beautiful girl," Narcissa whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "I'm so, so glad you're alive, that you're still here with us."

Her lips quirked into a small smile. Despite the pain in her body, she felt the sincerity of Narcissa's words. "Thank you for visiting me, Narcissa. It means a lot."

"I couldn't wait any longer," Narcissa said, brushing away her tears as best she could. "Draco told me immediately what had happened, but I didn't want to intrude before... I just—" Her voice wavered. "I couldn't bear the thought of losing you."

She squeezed Narcissa's hand gently. "You're not in my way. It's nice to have you here."

At that moment, Draco entered the room, his expression softening as he took in the sight of his mother and Hermione together. Relief flickered across his face, though he tried to mask it with his usual calm demeanour.

"Mother?" his voice held a note of surprise. "What are you doing here so early?"

"She's here for me," she replied before Narcissa could speak, offering him a reassuring smile. "It's okay, Draco."

Narcissa wiped at her face again, regaining some of her composure. "I was just telling Hermione how much I've been thinking about her. And, I—" Narcissa's face lit up with a rare softness. "Jane taught me how to make macaroni and cheese. She said it was your childhood favourite."

He raised an eyebrow, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Macaroni and cheese, really?" he said, with a touch of humour. "Well, I hope you enjoyed the lesson, because I'm starving."

She chuckled softly, the sound raspy but genuine. "I'll have some too," she said, a playful glint in her eyes.

As they ate together, the tension in the room began to ease. They talked about everything and nothing, falling into a comfortable rhythm. Narcissa recounted stories from her own childhood—tales she had never imagined hearing from the poised matriarch. He added his own quips, sharing snippets of his latest ventures, and Hermione found herself smiling more than she had in days, her heart warm despite the pain she was carrying.

When the meal was finished, Narcissa stood, brushing invisible crumbs from her elegant dress. "I should go now," she said, though the reluctance was clear in her voice. "But I'll be back soon."

Her smile was soft, but filled with gratitude. "Thank you for coming, Narcissa. It really means a lot to me."

Narcissa's eyes gleamed with affection as she looked at her, then at Draco. "You're my daughter. It's my duty to be here for you."

Before she could respond, he stepped forward and gently took his mother's hand. "Thank you, Mother," he said, his voice uncharacteristically soft, the emotions of the moment betraying him. "For everything."

Narcissa's lips trembled slightly, and she gave his hand a firm squeeze. "I love you, both of you," she said, her voice unsteady. "I'll see you soon."

With one last smile, Narcissa turned and quietly left the room, closing the door behind her, leaving them alone once more.

They sat in silence for a moment, the weight of the conversation lingering in the air. Finally, she broke the silence, her brow furrowing in mild disbelief. "Did she just say... 'I love you'?"

He let out a soft, almost incredulous laugh. "Yeah, she did. That's a first."

She turned her head slightly to look at him, her voice filled with sympathy. "Oh, Draco... I'm so sorry."

"You don't have to be," he said, shaking his head. "She really means it when she says you're like a daughter to her. She's been bragging about you to her friends. I think she loves you more than she lets on."

She gave a small, astonished smile. "And... she loves you too."

His expression softened, and he looked down at the floor, still processing the rare emotional moment with his mother. "Apparently," he murmured, the word filled with years of unspoken longing for that affection.

After a pause, he cleared his throat, his tone shifting slightly. "I hope you don't mind... She's been anxious about you. She wanted to see you as soon as possible."

She chuckled, though there was a note of confusion in her voice. "But... Why is my mum teaching her how to cook?"

A smirk played on his lips, and he leaned back slightly, his eyes twinkling. "Oh, they've become 'besties,' apparently."

She stared at him in shock. "What the actual—?"

"Yep," he said with a sigh, though his smile remained. "They're thick as thieves now."

She leaned her head back against the pillow, shaking her head in disbelief but with an amused smile playing on her lips. "Well, I suppose stranger things have happened."

He reached over and took her hand in his, his touch warm and grounding. "I guess that's what happens when you bring two stubborn women together."

She squeezed his hand gently. "Maybe... but I'm glad they're in our corner."

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Half a year later, she stood by the window, the setting sun casting a warm glow on the room. Her reflection – the reflection of a woman who had fought her way back from the brink – stared back at her. The scars, both physical and emotional, were a constant reminder of the ordeal she'd endured. Yet, amidst the shadows, a spark of determination flickered, a testament to her unwavering spirit.

He entered the room, his gaze immediately drawn to her. The playful banter that had become their norm faltered for a moment, replaced by a deeper unspoken understanding.

"You look beautiful," he said softly, his voice laced with a reverence that sent a shiver down her spine.

She turned, a hesitant smile gracing her lips. "Do I?" she replied, her voice barely a whisper.

He closed the distance between them, his hand reaching out to gently tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear. The touch, a feather-light caress, sent a tremor through her.

"More than you know, doll" he murmured, his eyes searching hers.

For a long moment, they stood there, a silent conversation passing between them. The weight of unspoken truths, the fear, the gratitude, all hung in the air.

Then, with a quiet determination, she stepped forward, closing the remaining space between them. Her hand reached up, her fingers brushing against the soft fabric of his shirt.

"Draco," she began, her voice husky with unspoken emotions. "There's something I want..."

The words trailed off, replaced by a meaningful look. Her touch, hesitant at first, grew bolder as she traced patterns on his chest. The unspoken message was clear, a silent invitation laced with a vulnerability that left him breathless.

A slow smile spread across his face, a mixture of relief and adoration. He leaned into her touch, his hand finding its way to the small of her back, pulling her closer.

As they kissed, his hands began to wander. He traced his fingers along the curve of her waist and up to her breasts, cupping them gently and feeling her nipples harden under his touch. She let out a soft moan, her hands reaching up to tangle in his hair.

He broke the kiss, his lips trailing down her neck and across her collarbone. She tilted her head back, giving him better access to the sensitive skin. He took advantage, nibbling and licking at her neck and ear, eliciting more moans from her.

With a sudden movement, he lifted her legs and wrapped them around his waist. She wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him closer. He ground his hips against her, feeling her heat through their clothes.

Her hands began to tug at his shirt, pulling it over his head. She ran her hands over his chest and abs, her fingers tracing the lines of muscle. He did the same, his fingers skimming over her soft skin.

His mouth found her breasts, his tongue swirling around her nipples. She arched her back, pressing herself closer to him. His hands moved down to her thighs, hiking up her dress and sliding her knickers down her legs.

She reached down, her fingers wrapping around his cock. She stroked him up and down, her grip tight. He let out a low groan, his hips bucking into her touch.

 He was already hard, and she could feel him throbbing in her hand. 

She wrapped her hand around his cock and began to stroke him slowly. She could feel his body tense with pleasure, and she increased her speed, stroking him faster and harder.

He let out a low moan, and she could feel him getting closer to orgasm. She stroked him faster and faster, and soon he was panting heavily, his body trembling with pleasure.

With a loud cry, he came, shooting his load all over her hand. She smiled, pleased with herself, and leaned in to kiss him again.

"Fuuuck doll", he whispered into her neck.

He looked up at her, and their eyes met. He could see the desire in her eyes, and it only made him harder. He leaned down, laying her on the floor and began to kiss her inner thighs, working his way up to her cunt. She let out a soft moan as his lips made contact with her skin.

He began to kiss and lick her cunt, his tongue exploring every inch of her. She tasted sweet, like honey and musk. He could feel her getting wetter with every passing second. He slipped a finger inside of her, and she let out a loud moan. He began to finger her slowly, while still licking and kissing her kitty.

She couldn't take it anymore. She reached down, and grabbed his head, pulling him closer. She began to grind her hips, meeting his fingers and tongue with every thrust. She was moaning loudly now, lost in the pleasure.

"Sweetness, please" she pleaded with him.

He knew she was close. He could feel it. He could feel her muscles clenching around his fingers, and her breathing becoming more erratic. He curled his fingers, and hit her G-spot. She let out a loud, guttural moan as she came.

But he wasn't done yet. He wanted more. He wanted to make her scream with pleasure. He stood up, and picked her up, holding her above his waist. She let out a surprised yelp, but then she saw the desire in his eyes, and she knew what he wanted.

He began to fuck her harder, and she wrapped her legs around him, meeting his thrust with her thrust. They were both moaning now, lost in the pleasure. He could feel himself getting closer to orgasm, and he knew she could too.

He reached down, and began to play with her clit. She let out a loud moan as he touched it. He could feel her muscles contracting around his cock, and he knew she was close.

He let out a loud moan as he came, filling her cum with his seed. She let out a loud moan as she came, her pussy clenching around his cock. They both stood there, their bodies glistening with sweat.

"Every day, I'm going to fuck a baby into you my love, that is a promise." he said softly, his voice filled with determination.

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The safehouse had become so much more than a refuge; it was a sanctuary where healing, love, and friendship could grow—fragile yet unbreakable, like the dawn after a long, unyielding night. Each room, once cold and clinical, was now filled with the remnants of laughter, quiet conversations, and tentative steps toward hope. It was here that they rediscovered each other, and here that they fought their hardest battles—not against an enemy, but against their own fears and scars.

He sat beside her as she slept, her breaths soft and steady, each one a relief, a quiet reminder of the life that still pulsed through her, despite all she'd endured. Months of recovery had left her pale, her body thinner and her hair falling in gentle, unruly waves around her face. He reached out, barely grazing her hand with his fingertips, afraid even the smallest pressure might be too much. And yet, beneath her frail appearance, he knew there was a quiet strength, a resilience he'd always admired. It was that strength that had drawn him to her over the years, slowly, almost without him realising it.

Their relationship had been one of gradual evolution. It hadn't started with love; it had started with survival, with shared traumas and the silent knowledge that they were both irrevocably changed by the war. Their marriage had been a practical alliance, something convenient and unemotional—at least at first. But with each late-night conversation, each shared look across the room, their walls began to crumble. They understood each other's scars without needing to see them, both carrying the weight of a world they never expected to inherit. Somewhere along the way, love had woven itself into the quiet spaces between them.

Now, that love bound them more tightly than ever, an anchor in the storm. He leaned forward, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead, the words slipping out in a whisper he wasn't sure she could hear. "I'm here," he said softly, as much for himself as for her. He needed to say it, to make it real. The months of watching her fight through surgeries, watching her fight to stay alive, had taken their toll on him, and saying the words aloud felt like a lifeline, tethering him to this moment.

A soft knock on the door broke the silence, and he looked up to see Pansy standing in the doorway. She was watching them with a wry smile, but her eyes were soft, betraying her own worry and care. "You're hovering," she teased, her tone light but affectionate. She walked over, crossing her arms as she gave him a look of faux exasperation. "Let the poor girl breathe, will you?"

He rolled his eyes but couldn't hide his small smile. "I'm not hovering," he muttered, though they both knew better.

"Right," Pansy replied, taking a seat on the other side of Hermione's bed. She leaned back, crossing her legs as she looked at her friend, the banter giving way to quiet concern. "She's strong, you know," Pansy said after a moment, her voice softening. "Stronger than the rest of us put together."

Draco nodded, a mixture of pride and worry tightening his chest. "I know," he replied, though he couldn't shake the fear that something might still happen. Every time he closed his eyes, he could see her in that hospital bed, hooked up to machines, fighting for every breath. "She's been through enough," he said quietly, the words rough with emotion. "I just want her to be okay."

Pansy reached out, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "She will be," she said with a fierce certainty, her gaze unyielding. "And so will you. You've got each other—that's more than most people ever get."

He gave her a small nod of thanks, and as Pansy left them alone, he felt a glimmer of hope take root. They had made it this far, and as long as they had each other, they could make it a little farther. The safehouse, once cold and lifeless, had become their sanctuary, a place where they could rebuild their lives piece by piece.

Over the following months, warmth and laughter seeped back into the walls, and healing became their shared mission. Draco took it upon himself to read to her every night, a ritual of sorts, choosing stories he knew would make her smile or distract her from the pain. His voice, low and steady, was a constant presence, his words wrapping around her like a soft blanket. Sometimes, she'd fall asleep before he even finished a chapter, her head resting on his shoulder, but he'd keep reading anyway, whispering the words as if they were a spell that could protect them both.

The others, too, found a rhythm in the safehouse. Pansy's sharp wit kept everyone grounded, her sense of humour defusing the tension with well-timed jabs and outrageous anecdotes. She never let anyone wallow too long, and if someone seemed down, she'd pull them into an impromptu dance party in the kitchen, shouting for them to "move like they mean it." Even her teasing Draco about his brooding became a kind of comfort, a reminder that they hadn't lost everything.

Neville became the quiet caretaker, brewing teas and experimenting with herbal remedies that ranged from mildly effective to outright bizarre, each one given with hopeful encouragement. Despite his sometimes disastrous experiments, his presence was a soothing balm. He would sit with Hermione when Draco needed rest, quietly tending to her, reading from his endless collection of botany books, his steady kindness filling the room like a gentle rain.

And then there were her parents, who visited as often as they could, bringing laughter and music, their love for her unyielding despite the trials they'd all endured. They joined the dance parties, led debates on the best way to make treacle tart, and even—after much persuasion—took a turn with the "medicinal herbs" that Neville had reluctantly agreed to provide. The herbs, a surprising but effective muscle relaxant, left Hermione giggling uncontrollably as she tried to master the art of walking again.

As Hermione grew stronger, so did their bond. Late at night, as they lay together in the quiet of the safehouse, she would reach for his hand, her voice filled with wonder and gratitude. "You stayed," she'd whisper, as if marvelling at the simple fact that he hadn't left.

He would kiss her forehead, his heart aching with love and relief. "I always will," he'd reply, the words a promise as much as a prayer. And in those moments, he knew that no matter what they faced, they would face it together.

In time, their love, once quiet and tentative, blossomed into something resilient and true. It was not a fairy tale; it was something real, hard-won, and deeply rooted in all they'd survived. And as the sun rose over the safehouse each morning, they would step into the light, hand in hand, ready to face whatever came next—together.

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The bittersweet goodbye had just passed, leaving a warmth in its wake as her parents stepped out of the safehouse, and she felt her heart tugging gently as she watched them leave. The safehouse, once cold and sterile, filled with the soft hum of healing spells and whispered reassurances, now pulsed with a familiar, comforting energy. It was no longer a place of isolation but a sanctuary of belonging, filled with those who had become more than friends—they were her found family.

With a sigh, she leaned her head against his shoulder at the head of the table, feeling his arm instinctively wrap around her. Even with her lingering weakness from the ordeal, she felt a deep peace settle over her as she took in the scene around her. The table was laden with delicious dishes, a feast prepared with care by Luna, who hummed a cheerful tune as she bustled around with a ladle in one hand and a handful of herbs in the other.

Neville, always the loving husband, was nervously fussing over Pansy, who put on a show of dramatic indignation. Lysander, with all the curious energy of a toddler, had decided that the tablecloth was in need of his artistic touch and had smeared it with colourful, erratic smudges that resembled miniature explosions of colour. Pansy, ever the dramatic, was mid-rant, waving her hands as she declared the tablecloth "utterly ruined" while Neville rambled about the medicinal properties of beetroot juice, insisting that it was quite handy for stain removal if one only knew the right spells.

"Really, Pansy, a bit of beetroot never hurt anyone," Neville was saying, attempting to dab at a particularly vibrant streak while Pansy snatched the cloth away with a glare.

Luna, watching them with her usual serene amusement, simply patted Pansy's hand. "Don't worry, Pansy dear," she said in her soft, airy tone, "a little charmwork and it'll be as good as new. Besides, I rather like it—it looks rather... expressive now, don't you think?"

The room burst into laughter, her own voice mingling with the others in a sound that was bright and full of life. The safehouse had never felt like this before. Once a place of silent struggle and guarded hearts, it now seemed alive, buzzing with warmth and laughter. Her heart swelled with gratitude for this unlikely band of people who had chosen each other, scars and all, through love and loyalty.

Her gaze travelled around the table, lingering on each face, each soul that had stitched her back together. Pansy, still holding the "ruined" tablecloth with an exaggerated look of despair, caught her eye and winked, her sharp wit and fierce protectiveness shining in that playful glance. Pansy had been by her side through every dark day, offering snarky commentary and steadfast loyalty, becoming the sister she never knew she needed.

Neville, ever the gentle giant with his tender, unassuming kindness, now tried to wipe beetroot off Lysander's face, earning an enthusiastic squeal from the little one. She smiled at the sight. Neville had a way of soothing anyone, and his quiet strength had been a balm to her during her hardest moments, his soft words of encouragement reminding her that she was not alone.

Then there was Luna, sweet and ethereal Luna, who moved about the room with the effortless grace of a faerie. She was chatting animatedly about the "cosmic energy" of beetroot as she stirred a pot of something steaming and fragrant. Luna's optimism had become a beacon in the bleakness, a constant reminder that light could be found even in the darkest places. Her wisdom, always wrapped in a touch of whimsy, had helped her see the beauty in small, unexpected moments.

Across the table, he caught her eye, a soft, knowing smile playing at his lips. He had been her rock, her protector, the anchor that kept her steady even when the world had turned upside down. She squeezed his hand, a silent thank you for every sleepless night he'd spent watching over her, every wordless promise he had kept. His love was fierce yet tender, protective yet freeing, and she felt it in every shared look, every gentle touch.

"Look, look!" Lysander's high-pitched voice echoed through the room as he held up his stained hands, beaming with pride. 

Pansy snorted, rolling her eyes but unable to hide the affectionate smile tugging at her lips. "A masterpiece of mess, maybe," she teased, reaching out to ruffle his hair, much to his delight.

The laughter grew, filling every corner of the safehouse, transforming it into a true haven. She realised with a sudden, overwhelming clarity that this—this was where she belonged. Not in a perfect life, but in this messy, imperfect, beautiful world, with these people who had become her family. Here, amidst the chaos and laughter, the love and the loyalty, she had found a home.

As dinner began, the conversations flowed, filling the room with warmth and stories. Neville began recounting a particularly funny incident from his last herbology experiment gone wrong, while Luna passionately defended the intelligence of Nargles and their effect on plant growth.

Draco chuckled beside her, joining in the banter as he exchanged playful jabs with Pansy about their competitive days at Hogwarts. It felt like every wound, every scar, was softened by the healing power of laughter, of memories shared and new ones made.

When the meal ended, they sat around, basking in the afterglow of good food and better company. The sky outside darkened into a deep blue, stars beginning to sprinkle across the night. Luna, with her mystical air, insisted they all go stargazing, claiming that tonight's alignment was particularly auspicious.

Out in the garden, blankets spread across the grass, they lay side by side, gazing up at the sky. The cool night air was refreshing, the quiet hum of nature enveloping them in peaceful silence. She felt his hand slip into hers, his thumb grazing the back of her hand in soft circles, grounding her. Beside her, Pansy lay with her head on Neville's chest, eyes half-closed, while Lysander curled up beside Luna, who softly hummed a lullaby to him.

After a while, Luna's voice drifted through the darkness. "You know, they say that every star is a story, each one a life that once was. They burn and fade, but their light remains."

Pansy scoffed lightly, but there was a fondness in her tone. "Leave it to you, darling, to make everything sound so… poetic."

"Maybe there's a bit of poetry in all of us," Luna replied with a smile, her gaze soft as she looked around at each of them. "We're each here for a reason, each star in our own right, shining through the dark." 

In that moment, as they lay beneath the vast expanse of the night sky, surrounded by love and laughter, she felt a profound sense of peace wash over her. The safehouse, this temporary refuge, had given her more than safety—it had given her hope, strength, and a family. It was a messy, imperfect, utterly wonderful life, filled with joy and sorrow, laughter and tears, and she wouldn't trade it for anything.

She squeezed his hand, and as he turned to her, his eyes shining with the same feeling of contentment, she whispered, "This… it feels like forever."

He smiled, brushing a kiss against her forehead, his voice a low murmur in the dark. "It is forever. As long as we're together."

They lay there, wrapped in the warmth of each other's presence, knowing that no matter what came next, they had each other. And in the quiet of that night, she understood that home wasn't just a place—it was here, in the arms of those who loved her, in this found family that had stitched together her broken pieces and made her whole again.