They do a celebration with the Weasleys and Neville and Hannah a few days before Harry's actual birthday; on the day of, it's a smaller affair—much more his style, just Andy, Ted, Tonks, Percy, Teddy, and of course his dads and his sisters and his soul mate.
(He loves Molly and everyone so much for kicking up a fuss about him, but then he's never been much for being the center of attention; and now more than ever, any such positive atmospheres feel like a forced façade.)
(It's nice, just being at home with the people he loves the most—the people who know he's not trying to bring down the mood, but that he genuinely can't bring himself to pretend like anything else matters when matters are so grave.)
Hermione lets out her first laugh since April when Teddy smashes his own face in the frosting of a slice of cake, breathing just a bit easier when it draws a smile from Harry, too.
Remus and Sirius look on with wistful expressions—so proud, that their boy has made it to adulthood.
(So terrified, for what this next year will bring. So sorrowful, that James and Lily aren't here to see it.)
They hadn't fought any further about Remus returning to Hogwarts; Sirius doesn't like it, but he wouldn't love Remus if he weren't the kind of wizard who would put himself in such a volatile position knowingly in order to defend the most innocent of them all, to stand between children and darkness.
(At the end of the day, he knows it's not his decision.)
Andy tells stories of her own memories from Harry's infancy, the times James had come over to hang out with his and Sirius's favorite aunt, the few times a five year old Tonks had accidentally almost dropped him were it not for a well-aimed cushioning charm.
Luna curls into his side, always one for physical contact, and desperate to get as much in as possible now, before she's again left alone when they go off on their Horcrux hunt.
"Is there anything else you want to do to celebrate, pup?" Sirius asks, smiling down at his son with such love in his eyes and joy in his smile that the age and wear of thirteen years in Azkaban nearly disappears.
"I think—" Harry blows a deep breath through his lips as he pushes back from the table. "Let's destroy the horcruxes."
Hermione's jaw drops. "I'm sorry, what?"
"I mean it." Her brother's eyes are beseeching, willing her to understand. "If we can't find any, or if something goes wrong…I need to know that at least the ones we've found have been taken care of. Until we get rid of them, nothing we've done so far makes any difference."
"Such a disaster bi, that one," Tonks mutters with a snort. "Gets it from his father."
Remus rolls his eyes. "I resent that."
"Truth hurts, Moony my love," Sirius comments cheerfully. "But it's one of your most endearing qualities."
It's the best day in the worst time—Hermione finds herself exhausted and overwhelmed with emotion, the love and fear and sorrow swirling together and consuming her.
Harry notices er fatigue, spots the tilt of her eyebrows that means she's trying not to feel; he cocks his head at her with worry. Gives her the look—the one that means if she needs out they'll disappear, right now. "Unless you want to wait—"
"No, we should do it," Hermione tells him, forcing a smile onto her face. "You're right, it'll feel better once we know there's something that's better than it was. And it's a good idea to do it now, while we have support, rather than not knowing what we're up against alone. Especially given that the diary already, you know, actively tried to kill you and Ginny."
His face scrunches up with distaste. "Yeah, that was not awesome. Would be nice to make it a little bit longer without any murder attempts."
They make their way into Ted's office, which is really more of an eclectic work room he uses to attempt to fuse magic and muggle.
Everyone braces themselves as Hermione pulls the basilisk fangs out of her beaded bag. "Be very careful, please," she reminds them nervously.
"Can you imagine, if I survived this far and then got taken out by a fang not even still in the basilisk," Harry mutters.
Sirius sends a glare his way. "I would learn necromancy so I could bring you back and kill you myself."
"So would Voldemort," Harry comments helpfully.
Remus turns to Hermione, ever exasperated with the two of them. "And I thought it would be the lycanthropy to make me age prematurely."
He moves to lay out the locket and diadem, and they all stare with trepidation.
"How do you reckon we open it?" Harry wonders aloud.
Remus and Hermione share an ever-tired glance.
Hermione moves to braid her hair back as she speaks. "Well, given that it's the heir of Slytherin's locket with a snake shaped like an s for Slytherin, who was the most famous parselmouth of all time, and made into a horcrux by someone who thought himself the only parslemouth alive and more special than anyone else because of his connection to Slytherin, whose house's emblem is a snake, and made the entrance to his own secret private lair guarded by a parslemouth-requiring spell, I'm personally going to go ahead and assume you'll use parslemouth."
Harry makes a face. "You may have a point." He makes toward it before swivelling to look backward. "You should do the locket, Dad," he says quietly, biting his lip as he looks up at Sirius. "In Regulus's honor. Poetic justice, or whatever."
Sirius nods slowly, reaching to tightly grip one of the fangs.
Harry moves forward, clearing his throat before hesitantly hissing in the familiar tongue. "Open."
The locket swings open, without a creak despite its age, and a wispy form rises above it to face them as Harry steps back.
"You failed me," a ghostly apparition accuses.
It's someone Hermione's never seen before, but she doesn't have to have to know who it is.
(The dark waves, high cheekbones, the familiar gray of his eyes that's somehow a dominant trait in the Black line—)
"Reg," Sirius whispers, gutted. "Reggie, I'm so sorry."
"No amount of apologizing makes up for letting me die," Regulus bites out. "You're a failure as a brother, as a son, as a best friend—as a father. Everyone in your life would be better off without you. You should just give up now, before you can fail anyone else."
A pained expression rocks across his brother's face, but his grip on the fang remains steady. "I'm doing this for you. So He can't do what he did to you to anyone else." He steels his jaw. "And the real Reg knows that, wherever he is in whatever life comes after this one."
Swallowing heavily, he takes a step forward and stabs the fang down into the locket with a practiced aim.
The horcrux-Regulus screams, so realistically that Sirius falls to his knees. Remus moves to his side, drawing his arms around him tight, letting him fall apart in the embrace.
A moment later, Sirius pulls himself and then his husband to their feet, unashamedly turning back to the rest of them despite the swollen look of his eyes. "Let's get the other one done too, then."
"Draco found it…it should be you, Mia."
Hermione sighs but agrees. She traces a hand along the diadem gently. "It's so sad, the way the world works—such beautiful things destroyed for corrupt men to feel powerful. This is one of the most important artifacts in British magical history, something so incredible that could turn the tide in a war—and it's been corrupted and made useless because one man needed to feel like mortality itself is under his control."
She bites her lip, frustration and sorrow making her angry, and without giving the horcrux a chance to fight back, just—slams the basilisk fang downward with all her strength, forcing it through the delicate metal until a viscous black substance begins to pour out of it.
The diadem snaps, where she'd stabbed it, the vitality and luster and beauty draining away, and all that's left is some woven once-wondrous silver scraps.
And she lets herself half-fall onto the armchair, feeling empty despite the lack of fight; Harry and Sirius are at her side instantly, and they all just let themselves feel it, for a bit—the toll this time is already taking on their minds, their bodies.
(Their souls.)
Sofia peeks her head around the door frame, wide eyes staring at where they're all sprawled around the room, drained and disheveled. "What did you do?"
"We had to get rid of some dark objects, but everything is fine," Remus promises her, rubbing at his tired eyes. "Did you need something, sweetheart?"
The girl nods self-importantly. "There's an owl! For Percy. It won't go away."
Percy sighs, bags beneath his eyes heavy. "Was it a dark blue envelope?"
"Yep!"
"Work, then." He squeezes Tonks's hand as he gets to his feet. "I'll go deal with it. Hopefully it won't take me too long."
He disappears up the stairs, leaving them all to wonder what it could be—what new horrors the next day might bring.
They find a safe place for all of the now useless horcrux husks, feeling both relief and trepidation.
(Two more, though—just two more. They're close, it feels like they might actually make it, now.)
"Can 'ou believe I made it to theventeen?" Harry asks through a mouthful of his second helping of cake, looking genuinely baffled by the prospect. "I really never thought I'd last this long, what with everyone and everything trying to kill me. My own brain not wanting to be here, sometimes."
Hermione swallows heavily, throat thick with emotion. "I'm so fucking proud of you. It's incredibly that you have, and I'm—so grateful to have you. I couldn't do it without you."
Harry leans his head onto her shoulder, and she stacks her own atop his. "Back at you. I'm really glad we're both still here."
And neither of them ever thought it would be true, but he really is—and so is she.
"I'm excited for our adventure," she says. "Not really, obviously, but—you know." They're quiet for a beat. "I already have everything packed, just in case, so that we're ready whenever we need to leave. And everything ready in case of emergency."
"I would have literally been murdered so long ago without you," Harry acknowledges, eyebrows raised with how impressed he is. "Is that why I couldn't find the cloak this morning?"
"Yes—why were you looking for the cloak this morning?"
He shrugs with a guilty smile. "No reason in particular."
"You're a dirty rotten liar, Harry Potter." Bumping his shoulder with her own, Hermione reaches to pour another cup of tea. "Fine, then, I'll get it out of you eventually.
They're still discussing the impending year when Percy finds them moments later, looking harried.
"What's wrong?" Hermione asks warily. "You only get that look when the world goes to shit. Or Tonks offers to cook dinner."
"I don't know about to shit," Percy frowns, "but the minister is demanding to speak to you both. I tried to put it off, but he's insisting it happen today now that you're both of age—Ron has to be there, too."
"Scrimgeour? What does he want with us?" Harry wonders aloud.
"Dumbledore's left you three things in his will."
"Course we can't escape him even now," Hermione mutters, frustration leaking into her voice.
Harry's face scrunches up with confusion. "Why would he leave us things?"
"Because he was a controlling narcissist who needed everyone to know he was the one masterminding everything," she glowers. Letting out a deep breath, she looks up at the ceiling. "I mean, they're probably necessary for defeating Voldemort, whatever they are. But he could've given them to us when he was still alive if he weren't such a megalomaniac."
Harry purses his lips thoughtfully. "You're not wrong. Guess we might as well get the free stuff now, though."
She reluctantly agrees, and they find themselves at the Burrow not long after, Sirius refusing to allow any outsiders into their home who could potentially compromise their security and put any of their family at risk.
Ron looks very confused to have been included, which pisses Hermione off all over again—that this boy who deserves all of the love and acknowledgement in the world received so little attention from the headmaster who'd been integral in their lives for years that he didn't even believe the man knew he existed.
And the gifts don't make sense or come with any explanation, of course, because that would simply be too easy for someone like Albus Dumbledore.
She gets a children's' book of fairytales, which—she loves books, of course, but it's also an odd bequest. They're stories she knows, not that Dumbledore would have any idea about that, but the first thing she'd done upon learning she was a witch was consume everything about magical culture and history and society.
(As an eleven year old, the fairytales seemed critical to know.)
And even if she hadn't read them then, Draco adores them, and she's caught him immersing himself in Beedle the Bard more than once over the years, when things get rough and he needs the familiar comfort.
So she's understandably confused by the present.
Perhaps even more baffling are Ron's deluminator (why on earth was that so important as to be Dumbledore's last request?) and the sword of Gryffindor, which Dumbledore must've known protocol would prevent them from receiving.
It only takes her a moment to put it together, being that they've only just destroyed the horcruxes hours before—the sword must've become imbibed with venom during second year, and Dumbeldore was attempting to provide them with a means of destroying the dark objects.
But there wasn't a chance in the world that the ministry would allow a teenager, even one now of age, to have such a precious historic artifact—even Dumbledore wasn't so blissfully wishful as to think such a thing. So there must be a backup plan in place, or something—some reason why he even bothered to write it into the will to begin with.
(Even then, she finds herself annoyed at his memory—this is all the most powerful wizard in the world could leave them to fight against the evil at the door? How did he expect them to stand a wisp of a chance?)
/
The chaos doesn't stop, of course, what with the wedding the next day.
Everything feels electric from the moment they wake up; Hermione's in it, so of course she has to be there early, Harry looking far too amused about it for her liking.
Gabrielle is the maid of honor, but too excited and jittery herself to do much in the way of comfort, so Ginny and Hermione take turns running around and bringing snacks and mimosas in equal measure to Fleur, her mother, and Molly, all of whom are both thrilled and entirely overwhelmed.
Even magically, things like makeup and hair take time, so they've been at it for hours by the time the guys show up. Ginny shoos her brothers away and Hermione glares at Cedric, laughing and cracking jokes about her still not being a morning person.
That is, she glares until Viktor appears behind him, at which point she runs to hug him excitedly. "You're here!"
"I'm just saying, you never greet me like that," Cedric mutters teasingly.
Hermione levels him with a look. "Go away for two years and maybe I will." She returns her attention to Viktor, beaming. "How are you? Did your family end up coming?"
"Yes—Cho is vatching them now, but they're very excited to meet you. I apologize for vatever they inevitably say to embarrass me."
"I can't wait to meet them. Finally." She hugs him and Cedric both before returning the where the other members of the bridal party are finishing up getting ready.
While the others chatter away, she finds herself sitting with Molly, which—their relationship has always been complicated.
"I'm so happy for them—and Fleur is lovely, of course. All of my children's loved ones are incredible, and we're so lucky to have them join the family. But—" her lip quivers. "I hate that they're starting out this way, in the middle of chaos and bloodshed, darkness all around them."
She swallows heavily as she meets Hermione's gaze. "Arthur and I got married at the beginning of a war, too. And I wouldn't change a thing about it, but—it was hard, and tainted, and…we always wanted more for our kids. That's why we fight, isn't it—so they don't have to? So they can grow up in a world better than the one we've known?" She wipes at the tears beginning to form at her eyes. "We've just—we've been fighting for so long, and it didn't do any good. And now our children are soldiers too, and it's my firstborn's wedding day and I can't help but worry that one of them might be widowed before their first anniversary."
Hermione gently reaches to hug the older woman, who quietly sobs on her shoulder.
After a moment, Molly sits up again, taking a deep breath. "Sorry, dear. This is the last thing you need to hear. I just get emotional."
"It's okay," Hermione assures her with a small smile. "I understand. I've been thinking a lot of the same. Especially with Harry's birthday, yesterday; his parents gave everything to keep him safe, and defeat the darkness, and it bought him time, but—" she chokes, unable to finish.
"But," Molly agrees in a whisper.
They calm down, eventually, discussion moving to lighter topics, and it—it's easier than any conversation with her friends' mother has ever been, some sort of mutual understanding and grief now that they've cried together over things out of their control.
Eventually, Percy shows up with both Sofia and Teddy in hand. "Your flower girl and ring bearer are here, Fleur," he calls.
"Tons didn't want to come and help you wrangle them?" Ginny asks with an amused grin.
Percy snorts. "Oh, no, she offered. But then I'd be chasing after three gremlins instead of two, so I told her to just floo with Remus and Sirius when it's time."
"Mi! Mi!" Teddy reaches desperately, face quivering the way it does when he's about to wail, and Hermione carefully scoops him out of his father's arms, holding him tight to her chest.
"Hi, you," she chirps, heart warming at the way his whole face lights up when he looks at her "Are you being good for your dad? Excited to be in the wedding and cheer on Uncle Bill?"
He babbles nonsensically, earning laughter from the adults all around him.
Hermione turns to Sofia, gently stroking a lock of her sister's hair. "What about you, Sof? You excited?"
Sofia gives a serious nod. "I might just dump the entire bucket of flowers on Harry and Ron's heads."
"I don't know how Fleur would feel about—"
"She gave me permission." Sofia grins wickedly. "It was Bill's idea."
/
The ceremony is—the most beautiful thing imaginable, of course.
It's been hard for Hermione to look forward to it, with everything going on in the world; hard to even feel like there's any light in sight.
But for the first time in so, so long she can feel hope, today—can feel happiness, and joy, and gratitude for the amazing people in her life.
Fleur is always perfect, and the way she glows the moment her eyes meet Bill's is—effervescent.
Her groom is likewise gorgeous; he starts to tear up at the sight of her, and as soon as she meets him at the altar whispers something in her ear that earns a smirk that lets everyone know exactly what's on the couple's minds.
"Everyone here knows he just told her how much he can't wait to fuck her and my mother is definitely dying right now," Ginny says through her teeth, grinning at the prospect. "How long do you think she'll wait to chastise him?"
"If she waits long enough, she'll catch my maman giving zem 'oneymoon advice," Gabrielle chimes in.
No one else can hear them, of course, but they quiet all the same; Hermione locks eyes with Cedric, on the other side of the minister, and feels less alone at the complicated joy she finds there.
The relief, that there is still good in this world, that they can still have these perfect moments of good people finding the happiness they deserve.
(The despair, wondering if they'll ever be able to have it themselves.)
It's wonderful and overwhelming, and when the couple of the hour says I do Hermione finds tears spilling down her face, and even though she's terrified and worried about what's to come, somehow in this moment there is only light and love and happiness.
(One of her best friends in the world just got married.)
(And no one, not even Voldemort, can take that away.)
The reception is the most fun party she's ever been to; she has a couple firewhiskeys but is too busy saying hi to people and trying to make sure everyone has everything they need to really get drunk.
Harry takes her for a spin around the dance floor that is just them in circles devolving into hysterics.
(it's enough they can almost avoid thinking about the blondes who should be at their sides.)
"It's bizarre to see you as a redhead, for the record," she tells him as they return to the food table for another round of snacks.
"The hair color is really the part that's weird to you? Not me having an entirely different face?"
"I mean that too." She rolls her eyes at him, making a face when he says it with food in his mouth. "Heathen."
"You love me." It's teasing, but also—it's a joke he'd be too insecure to make with anyone else.
(She's the first person in the world whose love he was sure of.)
"I do. More than my own life."
Harry raises his eyebrows at her. "You're suicidal, that's really not a lot—"
"Harry James! Just take the compliment, you prat."
"I love you too, Mia." He scoops a dollop of frosting onto her nose, earning a shriek and some on his forehead in return.
A throat clears behind them, and they both straighten up, hastily wiping the mess off of their faces; they meet Viktor's gaze, where he looks amused, three small figures at his side.
"Oh! Viktor, are these your siblings?"
He nods with a smile, drawing them all forward. "This is Lena, Petya, and Katya. You three, this is Hermione."
"Hi! It's so nice to meet you all, I've been looking forward to it for years." She beams when they blush and pepper her with questions and comments.
"Vitya says you're the smartest vitch there's ever been! And you taught him how to do a shark metamorphagus charm! Can you teach me cool spells too?
"Are you really best friends with Harry Potter?" Katya pipes up, eyes wide.
Hermione holds in a snicker at the way Harry chokes beside her. "I am."
"Is he the bravest? And the coolest? Vitya says he's very dramatic."
"Ekaterina—"
Harry forgets himself, opening his mouth to respond with outrage, and Hermione steps on his foot to shut him up. "He is very brave, yes—definitely not the coolest, though." She shakes her head. "He is extremely dramatic and ridiculous; but he has a good heart, and that's what matters most."
"That's what Papa says too," Lena nods with agreement.
"Listen, I've met Harry too," Harry says, dropping his voice low to sound more like Barney than himself. "And I think—"
"Oh, hush, Barney, I think I know Harry better than you do," Hermione tells him with a look, angling her head at where Viktor is watching him suspiciously.
(She loves and trusts Viktor, but they can't risk any additional people knowing Harry's here—it's not safe. She'll stupefy him, if she needs to.)
A few people mention Luna's supposed murder, all extending sorrow and condolences, and Hermione struggles to handle it—the exact emotions necessary to convey grief, while trying to support Harry and keep him from descending into a breakdown, as he conceals his own complicated emotions regarding the subject.
(As he impulsively starts to thank everyone who asks Hermione to give him their condolences, only to remember cousin Barney never would've met Luna.)
Eventually she finds herself beside Tonks and Andy, the two women she looks up to most.
They all laugh as they watch Sirius twirl a reluctant Remus around the dance floor, his years of pureblood education and soiree attendance making him superbly graceful.
"I love to think of Walburga rolling around in her grave if she knew all of her education and attempts to make him the perfect pureblood heir are now being used on his half-blood werewolf husband," Andy smiles vindictively. "Racist bitch. Seeing them happy like this…merlin, does it remind me how worth it all of it is."
They're quiet, for a moment, and Hermione unconsciously rubs at her wrist, the way she always has when seeking comfort—knowing Romeo's on the other end often enough to make the world feel more steady.
Almost as though she's summoned him, ink begins blossoming across her forearm.
They're coming. You have to run.
Her blood runs cold, entire body immediately going stiff.
(The last time he'd given a similar warning was the World Cup—just before Death Eaters had shown up and tortured muggles and very nearly attempted to murder her and Harry both.)
Don't say his name—there's a taboo. They'll find you.
You have to run. I love you.
She swallows the scream building in her throat as she hastily gets to her feet.
Tonks takes a glance at her expression and is instantly on guard. "What's wrong?"
"They're coming," Hermione whispers, holding out her shaking wrist.
The older woman doesn't question it—is instantly standing, casting a sonorous.
"Sorry for the interruption, everyone, but I've had an official notice from the Ministry that there's a venomous tentacula toxin nearby and we all need to evacuate immediately." Her tone is calm, but demands attention—carefully intended to make sure they take her seriously without causing a panic.
The other Order members in attendance spot the look in her eyes, though—understand the unspoken urgency, begin ushering guests to the apparition point and through the floo.
They're good at this—speed and efficiency without specifying exactly how much danger everyone is in, reassuring people even as they force them out the door.
Perhaps most impressive of everyone there are Fleur and Bill, who go from beaming newlyweds to dead serious soldiers in a split second; they don't pause to grieve their special day, or get upset about the circumstances—instead, they're immediately commanding everyone to depart and assisting those in need of a hand to a portkey.
Five minutes later, a patronus from Kingsley shows up, announcing the real reason behind the abrupt end to the wedding—and all hell breaks loose among the third of the guests still present, all of whom are then gone in a matter of moments.
"You three 'ave to go," Fleur insists when she spots Harry, Hermione, and Ron still around, all attempting to help with the rapid breakdown of the event. "Now."
"Fleur's right," Fred grimaces, wand at the ready. "It's not safe for you here—you have to be gone before they get here."
Harry gapes desperately. "We can't just—they're coming, you're all in danger, how can you expect us to—"
"Harry," Ron says gently, "They're in more danger if you stay. Don't take this the wrong way, mate, but your presence is pretty much the greatest death sentence of all right now."
His friend winces, but nods with understanding. "Okay, but—"
"I'm really sorry about this, Harry," Hermione says as she moves to grip both his and Ron's arms.
Confusion alights his face, and Ron gives a grim look of knowing—
And then she's turning and they're gone.
/
They crash land in the Forest of Dean.
It's a complicated feeling, the way this was the first place her mind came up with.
It's muggle, so the odds of Death Eaters finding them are slim, which is what matters most.
(But the last time she was here was with her family, mother, father, uncle and all—not good memories.)
(Her nightmares will be at their worst tonight, she already knows.)
Harry opens and closes his mouth several times, staring around them. "I—you—what the—" he takes a deep breath "Dad is going to murder you."
Ron grimaces. "Better him than the Death Eaters."
"Any contact we have with them right now puts them in danger," Hermione whispers apologetically, before beginning to mutter security spells.
Ron sighs, scratching at the back of his head. "So…what, exactly, is our plan here?"
Hermione points to the bag without stopping her incantations; Harry picks it up and begins to dig through it before giving up and raising his wand. "Accio tent."
It zooms out of the small purse, somehow, at which point he realizes he doesn't know how to assemble it and shoots a pleading look at Hermione.
She ignores him, for a moment, continuing to cast the protective enchantments without hesitation, despite the exhaustion dragging at her eyelids.
(The adrenaline is too strong for the tiredness to win out.)
Eventually, she finishes, turning to her brother with an unimpressed look. "You are really the most dependent human being on the planet. What are you going to do if I die and you and Ron have to fend for yourselves?"
Harry scowls, and Ron's face grows pale. "Don't talk like that. I won't—you can't—"
"I'm being serious, Harry," she says, voice growing hysterical as she speaks. "We're in a war—we are actively on the run, now. I'm a muggleborn, and a known target—we've discussed before our odds of survival aren't good. You have to be able to—to manage, if something happens to me, you can't just—don't let my death be in vain."
He shakes his head desperately. "No. I know it's a possibility, but—I'll do whatever it takes to keep you safe. Both of you. I won't let Vol—"
Hermione's eyes widen, and she surges forward to clamp a hand over his mouth. "Don't!"
Ron narrows his eyes. "What's wrong? You put up the spells so they can't hear us, why are you so worried?"
"There's a taboo," she rasps, removing her hand from Harry's mouth as she takes a deep breath to steady herself. "They've attached a trace to his name, Draco said—we can't say it or it'll bypass all of our security enchantments."
Ink begins to appear along the back of Harry's hand, overtop of the Umbridge induced scar. Are you okay? Don't give me details, just in case, but—just let me know that you're safe.
A pause, and then beneath Luna writes Your dads asked me to tell you you're grounded, by the way—and to remind you about the mirrors. They're a safe means of communication.
"What—" Ron's jaw drops as he stares at the handwriting he'd seen on his best friend plenty of times over the years. "How—but she's dead! She's been gone almost a year," he whispers, eyes full of confusion and sadness.
"Ron, I—I'm so sorry," Harry winces. "We couldn't tell anyone. But she—she survived the attack. Dumbledore thought it was best to fake her death to keep her safe, because he'd only come after her more if he knew. I'm so sorry, please—please don't be mad."
Ron reaches to squeeze his best friend's shoulder. "I—Harry, how could I be mad? Our friend--your soulmate is alive, that's the best thing I've heard in…fucking months. Merlin. Is her dad—"
"No," Hermione confirms quietly, as she nonverbally casts the incantation to set up the tent. "That one was real."
"Damn. So she's just been alone, and having to bear it all…bloody hell." He shakes his head, rubbing a hand over his jaw. "Poor Luna. I'm so fucking glad she's alive, though."
Harry nods grimly. "Me too."
They file into the tent, nearly collapsing onto the worn but familiar couches from the World Cup—just three years before, and yet it feels like a lifetime ago.
Harry quickly scribbles a reply to Luna; Hermione writes her own x on her wrist, knowing that's all she can risk.
"Lu says she'll make sure Sirius gets word to your family that we're all right," Harry promises Ron, who dips his head in thanks.
They sit in silence, for a moment, taking in the day's events, too overwhelmed to fully comprehend it all.
"This taboo…they're giving up their ability to pretend. It's really begun, then," Ron says softly, clenching his jaw. "They're done hiding in the shadows."
"It's almost—relieving, as terrible as it is?" Harry ponders aloud. "The waiting, the terror—it's been almost worse. I hate that it's happening, but—I'm glad to not feel insane, and get on with it. Here goes nothing, I guess."
Hermione hums, like she has something to add—
But the stress and business and forgetting to eat all day before the wedding add up on top of the intense and extensive magic she's just cast, and all of it has been building up all day, and it finally all crashes down,
And she slumps over on the couch, collapsing against the soft cushions as the world goes dark.
Notes:
chapter title from good riddance by green day
happy hell day, friends. take care of yourselves.
I am quasi-participating in nano so updates should continue coming quickly! All I can say is next chapter is going to be ~spicy~ I've been waiting to write this arc for SO. LONG.
all my love
Chapter 40: flower bud in concrete
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The first few weeks are—completely useless.
They're still full of anxious hope, and a misplaced faith that it will be easy and they'll be able to be successful so long as they devote themselves to it.
Hermione feels like a complete idiot for not packing any sort of food provisions, because realistically that should've been her foremost concern, but she was so worried they'd forget necessary magical objects or information for the search itself she forgot about preparing for the human side of things.
(Survival. Funny, how that's always what it comes down to.)
And they're all too hesitant to go into town, to risk anyone seeing them at all, so they're scrounging and attempting to hunt, and it's all going…well, rather badly.
They have more than one close call with mushrooms and berries that turn out to be poisonous; and beyond that, on more than one occasion they all feel ill after eating.
Several meals end with them all vomiting, but it's when Ron finds Hermione being violently sick outside the tent after one such meal, his own face going white with guilt as he blames himself for her state, having been the one to prepare the food.
"You're doing your best, Ron," Hermione pants out, wishing she had the energy to hug him. Wishing he understood how critical he is, in these hardest of moments—his effortless love and comfort and calm, subduing her and Harry's unstable, downward spiraling tendencies. "You're keeping us alive, it's not your fault we're having a few hiccups with the meals."
"I just—merlin, I hate seeing you like this. I'm so sorry." He's clenching his jaw, beating himself up internally.
"Ron." She stares him down, fixing her hair shakily, though still not feeling one hundred percent. "This is not on you. You're doing a great job. Harry is self-deprecating enough for all three of us—you can't get down on yourself too, or we'll never make any progress."
Making a face, he moves to help her to her feet. "I suppose. I just…I feel like I'm not doing enough to help. I don't want to be dead weight."
"Ronald, you are—anything but dead weight, and I'm not just saying that to spare your feelings. Your presence is every bit as necessary as Harry or I's; and you have more to lose, so it means a lot to us both that you're here anyway. We all feel a little useless right now, because—well, we're not making much progress, so it's hard not to lose steam, to lose hope.
"But that's not a reflection of you—that's because the task before us is a difficult one; almost impossible, really. One more reason why I fucking hate Dumbledore, but that's besides the point." She shakes her head at the thought. "You're doing everything right, Ron, I promise—with how on edge we all are right now, I'm sure someone will snap the second one of us isn't."
It's—interesting, to Hermione, the way their situation is affecting all of them so differently.
For her and Harry, the desolation is par for the course—they don't love it, but it's far from surprising.
(It's hard to lose hope when you never thought to have any in the first place—when life has always taught you to brace for the worst, so things getting bad barely registers.)
On Ron's end, though, there's never been the same darkness, and hopelessness, and trauma—which is wonderful, and a reason his presence is so critical for them, because he's the only one that can look at things through an unbiased, mentally stable lens.
But also…situations like this hit him much harder. He assumes things being bad is his fault, because he's never experienced this kind of hardship before, so it's taking a much greater toll.
(He hasn't built up the mental and emotion callouses that make the bad shit barely sting—the resilience that only comes from using your own spine as a rope to drag yourself up out of hell.)
(Of course it's weighing on him more heavily—he's not equipped with the mental resources that make it easy; he's not equipped with the experiences that assure him he'll manage to get through this, like he has the darkness that came before.)
"I've never gotten around to learning much Russian from Viktor," Hermione tells Ron softly, searching for the right words to comfort him. "But there's this one phrase he mentioned once that stuck with me—something they say when life goes to shit. Perejivyom i eto."
Ron looks skeptical that this is going to help him, but plays along nonetheless. "Alright, then, go on, explain it to me."
"It directly translates to we'll survive this too—like, when things have been horrible, and then something new that's awful happens. And—it's terrible. This situation, the fact that we don't know what we're looking for, and we have no prospects and no hope and no food, and no end in sight, and we might be murdered along the way—"
"I'm hoping there's a but coming," Ron interrupts with a murmur.
"But," Hermione enunciates, locking gazes with him. "We survived the giant chess set and the potions riddle and Quirrell. We survived acromantulas and the chamber of secrets and a horcrux possessing Ginny. We survived the dementors third year, and the attack on the World Cup, and the shitshow that was the Triwizard tournament. We survived a fanatical psychopathic felon posing as our professor for a year and attacking Harry, we survived the summer Vol—You-Know-Who returned and a professor who used illegal medieval torture devices on us for detention and created ministry decrees that violated our civil rights. We survived battle against some of the strongest, most proficient Death Eaters at the ministry. We survived the Death Eaters' attacks everywhere, and the attack on Luna, and the invasion and subsequent battle in Hogwarts. We survived Death Eaters showing up to Bill and Fleur's wedding to kill us specifically."
She smiles—a bittersweet, determined expression. "It's going to be rough. It's going to suck, and hurt, and probably fuck us up a little bit. But we'll survive this, too."
They make their way back inside, tucked against each other's side both for comfort and to fight off the chill, and find Harry pouring over the writing on his arm, deep in conversation with Luna.
"Guess what?" he asks.
Despite the happy tone he says it with, Hermione and Ron both tense, expecting the worst.
Hermione's wand arm is braced as she replies, "What?"
"No, this is good!" He gives them a half-hearted smile. "Tonks and Percy decided to elope—figured they'd waited long enough and said fuck it. They did it yesterday."
Ron beams. "Fuck yeah. Good on them—they both deserve some happiness, right now. And Teddy, not that he's old enough to understand what they're celebrating."
"What'd they decide to do about names?" Hermione asks, curious.
"Percy's hyphenating, I think—Tonks didn't want to give hers up since she's the only one to carry on the line."
Ron's eyebrows rise. "I'm surprised Percy didn't just change his altogether, with so many of the rest of us—though I guess it's probably for the best, Mum would lose her mind crying and feeling like he left the family."
"That's probably exactly why he didn't," Hermione mutters—and then they're all laughing at nothing, and it's not actually funny but they're so desperate for something that's not darkness that they let the ridiculousness of it consume them.
/
It's hard to focus when you're hungry.
This is something Harry's no stranger to, of course; it's a familiar feeling that makes the entire thing feel like his childhood.
Still, they're all constantly on edge, and irritable no matter how much they try not to be.
They spend much of their free time practicing wandless and nonverbal magic—something Hermione insists upon, but the others don't question.
(If they're caught, the ability to perform even the most minimal spell without a wand or a word may mean the difference between losing the war and victory.)
(Between life and death for all three of them.)
They discuss whether it's safe to summon Winky, to potentially retrieve supplies or ferry messages—they decide against it, Hermione and Ron both too paranoid to risk it, with how easy it would be for anyone to place a tracking spell on the beloved elf.
(Even the smallest chance of discovery must be avoided.)
Which, Sirius has spent more than once evening passionately arguing with them through the mirrors—insisting that there's no reason for him not to be with them, no reason for them not to be staying at Grimmauld Place, at least.
But there are too many traitors in their midst, too many people who know too much, and all of their soul mates to whom information can be conveyed with no one the wiser.
As easy as Sirius's solutions sound, as much of a relief as it would be to have an actual experienced adult with them right now, that's exactly the kind of thing Voldemort is counting on—them to make a rash decision out of desperation, because it seems like it's not a big deal, and then they've been found out.
Maybe eventually, when they've checked and double checked security and have backup plans and safe houses in case things go south, but in the meantime—they all refuse vehemently.
Luna writes about Potterwatch, and Hermione makes a venture into a muggle town to snatch a radio, leaving a bit of cash in its place, and when they finally manage to listen it's—the most absurd and wonderful thing they never expected.
Tuning in each week, the familiar voices soothe them—Sirius is code named "Romulus" in his husband's honor, and he and Fred typically go back and forth with humor that makes the darkness of the current climate feel slightly more bearable, with Kingsley coming on as "Royal" and breaking it up whenever they veer too far off topic.
(They can't be with their loved ones, right now, but they can hear the confirmation that they're okay, reassurance that there is still fight left on their side—and somehow, that makes it all okay.)
Harry finds himself spending hours staring at the snitch Dumbledore'd left him, desperately trying to understand.
Still completely clueless as to what 'I open at the close' means, he writes to Luna late one night, when Ron is on watch and Hermione's passed out, snoring loudly (which is odd for her, but she's been so exhausted lately they're not teasing her about it).
You'd think Dumbeldore could've found a way to explain the hint to you, even if he couldn't in the will specifically, Luna agrees. She's quiet for a moment, and even hundreds of miles away Harry can feel her thinking, attempting to figure it out—the wheels of her inquisitve mind move a million miles an hour.
I suppose the close could mean war's end—the close of this chapter of history. Or of your time at Hogwarts. Or even the close of a chapter of yourself, maybe? The end of you specifically doing a certain thing, fighting a particular battle, holding a particular value…although historically, speaking from a spiritual perspective, death is often considered a closing of one door and an opening of another—so he could mean it opens at your death, the close of your life on this spiritual plane.
Harry makes a face at the paragraph, though he knows she can't see it, overwhelmed and a bit befuddled by the different theories and information she's sent his way.
Nonetheless, he trusts Lu more than anyone, so he begins whispering variations of each prospective key with his lips pressed against the cold surface of the snitch.
He tries combinations, different wordings, before moving on to the next of her theories; attempt after attempt coming up empty. It gets to the point where he's wondering if the snitch can just tell that the things aren't true, that he's just saying what he thinks it wants to hear, when he quietly whispers, "I am about to die."
And he almost drops the snitch as it pops open.
"Holy shit," he mutters, too frazzled for a moment to even realize what it contains.
When he drops the ring into his open palm, his brow furrows with confusion; it's the Gaunt ring—the former horcrux that's been destroyed since before he even realized what it was. Since it injured Dumbledore's hand with its protective spells.
(If it's out of commission, already, has been taken care of for so long—why would the former headmaster bother to leave it to him?)
"An explanation would be nice," Harry grumbles under his breath. "So of course I don't get one. That would be too easy—too un-fucking-complicated for Albus Dumbledore. Being cryptic and making me work it out on my own is more important than me actually having the tools and information I need to end this stupid war, right?"
Fists clenched with frustration, he blows out a rattling breath, just—angry, and tired, so fed up with his whole life going to this cause and it doesn't even matter because people in power like to hold all their cards close to their chest.
He wraps it in the old socks from the Dursleys he'd received for Christmas years ago, chucking it into the bottom of his trunk and out of sight, too tired and annoyed to bother attempting any further to figure it out at the moment.
Sends a message to Luna telling her she was right, thanking her for her help, and saying goodnight before turning out the lamp and flopping backward on the squeaky makeshift bed.
He forces himself to breathe deeply as he stares up at the ceiling, the weight of the past few days bearing down on him, all culminating in frustration regarding all the unanswered questions and useless objects Dumbledore left behind.
(Here's to hoping I don't need it for any reason before I put together whatever clues he's expecting me to find, Harry thinks to himself. Before it costs me my life—or worse, someone else's.)
/
Something is—off, with Hermione.
She's noticed for a while; over the summer it didn't seem significant, so she'd just attributed it to trauma and mental illness and catastrophic events taking their toll on her body.
(Just depression naps. Just anxiety-induced nausea.)
(Just a perpetual sense of something being off because the entire world is wrong, at the moment.)
But this is…more than that. She can't deny it's something else, anymore.
At this exact moment she feels sick, and her boobs are sore, which—not atypical. Happens every month. Period symptoms, at least, she can deal with before everything else.
So she breaks out her medical kit for tampons and a preemptive muggle cramp relief medication, but before bringing the tablets to her mouth—she pauses.
Because though she's normally nearly debilitated once a month, she can't remember being hit with the usual wave of pain last month.
Or the month prior.
"No," she whispers to herself, sure she's beginning to work herself into a panic over nothing. "I noticed this already—it was just stress. I was just late because of stress, and then I missed one because I haven't been eating enough."
(Stop being ridiculous, Hermione.)
Except—this makes three that haven't come when they're supposed to.
(The soreness. The nausea. The fainting. How tired she's been since they got back to Tonks manor.)
(Her emotions that have been off the charts haywire, the way she's been crying or angry over things she's been able to brush aside a million times before.)
She shakes her head with disbelief, muttering beneath her breath. "There's no way."
Because she's been brewing the same potion for years, ever since she was old enough to need it; has been careful to make sure it's perfect every time.
(It's a potion she could brew in her sleep, she's thought a million times before.)
She bars the door to her room of the extended tent before allowing herself to truly consider the possibility, to desperately summon her cauldron from within—the same cauldron that's gotten her through so many months and years of the familiar potion without a hitch.
It looks the same as always—and the batch she's been taking now would be different anyway, given that her last three month brew had been up in July.
As best she can figure, if what she's thinking is true, it would've been her last batch that lapsed, at some point in May, or April, even.
"Evanesco," she casts, vanishing the entire cauldron-full to inspect the dregs. She lights her wand and truly checks every inch of the interior, in a way she's never had cause to do before.
And she almost thinks she's hallucinating it for a moment—but there, burned into the metal, half crusted and mostly gone, there's something.
She scrapes at it with the tip of her wand until it comes off, and sucks in a breath of shock when she brings it close enough to her face to see.
(Fig leaf.)
(It's entirely harmless—and a single leaf counteracts both moondew and baneberry, rendering a perfectly brewed contraceptive charm useless.)
Hermione gapes, hand shaking as she stares at the brittle leaf remains.
(A single leaf that's turned her whole world upside down.)
"How—" she swallows heavily as the implications crash down on her.
She blinks back overwhelmed tears as she points her wand at her abdomen; her whole body trembles, but her wand arm is steady—a soldier's hand.
"Transversus revelio."
A dim wand indicates a negative result; Hermione's glows with bright white light.
"Oh, my god." Her left hand moves to gently rest against the spot.
(Pregnant.)
(She's in the middle of a war—a soldier, on the run with the most wanted person in Britain, a bounty already on her head. And pregnant.)
And not through an accident, or mishap—but because her potion was actively tampered with.
(How? Who would bother, when the odds of it working would've been so, so slim—and of those who would bother, who would've had access to where the potion was kept in Gryffindor tower back in April and May when they would've had to do so? Would've known what ingredient to use to counteract the potion without any visible effects, would've has cause to do so?)
(What student could've possibly wanted to do such a thing?)
The realization crashes down on her, and she collapses to the floor, head pressed to her knees.
"The spy," she whispers to herself—and then she's laughing, a bitter, acidic laugh.
Because of course, to a man like Voldemort this is the best way to cripple her—the best way to make her weak.
He'd figured out she was crucial to Harry's success, had heard that she had a bleeding heart, most likely—heard tales of SPEW, and her fighting on many creatures' behalf, and assumed being soft to be a weakness.
He'd figured to cause her to become a mother unexpectedly would exploit that softness—take her out of the picture entirely.
(He's underestimated her, then. Her softness is her strength.)
Hermione steels her jaw, tucking the cauldron back away—evidently she has no need of it at the moment, anyway.
She carefully holds it together long enough to change into sweatpants and a tee shirt, turn off the light, and lay down in the bed serving as hers for the time being; only then does she let herself feel it.
Pregnant. At least three months so. In the middle of a war, with a target on her back.
To keep it is—the most irresponsible thing imaginable.
Having a baby right now would be so, so stupid—to bring a child into this shitshow, especially when their parentage would make them an even greater target.
God, does she know it's a bad idea. And if it were anyone else in the world and they wanted to terminate, she would understand—would one hundred percent support them.
But.
(But.)
That's just— not her. She supports every woman who's made that decision, of course she does, but that's never been something on the table for her. She can't even bring herself to truly consider it, even knowing that right now she can't give this baby the world she wishes.
(As reckless as it is to do so, as much as it's exactly what Voldemort is counting on, she can't help but love this baby.)
(Nothing in the world has ever come so easily.)
And she wishes so, so desperately she could tell Draco—could share her terrified excitement, with him, could bask in the joy of impending parenthood they've both always tentatively looked forward to; could share her fear and desperation, because there's no one who understands her so well as her soul mate. Her first instinct, whenever anything goes awry is to turn to him—
And yet, even though he deserves to know more than anyone—he can't.
He's among the enemy, at the center of the fortress, already in danger for being a traitor they don't know is in their midst—if he found out he wouldn't be able to stop himself from doing something reckless to get to her—or worse, dying in a desperate attempt to take out Voldemort to create a better world for their child.
Or, worst of all, if he were found out—if Voldemort realized who he had in his hands all along, the ways he might use Draco against her.
The ways he might threaten their child to force her soul mate to do worse.
God, does she want to tell him, but she really fucking can't.
It's all consuming, this feeling—the realization, the shock that forces out any other emotion, the way her mind can't rest, running through every moment of her life going forward and everything she'll need to do, and every minute since the baby was conceived.
(The way she panics, because oh god I've had a few drinks since May—she's remembering the few drinks she'd had at the wedding, and one on Harry's birthday; the ways she hasn't been taking care of herself, and what if all along she'd been hurting the tagalong she didn't know she'd had? Fucking them up before they're even here?)
And she has this moment—where she's sobbing, because she wants nothing more than to protect her baby from the darkness of the world, to run and hide and keep them safe, and wishes they could've come at a different time, or in a different life, one where she could just celebrate—
This moment where she feels that there is no one in the world she understands so thoroughly as Lily Evans Potter, despite never having met the woman.
This moment of wishing above all else she could speak to the older woman, somehow; of such all-encompassing clarity, a muggleborn in a world that doesn't think she belongs, a soldier in a war for her very existence who is so bone tired and weary and still has to fight—
This moment of knowing her situation is shit and her baby is about to be the greatest target of the darkest wizard and she might give everything she possibly has to protect them and it still might not be enough.
She curls up onto her side, hand over the spot on her abdomen that's yet to swell, unable to see anything but the protectiveness that's now thrumming through her veins, a lioness whose only goal is her cub's survival.
(But there's a war still on; she has to fight for a world that's worth surviving in, first.)
/
Pansy's panting as she spits the blood out of her mouth where she's collapsed on the floor.
Her nerves keep twitching from the crucio's aftershocks, but she finally manages to shakily sit up.
She wipes at her running nose, more blood coming off along the back of her hand as she does.
(What a way to spend the last night before the Hogwarts Express—the last night before her final year of school.)
It's a year already guaranteed to be hell on earth—and yet she's desperately looking forward to the escape; to a different manner of pain, at least.
"You will not," Dolohov hisses at her, wand still raised. "stray again. Any further disloyalty to our cause will result in further torture—and us looking into your soul mate. They will not survive. The Dark Lord does not tolerate treason."
Forcing herself to nod, Pansy doesn't think about what he's saying—doesn't even consider the implications, just in case there's a legilmens poking around.
He lets up at last, motioning for her to leave the room.
Despite how badly she wants to flee, to disapparate sobbing, she maintains her graceful exterior, the way that's been drilled into her being her entire life—even torture to near death is no excuse for lacking manners in the Parkinson household.
So she quietly and carefully exits at a brisk pace, expression cold and unbothered and head held high, though the evidence of her ordeal must be clear on her person.
(Holds back a shudder, unsure even now if the man who's just cursed her for hours is the very one who assaulted her a year prior—gagging, internally, at the thought that he might be the one who knows her so intimately and she'll never know.)
(It could be anyone, here.)
It's the reason she hasn't slept in months, her reflection currently that of a walking corpse as the not knowing eats away at her—as every moment at Death Eater headquarters rots away her soul, makes her curl even further inward.
She enters Narcissa's chambers, under the guise of helping with the woman's work.
As soon as the door is warded behind her, she collapses on her friend's mother's floor, letting her tears soak the carpet.
Narcissa is at her side in an instant, the greatest maternal figure she's ever known, a gentle hand soothingly rubbing at her back. "I know, sweetheart. Let it out. It's okay."
Pansy feels the tell-tale tingle of a healing spell being cast on her; when she's able to move her hands from her face, Narcissa holds out a vial of nourishing potion with a worried glance.
"Twelve hours," the older woman's soft voice reminds her as she downs the viscous liquid. "You've done so well, sweet girl. You are so very strong. You just have to make it a bit longer."
"Don't you wonder if we'll even make it that far?" Pansy asks, voice a raspy whisper. "If it's even worth trying to?"
"I do." The admission is accompanied by sad eyes. "But there is light, and there is hope out there. Even despite it all, I believe humanity is good at heart. The Order will succeed—and we will help them."
Nodding, Pansy wipes her face, putting her walls back up before heading out to complete her task for the day.
(She doesn't see the anguish on Narcissa's face the moment she's gone.)
/
Later that night, Narcissa wakes with a start—something she can't explain.
But her magic is stirring, restless.
(Something big is happening.)
Those still at headquarters are in the dining room; as her son sleeps, his night full of nightmares and worries, she's drawn to the family library.
Some of it's been depleted, during the Dark Lord's rages and revels, but the protection charms she maintains have kept the majority of their precious works intact.
Her magic is screaming at her, something bone deep clamoring for her attention, until she's at the back wall, so deep within the shelves she can almost forget the horrors that have overtaken the place that's never been a true home.
And she finds herself standing at her own copy of the Black family tapestry—they all have one, of course. The mark where Walburga blasted Sirius of decades ago is still a signed spot, the different tapestries all connected via Protean Charm.
The tapestries are self-sustaining, though; barring instances such as that of Sirius's disowning, it updates entirely independently, the magic involved moving in and of itself when necessary.
Narcissa's not quite sure why the tapestry called to her, this of all nights; her gaze trails along the tree, down to where her sister's daughter's name is intwined with that of her new spouse, one of the older Weasley boys, their son beneath them.
She keeps scanning the tapestry, when she sees it—sucks in a deep breath of shock.
There, beneath Draco's name—a small circular glow of magic.
(Not here, yet—but soon. The tapestry preparing for its newest member's arrival, just a few months away.)
"Oh," she whispers, heart aching with understanding.
The how is unclear—she knows enough about her son and his soul mate both to know they're exceedingly careful beings, so the odds of such a thing are slim to none.
But the how doesn't matter, at this point; the tapestry doesn't register until a new life is viable, and the witch has actively chosen to carry to term.
(It was how she'd known Draco would make it, so long ago—how she'd managed not to lose hope.)
The glow she sees now…
(A grandchild—she has a grandchild on the way.)
She casts a wandless disillusionment charm, wanting no trace of the magic, just in case—they can't afford for anyone else to know.
(Even Draco, as much as it kills her—as much as she knows it must be eating away at Hermione.)
She closes her eyes, leaning against the shelves for a moment.
(Ten seconds a day, she allows herself to feel—ten seconds to process everything, be as sad or angry or scared as she needs, before she forces herself to lock it all back up.)
(It's the only way she's survived all these years.)
When the ten seconds are up, she opens her eyes, standing straight up and walking away as though she's just done a bit of light reading.
Grabs a book off one shelf offhandedly, murmuring a charm to disguise it as a healing text.
She writes a note, in a cipher only Andromeda will understand, and tucks it inside the book she then slips in Pansy's trunk.
(She'll explain what the girl must do with it in the morning—can't afford a trace.)
"Merlin and Morgana, protect them," she whispers desperately.
(Everything else is out of her hands.)