ihopeour

by alissa.mellie

d

7. 7

She comes to just a moment later, Harry and Ron having carried her over to the couch where they're now hovering over her.

It feels like coming up for air after too long spent underwater, the way her senses are off and then slowly fade back in.

"I'm okay," she promises the second her eyes open.

Ron moves toward her, and Remus growls—his eyes go wide, clamping a hand over his mouth. It takes him a moment to understand why he's instinctively lashing out at his son's best friend. "Ron, I'm so sorry, but I think it's best if you take a step back; for some reason the wolf feels very protective right now."

Ron nods and moves away, though his expression makes it clear he'd rather be fussing over Hermione; even yards away, she can see him cataloguing her entire body for wellness, knows he's debating going to make tea.

Remus, for his part, takes a step closer, nose twitching as he tries to identify the source of the wolf's concern; when it hits him, he goes entirely still. "Hermione—"

His speech cuts off, but his eyes go to her stomach; knowing what to look for, the tightness of her top where her abdomen rounds is plenty noticeable.

He's tense; even without him saying, she can tell he's already panicking about her health, worrying over everything that could have gone wrong for her or the baby, is desperate to check that they're both okay.

"They don't know yet," she whispers, quiet so only his heightened senses can hear.

"What's going on?" Harry's voice is small, worried, focus locked on his sister.

"I—"

(she could come up with some excuse, but god is she tired of the lies—tired of being alone in this. tired of hiding the biggest thing in her life from the people closest to her heart.)

(and her baby deserves better than to be a secret—deserves all the love in the world.)

"I've been keeping something from you."

Ron snorts. "Yeah, no shit. We've called you out on being off like three times, you heathen."

"Ronald," she scowls, "Let me get through this, okay?" Forcing herself to take a deep breath, she meets their eyes. "I didn't realize till we'd been on the run a month. And then I didn't want—didn't know how to…" she pulls off her hoodie, arm cradling the baby so the pieces click for them. "I'm pregnant. I should be due—around February, from what I can tell."

Harry and Ron's expressions are both comically shocked; Sirius, for his part, looks equally surprised.

Harry takes step closer. "You're having a baby?"

"I'm having a baby," she confirms, tears welling in her eyes.

And she's known for months, now; has felt the kicks, and the movement, and the changes to her body, but it's this—at last saying it out loud, to her best friend in the world—that finally makes it feel real.

Harry holds his hand out in question; Hermione grasps it gently, pressing it to where a foot occasionally flutters.

Her brother drops to his knees, ignoring her completely.

"Hi, little one," he whispers. "I'm your Uncle Harry. I can't wait to meet you—god, your father is going to be insufferable."

Hermione laughs even as she wipes away a tear, catharsis flooding through her with the relief of the most people in her life knowing at last.

(All but one, that is.)

"Don't worry, kid," we won't let your swotty parents make you too much of a nerd," Ron adds from his seat on the arm of the couch.

Sirius clears his throat. "Remus and I are going to be the coolest, hottest granddads there've ever been, obviously."

"And yet with Narcissa as your competition you still won't be the hottest grandparent," Ron snickers.

"Spoil my godchild like you'd planned to do me, yeah?" Harry comments, offering a smile as his father reaches to ruffle his hair.

Hermione raises her eyebrows, but she can't help the fond upward twitch of her lips. "You've known my baby exists for all of ten minutes and you already think you're the godfather?"

"Yes," Harry says without hesitation.

"Yeah, even I know it's him and Pansy, Mione. Like you and Draco would ever consider anyone else."

Her joyful expression stutters at Ron's innocuous comment. Lip trembling, she holds a gentle hand to the baby. "We don't know that, though. Because he doesn't know. He can't, until—until he's out of there and this is over. They're going to be born, and he's not even going to—" Her eyes well up with tears she hurriedly blinks back. "Sorry, hormones. It just hurts, is all. I hate this."

Harry's arm is around her soothingly. "I'm so sorry, Mia."

A throat clears, and Hermione jerks her head up to see Andy in the doorway.

"You left the floo open," she says by way of explanation, moving to kneel in front of where Hermione's slumped on the couch. "How are you, sweetheart?"

"Andromeda—"

"She already knows," Hermione interrupts, waving away the way Remus's hackles rise protectively all over again. "Narcissa found out somehow, and sent along her protection spell. That's how I know the baby is okay, at least."

"And I think I can shed some light on your worries." She reaches to take Hermione's hand in her own, squeezing it gently. "Darling girl, I understand why you feel so guilty. I can't imagine how heavy this burden feels on your shoulder. But as someone who knows who he is—as a fellow Slytherin, who understands his values and the way his mind works, I promise it will be okay. He will be sad he didn't know—sorrowful that he wasn't here to see it, or for you to turn to. But at the end of the day the only thing that will matter to him is that the both of you are safe and healthy and okay."

Hermione nods, forcing herself to take deep breaths, in and out. "You're right. I know you're right. I just—hate that Vol—I mean, that You-Know-Who has taken so much from us already, and now he's managing to take this too."

"That's why we're going to kill him," Sirius promises cheerfully. "And then we'll take my little grandpup to dance on his grave."

/

After, the joy at seeing them safe settles to a reasonable level—the excitement fades just enough for Harry's parents to remember exactly how angry they are with the trio.

Remus reads her the riot act about not taking care of herself well enough, especially now that there's a growing human on board.

The only one worse than him is Harry, who's made it his personal mission to be at her beck and call and keep her from expending any energy whatsoever.

(Hermione hates all the attention, but she's pretty sure his insistence is rooted in guilt in not realizing exactly what was going on with her, as though she hadn't taken every precaution to keep him from knowing—so she lets him fuss, if that will make him feel better.)

Remus, though—his wolf has always been extremely protective of her and Harry, seeing them as the cubs of the pack (a dynamic which now extends to Sofia and Teddy); and so he's incredibly bossy and concerned with her wellbeing, even beyond his normal dad-level.

(His eyes flash gold whenever he catches her not resting, the innate need to take care of his child in such delicate condition as she ushers the newest member of the pack into the world.)

He commands her to stay in bed for at least three days, is constantly plying her with fluids and nutrient-packed foods, and is all around in extreme caretaker mode.

Sirius makes more than one comment about his mother-hen tendencies, something he'd never had prior to them having kids—he often jokes that his husband is channeling James, who'd evidently been the most over-bearing of them all.

("It's like I'm sixteen and being lectured by my best mate for skipping breakfast or not getting enough sleep all over again.")

It's not just Hermione, to be fair; Remus is hard on all of them; and they deserve it, really, each of his points is completely true.

"What could've possibly made you think going off on your own and having no contact was the right way to go about this? You have magical guardians with much more knowledge of dark artifacts and the wizarding world, not to mention battle experience, and instead of consulting us you think the three of you can do it all on your own? Honestly, this is not helpful!"

Harry winces at his father's scolding. "I know, but it just—with the target on my back, and the need for secrecy with everything regarding the horcruxes…Dumbledore had made it sound like it was something I would have to undertake myself."

"Oh, yes, because Dumbledore was always so rational! Such a trustworthy man—always knew best, that one! We always listen to what he says—Sirius and I have always taught you to follow his instructions without talking to us, haven't we?" The sarcasm in Remus's voice is searing, his husband looking half-amused by it at his side.

"What Moony means," Sirius interjects gently, "is that while we're very proud of you for being so independent, and for everything you achieved over the last few months, it caused a lot of unnecessary stress for everyone involved. You can't do it all on your own—especially now, with things coming down to the wire. You need to learn to ask for help and accept support when you need it before it gets you into trouble—I would know. You have to come home sometimes. Fucking idiots," he mutters the last bit under his breath.

"And you!" Remus rounds on Hermione, eyes narrowed with love and disproval. "I expect better, from you! You're supposed to be the logical one, to think these things through—and never once did it cross your mind to stop them from this foolishness? Hermione, you know better!"

She crosses her arms, entirely unbothered by the reprimand. "Yes, because you were always so good at reining in yourfriends at my age—I bet you never went along with something foolish they did because it seemed like the right and noble thing at the time. He'd never do something like that, would he Sirius?"

Sirius holds his hands up, knowing better than to get between the two of them; Remus makes a fondly exasperated face at her. "Be that as it may—"

"I'm sorry, alright?" Her voice breaks, the exhaustion of the last few months catching up with her. "I understand you're only upset because you care about us, and I appreciate it, and I love you too, but I did what seemed like the right thing at the time. I did what it took to keep Harry alive, to do whatever is in our power to end this war, and then found out I was growing a human and had to work through the emotional trepidation of realizing what will happen if Riddle ever find's out I'm pregnant with the grandchild of his former right hand man, so forgive me if I haven't exactly been at my best lately."

Sirius and Harry can hear the guilt and hurt in her voice—are protectively at her side in an instant.

"I understand that, sweetheart," Remus promises, tone soothing, now. "And I'm very, very proud that you managed to do so much while dealing with all of that. But we're exactly alike, you and I, so I know that's not all—you were willing to take these risks because you figured if it came down to it, you would bear the brunt of the harm. You see yourself as disposable. But you are not, Hermione—you are not expendable."

She lowers her gaze to the ground, curling inward as he lays her soul bare; it's a vulnerable feeling, having him read her so easily.

"Mia," Harry grips her hand tightly, eyes wide with terror. "You have to know—I couldn't take losing you. If anything happened—especially if you sacrificed yourself, if something happened to you—I couldn't handle it. I don't know how I would go on. You and Lu are—the most important people in the world to me."

"I know—consciously I know that, Harry. It just—sometimes, it makes the most sense. But I—I promise I'll be more careful."

Sirius crosses his arms. "You'd better. Or I'll cast a binding spell so that I'm always within half a mile of you—I'll chaperone everywhere you go, so you can't do anything stupid and ridiculous."

"I dislike the way you're all ganging up on me right now," she scowls. "Especially given that you're three of the most self-sacrificial, self-deprecating bastards I've ever met."

"It's why we know how to deal with you," Remus replies, nonplussed.

/

Hermione takes a deep breath as she sinks into the bathtub.

The water's not as hot as she usually likes, close to scalding the only way she can feel anything when the world is heavy and she's dissociating, but all of her research has said too hot is bad for the baby, so lukewarm it is.

Crooks is in the room, having screamed at the top of his lungs in all his feline glory every time she'd tried to close a door behind her for the last week; she's taken to caving, which is why he's now prowling along the edge of the tub.

"You're going to fall in and then you won't be a very happy camper, bud."

He merely meows in reply, as though to chastise her for the pessimism, before leaning closer to sniff the bubbles.

"Somedays I really cannot believe my life is like this," she murmurs to herself at the sight.

She tries to bask in the solitude; enjoy the peace and quiet to relax.

But her mind is anything but tranquil; it's alight with stress and nerves and half-hatched plans of what they'll need to do to bring about the war's end, worries about Draco and Ginny and Pansy and whatever it is they're not saying, worries for the muggleborns they'd freed from the ministry and whether they've made it to safety.

And more than anything else, she's consumed with the blood on her hands.

In the ministry—she'd taken a life. Whether she'd deserved it or not, whether she was a horrible person or not, Hermione killed someone.

A woman is dead because of her.

Which, is its own ordeal she's yet to process, but—even more overwhelming is the lack of guilt she feels.

(The fact that she'd do it over again in a heartbeat.)

What kind of person does that—feels no remorse after killing a human being?

All of her research on horcruxes had shown that putting a split soul required exactly that—remorse, overpowering guilt and regret for the actions that had led to the horcrux being made in the first place.

If she feels none of that—what the hell does that say about her?

(Is she like Voldemort—just another monster, just a matter of time before she, too, causes cataclysmic harm?)

And if she is, how can she be the mother her baby deserves? How can she allow herself to potentially put her child in danger because of the darkness she's capable of?

It's eating away at her, the guilt at her lack thereof. The fact that she's considered a leader on the light side—that she's in charge of ASA alongside Harry, has had Hogwarts students looking up to her for years, has the love of her brother and sister and soulmate and everyone else in her life when all along—

(she's been capable of cold-blooded murder without flinching.)

And there's no book to read that can tell her how to move on from this—even Order members who've killed in battle, if she asked, none of their consolations or reassurances would have any impact.

This is—something she's going to live with for the rest of her life. A part of her she knows about, now; will always consider turning to when things are dire.

(And the thought doesn't make her feel as though she's in the wrong in the slightest.)

(How can she reconcile herself with that?)

/

/

Christmas comes, and it's bizarre—that just a few months ago they were starving and shivering in the woods, and now they're at home with family, hiding from Sirius's incessant caroling as Remus sneaks them far too many Christmas cookies.

The only downside is Luna staying in her room for most of the morning, promising she's alright but asking to be left alone.

(Her father was her entire world, after all—this is the first time she's really able to process the holiday passing without him.)

The Tonks clan plus Percy is there in the morning; Hermione and Harry argue incessantly about whose turn it is to hold Teddy.

("I'm growing you another godchild as we speak—it's the least you could do to let me cuddle with this one!")

Teddy, for his part, is thrilled to have either of their attention, so with both of them constantly loving on him he's effectively in heaven; giggling and shrieking as he stumbles around the living room, occasionally stopping to pet Crookshanks.

And Tonks is thrilled for Teddy to have a cousin—she spends an hour bemoaning pregnancy symptoms with Hermione, Sofia there too and gleeful at being included in girltalk; eventually, Tonks gives Harry and Ron strict orders to rub her feet and bring her excessive amounts of pillows without request.

(Percy, intelligent being that he is, nods behind her with wide eyes, silent except to agree when called upon.)

It's the happiest they've all been in ages as they drink too much hot chocolate (eggnog for Sirius and Ron that Hermione scowls at in jealousy), listening to carols and catching up on everything outside the war that's happened over the last few months.

Remus makes faces as his husband sings at the top of his lungs but smiles contentedly whenever Sirius isn't looking.

(So many years, he thought he'd never see him joyful again—thought they'd never have this.)

Hermione laughs as both Harry and Sofia go wide eyed with their hands pressed to her abdomen every time the little nugget kicks, while Ron rolls his eyes as only someone with a younger sibling can at their antics.

Eventually, Tonks, Percy, and Teddy leave to head over for Burrow celebrations, Ron tagging along with them and promising to extend hellos and love to all of the Weasley clan on their behalf.

Luna emerges, then, curling up on the couch beside Hermione and smiling when Harry immediately lays his head in her lap.

He mumbles something in Hermione's direction, and she raises her eyebrows. "I'm sorry?"

"Shhhh. 'M talking to my goddaughter."

Her eyes roll. "You've just decided it's a girl then?"

"Yep. And Draco won't want her to be a Gryffindor but I won't want her to be a Slytherin, so she'll be a Ravenclaw."

"I have no say?"

"Meh, you'll want her to become her own person, so you won't let yourself influence her choices. And with the two of you for parents she'll be a sucker for learning for sure."

Hermione smiles with her eyes closed, imagining it. "For the record, I'm fairly certain it's a boy. Just so you don't get your hopes up—mother's intuition is right about these things three-quarters of the time."

They mean to open presents soon, but after the lunch Harry and Remus put together they're all hit with a sugar coma that knocks the entire household into a nap.

Later, when they're awake and returned to the living room to open presents, Hermione's a little grumpy, Harry having refused to allow her a second cup of coffee despite her pleas; even though she knows he's right and she shouldn't have more, the little nugget is sucking all of her energy and alertness and she's very much looking forward to them existing separately so she can revert to assuaging her caffeine addiction.

As he holds a small box of shiny silver wrapping paper out to his fathers, Harry's as nervous as Hermione's ever seen him.

She squeezes his hand reassuringly, a silent reminder that she and Luna are right there with him.

And when Sirius manages to get the box open, it takes him a second, brow furrowed. "I—it's lovely, pup, but what—"

Beside him Remus sucks in a breath. "Holy fuck."

Sirius elbows hm. "Language, Moony, it's Christmas."

"Pads, you don't understand." His voice is a whisper as he reaches with a shaking hand, lifts the ring from the box. He points the symbol atop the stone out to his husband.

Sirius's own jaw drops. "This—" a moment of silence as he tries to process. "this is the resurrection stone?"

"Dumbledore left it to me. It—" Harry lets out a deep sigh. "We think I might have to use it, when the time comes—to survive me being a horcrux, and all. But before then…well, I thought you might want to use it to speak to my parents, and Regulus."

Remus's lip trembles, and Sirius reaches to embrace their son. "Oh, Harry…pup, this is—the single greatest gift I've ever received."

A moment later, Hermione clears her throat. "We've been thinking to keep it, for after the war. It was Ron's idea, actually. If it's anything like the last one…well, his parents have told him what it was like. How hard it was, trying to pick up the pieces, having to grieve everyone they'd lost. So we were thinking if there were a way to make it accessible to everyone—obviously there would have to be security, and a way to make it fair, but—if we could make it so that everyone gets a chance to at least say goodbye to everyone they've lost, when it all ends."

"I think that's a brilliant idea," Remus says, voice raspy and thick with emotion.

Sirius grips the stone gently.

Eyes closed, his hands are shaking as he begins to turn it—once, twice, three times, as the story had gone.

Then—

(his eyes are still closed, too nervous to see it not work, but he can hear the others' intake of breath.)

He clasps a hand to his mouth the moment he looks, heart thumping in a way it hasn't in sixteen years because—

Prongs is there; a bit ghostly and translucent, but right there in front of them all the same.

"Hey, Pads," his best friend grins. "You're looking old, you know that? Grey hair and everything."

Sirius chokes back tears, lets himself smile back. "Shut up, you. I'll have you know most of those have come from all the stress Harry puts me through."

James snorts. "Yes, well, he's our kid. He was destined to land in trouble even without all this nonsense."

"Just listen to them, Remus," a higher voice chides, and then Lily is there, tucked into James's side, making a face at the both of them. "It's seventh year all over again. Don't know why they bothered to marry the two of us when they're clearly so mad for each other."

A wisp of a laugh escapes Remus, though he's nearly stone still, eyes wide with a complicated mix of joy and grief and bittersweet disbelief.

Sirius picks up the conversation for him. "Missed you, Lily-flower,"

"I've missed you too, Sirius." Her mouth pulls into a wide smile, eyes bursting with love. "Thank you for taking such good care of Harry—I know he's yours too. But it's…" gaze resting on her son—of age, now, she sighs, the moment so incredibly complicated. "It's the only reason it's bearable, not being there. Because we know he has you two—know he's so unbelievably loved."

Harry steps forward, both to steady Sirius and to stare at his first set of parents with his own eyes. "Hi, Mum."

"Oh, Harry James." Even as an apparition, her voice goes thick; her eyes are locked on him—his own eyes, but so different in his mother's face—and a smile breaks out across her face. "You've grown into such a wonderful young man."

"We're so, so proud," James adds, Harry's own visage contorted to be more serious than he's ever been himself. "Not just of the fighting—although you've done an astonishing job, of course, winning battles you never should have had to fight in the first place. But even more than dueling, and You-Know-Who—we're so proud of the way you love your friends and everyone around you. Of the way you manage to hope even when life has sent so many curveballs your way."

"My sister—" Lily clenches her fists, bloody murder in the set of her jaw. "What she and Vernon did to you was unacceptable—and they'll pay for that one day, I'll make sure of that. But the fact that you've managed to stay so kind despite it all, to do so much even when the world is against you…god, Harry, we couldn't ask for a better son."

Harry's lips twitch upward. "Hermione always says god instead of merlin, too. And—thanks. I hope I can keep making you proud."

Sirius blows out a deep breath, very clearly holding back a tide of emotion. "I wish you two were here. Merlin, Prongs, this is—you should've had more time."

"We should've," James agrees, without any bitterness in his tone. "And fuck Riddle and Peter for taking that away from us, mate. Maybe Dumbledore, too—the more I think about it the more it seems like he was culpable. But none of that matters anymore, you know? All there is is you, and Moony, and Harry, and your other two daughters—you really do have a litter, you know that, right?"

"Eight minutes without a werewolf joke—I think that's a new personal record for you, Jamie," Lily says drily, as Remus rolls his own eyes at the barb.

"Better than some of the horrid ones he's come up with before, at least."

"Also, can we talk about the fact that not only are the Deathly Hallows real, but your dad's cloak was one of them? We were literally using the thing that can hide a bloke from Death to slip itching powder into the Slytherins' laundry."

James's jaw drops. "I—what? Are you fucking serious?"

"Have been for more than two decades," Remus says without missing a beat.

Lily bursts out laughing, meanwhile, Harry nearly gags. "Dad!"

Luna grins, leaning against Hermione's shoulder. "I love Christmas."

Notes:

chapter title from how a heart unbreaks (ngl this is from the pitch perfect 3 soundtrack but I love it)

I know I said a week and it's been much more than that—sorry, friends. I've been going through a lot. It has just…honestly, it's been really awful, and I am struggling. But I will be alright. I hope you're all doing okay.

Thank you for all of your lovely comments, and welcome new readers! We're about two chapters out from Malfoy manor, so get excited for that!!

We're like….legitimately getting so close to the end I actually have an idea of the total number of chapters (looking like roughly 6 more!!! Holy fuck) and all of this is just—incredible. God. I cannot believe it and I am so grateful for all of you.

all my love

Chapter 44: how I hope they shine

Notes:

thank you for all of your kind words and concerns—I am so incredibly grateful for all of the love you've been so kind as to send my way. Each and every one means the world. I am doing a bit better, so hopefully we are on the up!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

The day after Christmas, Hermione's nervous as she approaches Sirius after breakfast.

"Could I—" she bites her lip nervously. "Er, would you mind if I used the stone for a few minutes?"

Sirius holds it out automatically, expression curious, but not going to push if she doesn't want to disclose who she intends to speak to.

She's reminded of her conversation with Molly, the day of Fleur's wedding—the older woman relaying how desperately she'd wanted her kids to grow up in a better world.

Nothing has ever resonated with her so strongly—she can feel it, deep in her bones, the hope, the need for her baby to have a better life than the one she's withstood, a better world around them than the one she's known.

(She needs more for them than darkness and pain and fighting—her baby deserves so much more.)

She takes the stone into her room, locking the door behind her.

Crookshanks pads over, nuzzling against her hand as he senses her anxiety; he's been more protective and clingy than ever now that she's pregnant, and in moments like these it makes her feel so much less alone.

Tense, she turns it three times in her hand, forcing herself to take deep breaths as she waits—

And then the other woman is there, looking exactly as she had the day prior; her gaze is gentle as she smiles at Hermione with a knowing look.

"Hermione Granger. I have looked forward to speaking with you for a very, very long time."

"Lily Evans." Hermione makes a face. "Er, Potter I suppose—sorry, Sirius just always calls you that, and—"

"I know." Pushing a faded red lock over her shoulder, Lily rolls her eyes. "God, do I know. He's family, but he really does drive me crazy, even from the afterlife."

Her eyes are the same as Harry's, and yet—when they meet Hermione's own it's an entirely different feeling.

(Somehow, she just knows the other witch understands her—knows her feelings in a bone-deep way that no one else could possibly fathom.)

"I was wondering if you'd reach out."

"I'm sorry if this is weird, I just—it feels like I know you, somehow. And no one…" she wipes at her face, where tears are beginning to slide down her cheeks. "I love them, but they don't understand. I feel so very alone."

"I get it. Christ, do I get it." A bitter laugh escapes Lily, eyes gentle as she meets Hermione's gaze. "It's terrifying enough, being muggleborn in a world that doesn't seem to want you to exist no matter how desperately you try to prove you belong. And now on top of your usual fears, and having to deal with the target on your back, all you can think about is how scared you are that something will happen to your child because of you. That no matter what you do, you won't be able to protect them from this world you know firsthand is brutal and painful."

"Yes, exactly! I—how can I possibly think about anything else? For a single moment? And how—how can I bring a child into the world in the middle of a war? How will I ever be able to keep them safe? And what if—what if we don't win this war?"

Lily nods, grimacing. "It's the most awful feeling I've ever known." She reaches for Hermione's hand, squeezing it between her own. "The only thing worse is being gone—on the other side, screaming for your baby to run but no one can hear you. When their safety is so completely out of your control. But Hermione, love—you're not dead yet. You're still there; you can't let it eat you now. You can't let this feeling win while there's still something you can do. It shouldn't be—god, it's not your burden to bear—but the war is in your hands. You have to keep fighting."

"I know I do." Hermione tries to force away the lump in her throat. "But I'm so tired. I want this to be over, I—I don't think I can take much more."

"You're so close to the end," Lily promises. "I don't know everything, but I know that much. And I know that we can do anything, withstand anything, when it comes to protecting our children."

Hermione nods, because her baby has yet to arrive and this is already an understanding she has; deep breaths, she tries to bring down her heart rate.

"On a lighter note—have you decided on a name?" Lily's smile is bright. "It's so hard to choose and yet that's the best part of it all, besides feeling them move—when they're not kicking your vital organs, of course."

"Yeah, this one has been doing that much more as of late," Hermione scowls playfully, even as her left hand glides back and forth over where she feels the incessant movement. "I'm not sure. I want to keep with the Black constellation tradition, of course—I know that's important to Draco, and especially since he's missed the entire pregnancy I want to be sure it's a name he would choose if he were here. I have a few ideas for a girl, but I feel pretty certain it's a boy. I've been toying with Caelum or Scorpius; and I'd like Harry for the middle name, of course."

"I may be biased, as that's obviously my favorite name of all time, but all of those sound lovely," Lily says.

After a moment of serene quiet, the redhead meets her gaze seriously. "Anything else you want to ask, while it's just us?"

Hermione bites her lip. "Any advice?"

"Just…enjoy it, you know?" With a sigh, Lily's expression turns wistful. "I spent so much time worrying and panicking and coming up with contingency after contingency. And looking back…I wish I had spent more time letting myself bask in the moments of happiness. More time thinking about his perfect eyes and nose and toes instead of all the bad outside I couldn't do anything about, anyway. Let yourself enjoy the pure joy of it all—of holding them in your arms and watching them breathe, however impossible it feels when the world is this way. Now that I'm gone…joy is all that ever mattered. I wish I'd let myself embrace it more when I was alive."

/

They're all excited as the baby's arrival grows near, but none so much as Winky.

Hermione's favorite house elf is constantly showering her with gifts and snacks and attempts to pamper; hence her current state with cushions and snacks all around her.

She's curled up on the hammock out back with a book while Harry and Ron fly around the yard; Sofia grins between them on her first broom, ecstatic that her big brother has started teaching her to fly.

(Though she'd made it clear she was quite put out he wouldn't let her go higher than a few feet or chase a real snitch.)

"Mi, look!" Sofia shrieks as she zooms past, giggles overtaking her.

"Fantastic, Sof! Pretty soon you'll be giving our boys a run for their money."

The younger girl blushes even as she beams with pride. "Do you think Ginny would fly with me sometime and give me some pointers? I want to be the best Quidditch player that ever lived!"

Ron gapes at her. "We're friends with Viktor Krum, and Oliver Wood is my brother in law, but it's Gin you want to give you pointers?"

Sofia nods hurriedly. "Of course. She could fly circles around either of them any day—and she's just as good in almost any position, while the two of them can only really handle their specialties. You know she'll be the GOAT one day!"

"Why on earth is she comparing my sister to a farm animal?" Ron mutters, taking to the ground to keep Hermione company while Sofia sings as she shoots toward the other side of the yard, Harry exuberantly cheering her on.

Hermione lets herself laugh at his expense, even as she leans her head on his shoulder to soften the blow. "It's a muggle sports saying—stands for 'greatest of all time'."

"I guess that makes a bit more sense." He blows out a deep breath. "I know Ginny could blow any other player out of the water, for the record. I was just surprised Sofia had figured it out already. Most people haven't, and Sof's only known about Quidditch for a little while."

"According to Ted it's all she asks about when we're gone—Andy got ahold of a bunch of footage for her and she adores the sport. As for the rest, I—"

She jerks forward, sucking a tight breath through her teeth.

Ron's eyes are instantly wide as he jumps to his feet, hands ready to brace her or hurriedly lift her if need be. "Mione? What's wrong?"

"I—I've had cramping all day," she confesses, one hand holding the baby as she pushes back her hair with the other. "I assumed it was just Braxton hicks because it's too soon, but—"

Another deep breath, but one she doesn't bother to disguise like she's been doing all day, trying to avoid worrying them all.

"But? Hermione, but what?"

"But my water just broke, Ronald," she says succinctly, careful to keep her voice even.

"Your water—you mean you're…"

"In labor, yes." She leans back in the chair, closing her eyes to give herself a moment's peace. "Could you please run and fetch Andy? And Tonks, maybe? She's done this before."

"I—merlin, yes, okay, I'm going!" He nearly trips over his own feet in his haste to get inside.

And she should call Harry down, should tell him now so he and the dads can get their panicking out of the way before things really kick into gear, but she just—needs a moment.

She has Narcissa's spell, so they have no reason to believe the baby isn't fine—given the amount of stress she's been under for the entire duration of the pregnancy, it's no wonder that it triggered early labor; and given Draco's genes, and the difficulty Narcissa had carrying to term, it's not surprising that Hermione, too, is having a bit of a complication.

But she's so terrified for something to go wrong—so scared, now that the time is here, and she won't be able to be the physical barrier between her baby and the world anymore; so worried that something won't be alright.

(She just needs a moment to assuage her own fears before returning to her usual collected self—just a moment.)

Harry and Sofia fly over after a few minutes, both their hair windswept into chaotic messes. "Where'd Ron go?" Harry asks.

"Just to fetch the others," she says nonchalantly.

He doesn't fall for it, though; knows her too well. Crossing his arms, he gives her the look. "Why does he need to get them?"

Hermione makes a face, nose scrunched. "Well…I may or may not be in labor."

Sofia straightens, expression perky. "The baby's coming?"

Harry's own eyes go wide. "But it's only January—you're not due for another—"

"Oh, really? I, the one housing an entire human, hadn't noticed—I wouldn't have kept track of the dates, of course."

He raises his hands in a plea of innocence. "Sorry, sorry, I know you know better than anyone, I just—what do you need? What can I do?"

Hermione resists the urge to wave him away and insist she doesn't need help; despite the need to be independent, right now she needs her family like never before. "Help me inside? And—water, and if you could run a lukewarm bath? Andy said last week that's how we should start when the time comes."

Harry curls an arm around her waist and helps her slowly inside, walking her through the breathing exercises Ron had forced them all to memorize a few weeks prior.

She's breathing in the bathtub a few minutes later, Harry holding her hand beside her, while Winky gently strokes her hair, having apparated to her side the moment they were in the house.

"Bad Mistress, not calling Winky as soon as she knew. Winky knows what to do better than her."

"I said I was sorry, Winky," Hermione says, wincing as she feels a particularly rough contraction.

"Maybe save the rest of the lecture for after she finishes pushing my goddaughter out of her, Winks," Harry suggests.

Hermione rolls her eyes. "Godson."

"Nope. My godfather spidey senses say girl. You'll see."

"Whatever you say."

Andy sits just outside the doorway, humming as she prepares everything for as soon as Hermione gets out of the tub.

Harry cocks his head to the side. "How long do you think till—

A pounding on the door, and he snorts. "Never mind."

"Hermione Jean! Were you really not going to tell us you were in labor?"

Harry and Andy both laugh even as Hermione rolls her eyes. "No, Sirius, I was going to tell you when it was over because I knew you would both go into this overprotective mode."

Remus clears his throat. "Well, unfortunately for you, the wolf can sense whenever any member of the pack is distressed so that's not happening."

"There's nothing you can do here anyway—go back and enjoy your date! The little nugget and I will still be here when you get back."

"Nice try, kitten. We're staying. We'll give you space, if that's what you need, but the living room is as far as we'll go."

"Should've convinced Sof to fake an emergency to distract them," Harry mutters.

Once the ball gets rolling, it's quick; which is good, because Hermione spends every moment panicking that it's too early, that her little one won't be okay, all on top of the anguish that is labor.

Because it does hurt—they didn't exaggerate any of it. And while Winky could discreetly get the materials to take care of the baby, the magical equivalent of an epidural requires a brewing proficiency none of them possess, so there's not much more than a standard pain relief potion to get her through it.

Harry's a good sport, letting her crush his hand and joking about letting Draco have the memory vial to experience in a pensive one day, while Andy and Winky encourage her through it and tell her what to do.

(On her other side, Tonks winces and nods with understanding, her presence mainly serving to validate the pain and offer solidarity.)

Just when it feels like too much to bear, the excruciating pain lessens, chest-heaving breaths escaping her—

And then the smallest voice in the world starts crying, and nothing else matters.

"You did amazing, love," Andy soothes. "You have a perfect baby girl."

"I knew it!" Harry exclaims, grinning brilliantly. "Oh, I hate to say I told you so when you just expelled an entire human from your body, but I so, so told you so!"

Hermione can't help the airy laughter that escapes her. "I love you, you insufferable boy. You were right."

There's a twinge of sorrow, a desperate wish that Draco were here—Narcissa too, the first one besides Hermione who'd known, who she knows without being told already loves Hermione's daughter like crazy.

But she reminds herself of what Lily had said—and the wrongness of it all is overwhelmed by the joy of it all, the pure light and love that is her daughter finally in the world.

There's the placenta and the afterbirth, and cutting the cord and checking the baby out with diagnostic spells to make sure everything is as it should be, and then—

Then she's in Hermione's arms, and she calms at the sound of her mother's familiar heartbeat, snuggled against her chest, as her little lungs breathe for the first time.

(There's nothing else in the world.)

/

"Does my granddaughter have a name, yet?" Remus asks with a smile, as he and Hermione roll their eyes at Harry and Sirius's bickering over whose turn it is to hold her

"Cassiopeia hasn't been used in a few centuries," Andy suggests as she sips on a cup of tea.

Harry makes a face, protectively holding the baby closer to his chest. "Are you kidding me? Mia, you are not sic'ing my goddaughter with a name as terrible as Cassiopeia. Please. I'll beg if I have to."

"Calm down, I'm not naming her Cassiopeia," she promises her brother, snickering at his concern. "My soul mate's name is Draco, and while I love that name because it's his…come on, I couldn't do that to a child."

"Not as bad as Nymphadora," Tonks mutters, hiding her amusement at her mother's look of disdain.

Hermione smiles as she looks up at them all. "Her name is Lyra Joy Black."

Sirius presses a hand to his mouth, overcome with emotion, while Harry and Remus beam at her.

At Tonks's look of curiosity, Hermione explains further.

"Lyra for the constellation, Joy because that's all I ever hope for her. And Draco and I may not officially have the Black surname yet, but—eventually."

Ron purses his lips, intrigued. "You don't want to give her one of your last names for now and change it when you do yours?"

Hermione shakes her head vigorously. "No, I don't—I don't ever want her associated with either of those names. Black is the family that loves her, the goodness she deserves…I don't want there to be a moment of her life where she has anything else."

"It's beautiful, Mia," Harry assures her, smiling down at his snoozing goddaughter. "Lyra Joy. It suits her perfectly."

"Short and sweet," Remus agrees, clearly overjoyed. "A beautiful double name if that's what she decides to be called. But still with potential for nicknames if she'd like—she could always go by Ly."

"LJ," Harry adds decisively. "I'm gonna call her LJ."

Quieter, so only she can hear, he whispers, "I'm gonna teach you everything, LJ. I'll never let anything hurt you in the whole world."

And even though Hermione can't hear him, watching her brother softly whisper to her daughter with such a tender look on his face is everything.

Ron shakes his head, eyes bright with cheer. "Wow. I…there were so many moments while we were hunting horcruxes I thought I'd never feel anything but scared and sad, ever again. It felt so hopeless, you know? Like there was nothing good in the world. But this…merlin, Mione, I don't think I've been this happy since you set Snape's robes on fire first year."

Sirius's jaw drops, glee overtaking his face. "I'm sorry, you did what?"

/

The first moments of solitude since Lyra's birth, Hermione finds herself clutching her daughter to her chest.

She's out cold, and it would be simple to place her swaddled form in the bassinet beside the bed and get some rest herself, but—

She needs to feel Lyra in her arms; needs to know, without a shadow of a doubt, that she is here. That she's safe.

(A daughter—god.)

(The world is a horrible place to be a woman.)

Hermione's known her entire life, of course; learned early on in the worst way exactly what it is to be female.

(All the ways in which you'll be hurt and no one will bother to protect you.)

But now, knowing she has a daughter—knowing all the ways the perfect, innocent, defenseless baby in her arms could be hurt—

(When she thinks about the possibility that anyone could ever do to Lyra what Hermione's own uncle had done to her, what she and Pansy and Tonks have all felt and hurt through—)

She was only four when it began—at least, that's as far back as she can remember it happening.

If anything—the very idea that the same might happen to Lyra—

It's all consuming, the worry. The terror.

This deep-seated, bone deep pain that she's lived with her entire life—Lyra must never know.

(but there's only so much she can do.)

She can devote herself to getting rid of Voldemort, can sacrifice her life for the cause, can spend every day taking out Death Eaters and putting an end to this godforsaken war—

And yet at the end there will still be monsters like Roger out there. At the end it'll still be one in four women having their agency snatched from their own grasp.

She should be the happiest she's ever been, and a part of her is—

But there's another part of her that can think of nothing but the horrors that might befall the precious baby in her arms.

And Hermione will have to leave her soon—it fucking kills her, but the only way to protect her daughter is to leave her here in Andy's capable arms for protection while she and the boys go back to their hunt for horcruxes, back to hunger and exhaustion and fighting for their lives every moment of every day.

It's necessary, she knows that. It's the only way to end this war; the only way she'll see Draco again, the only way he'll be able to meet their daughter. Hold her. Love her, be the fucking incredible dad Hermione already knows he will be.

(But knowing all that doesn't make it any less difficult—doesn't make it easier.)

/

"I know it's stupid," Harry begins.

Everyone else at the table groans in unison, because if he's admitting to it…

(then it's an even worse idea than his usual.)

Harry and Remus had made chicken parm for everyone, so they're all sat at the table; Ron and Sofia deep in conversation about Quidditch, Luna murmuring a story to Lyra while she swings in her rocker, Hermione yawning from exhaustion while she, Harry, and Sirius, discuss Order business.

Sirius is especially tense, what with Remus back at Hogwarts daily now that the winter break is over, but given the reports they've received from Neville and Ginny the Charms professor's presence is more critical now than ever.

"I know it's one of the first places any Death Eater would think to look for me. But I—I really want to go to Godric's Hollow."

Ron winces at the declaration. "I understand that, mate—no one can blame you. And you should be able to, but—with the world we're living in right now…"

"Like I said, I know it's stupid," Harry repeats, eyes pleading. "But…being realistic, the odds of something happening to me during this war are high. And obviously we're going to do everything we can to make sure I survive, blah blah blah, but if something were to happen and I had never been back…I just—I want to go before. I want to know that no matter what happens, I saw the place where all of this began, visited my parents graves, my first home…the things that happened there are the reason why my entire life took the course it did."

"This is a horrible idea," Ron says bluntly, rubbing at his eyes the way one only could after seven years of their best friend's life being in danger so regularly. "I support you, and if it means that much to you we absolutely will. But I want it on the record that I'm saying right here right now that I think it's the worst idea you've ever had and a trap waiting to happen."

"And I accept that. Thank you," Harry smiles, before turning his gaze to Hermione. "Listen, Before you say anything—I've been thinking about this. And I think we would have to go there eventually anyway because You-Know-Who has been back for almost three years now, and in that time he's killed plenty of people. So what if he made another horcrux?"

He gestures wildly, looking slightly crazed, but none of them had truly considered the idea before.

"Like why would he not—now that he's died once he would be more concerned with making sure he had backup plans, now more than ever. And he would've checked up on his horcruxes first thing when he was resurrected, and Lucius would've told him the diary was destroyed, so he would've had to make a new one to still have seven if that was the number that meant so much to him. So what if he did?

"Because if he did," Harry carries on, impassioned now, "Where else would he put it? Think about it: he's all about symbolism and significant moments, right? And he's so sore about being defeated by me, or whatever, about his mortality and his life nearly ending there—to put a piece of his soul that would anchor him to life in the future there would be the most symbolic way to feel like he overcame it. Right? I—I mean, it's what I would do."

Hermione and Ron look at each other, and then back at him; Sirius likewise appears stunned.

After a moment of silence, Harry begins to doubt himself, biting at his lip. "Or—or not. I could be wrong. You guys are probably right, I just thought—"

"Oh, Harry," Hermione says softly, reaching to hug him. "We're not being quiet because we think you're wrong. We're—shocked, because it makes perfect sense, and I'm pretty certain you're right, and none of us had even considered it."

Ron nods rapidly. "I know you don't love being in his head, Harry, but the way everything has allowed you to understand him…it's the only reason we have a chance at beating him."

Perking up, Harry's lips begin to curve upward, confidence returning to him. "So you—you're on board? You think I'm right?" He turns his attention to Sirius, knowing his opinion will make or break the situation. "Dad?"

Sirius sighs, putting his head in his hands. "Moony's going to kill me."

/

They spend a week preparing.

And they're being more responsible now—the only way Remus and Sirius agree to let them go is for recon. They promise to come back and make a plan together, once they've scouted the area, checked for traps or any potential pitfalls, so that when they go in to actually find the horcrux eventually they'll have a strategy that doesn't end with green light striking their chests.

It's the first time Hermione's been away from Lyra in the just under two months since she was born, and the separation is killing her.

She'd tried to brace herself, tried to recite every rational fact in the book—it's only a few hours, after all.

(But despite her best efforts, being away from her baby hurts, has her hackles raised and anxiety spiked sky high with worry that something will happen to Lyra while she's gone.)

She's going to have to get used to it though, she knows; it's only going to get worse when they have to go on missions to actually retrieve the remaining horcruxes, soon. When she's gone for weeks on end, if not months, again.

But the pain of it all doesn't matter—she's a soldier.

(Being away is the only way to create the world Lyra deserves to live in; the world every child in their world deserves to live in.)

Harry acts as though he's fine when they arrive; he's under the Invisibility Cloak, while Hermione and Ron have taken Polyjuice, all trying to avoid drawing attention.

So she can't see his expression; but from his voice alone, Harry's sister knows the sight of his first home is hitting him in the gut. Knows he's hurting in a way he'd never considered as he sees the wreckage of where his parents gave their lives to save him; the monument to their family, the countless scribbles and messages from strangers throughout the last seventeen years when he'd spent so many feeling so entirely alone.

They walk the entire neighborhood in the moonlight, casually taking inventory of every detail for later; they bump into one other person, but on the whole most doors are locked with shutters closed, the war continuing to affect every facet of everyday life.

"The cemetery's that way," Ron says quietly once they've done all the necessary reconnaissance.

All three of them are silent as they approach. They split up to look for the Potter plot, all slowly making their way through the centuries of memorials.

Many of the names are familiar, those of classmates or in history books or Daily Prophet articles; it's ten minutes before Hermione finds it.

"Harry, they're—they're here."

And it's different—seeing it, now that she's seen James and Lily for herself via the stone.

(Now that she's opened up, poured her raw and bloody heart out to Lily—it makes it ache in a unique way to see her grave.)

(The dates of birth and death far too close together.)

Harry throws the cloak off as he hurries forward, falling to his knees before the marble block.

"Hi," he whispers. "sorry it took me so long."

Hermione and Ron give him space, for a few moments; stay back as he grieves, feels the true weight of it all for the first time; as he speaks, hoping his parents are able to listen.

Eventually, he gets to his feet, shoulders trembling.

But Hermione sees the shift—tears of sadness turning to tears of anger, the frustration of the injustice and wrongness of it all coupling with their current struggles to form the perfect storm.

"You okay, Harry?" she asks, voice gentle; knowing he's not, trying to give him the opening to tell them what he's feeling.

"I hate this," he says quietly. "I just hate this. I'm so tired of everything being so horrible, and—and I met my parents ghosts before seeing their graves…"

He's just so frustrated, and tired, and scared, and tired of being scared; the anger wells up in him and he yells and then kicks at the wilted flowers on his parents' gravestones.

"It's just not fair! How can one person ruin everything—how can one person be the reason so many fucking lives are gone?" His hands tug at his hair, anguish screaming out from his green eyes.

"I'm so sorry, mate," Ron attempts to soothe him, a hand awkwardly on his friend's shoulder. "They should've had more time. I wish you'd gotten a chance to know them."

Harry's lip trembles, rage and grief and exhaustion swirling together in his chest. "They were so young, you know? And my dads' lives were ruined, and—and all of it was for fucking nothing, because here we are twenty years later—"

"Harry," Hermione starts to warn, already seeing where his outburst is leading. "Be careful what you—"

"—And we're still fighting the same fucking war, and now it's us dying for it, and our children who'll be orphans and grow up in a post-war world, all because of fucking Voldemort!"

Ron claps a hand over Harry's mouth with wide eyes, and Hermione raises her wand hastily, hurriedly preparing to apparate them away before they can be traced.

(And she's fast—but not fast enough.)

A loud crack reverberates through the air.

Notes:

chapter title from long live by taylor swift [picture lily singing it to hermione and cry with me plz]

Next chapter is Malfoy Manor!! Y'all know I have been looking forward to this one for MONTHS so I am VERY excited to put it together at last.

And as you can see we have a rough estimate of chapter count!! It's subject to change if when writing I can't fit everything in/feel like it needs to be split further to do it justice but barring that I think 50 is going to be the final count (including the epilogue, which I am also so hype for)

I hope life is treating you well—take care of yourselves.

all my love

Chapter 45: my muffled cries

Notes:

This was one of my absolute FAVORITE chapters to write and I have been looking forward to its existence for nearly a year, so I am so thrilled it is finally here and complete and in your hands

I hope you enjoy it!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

There's not time for escape.

With them the Death Eaters bring an anti-apparition charm, cast the second they appear, and they know someone there said Voldemort.

(There's no hope of the trio getting away.)

Panicking and trying to strategize more quickly than ever before, Hermione reaches for the Peruvian Darkness Power in her pocket, and in the cover of the muffliato she'd cast twenty minutes prior orders, "Don't make a sound. Neither of you can occlude—it's not safe for Lyra if you're captured."

Harry opens his mouth to argue, but Ron clamps a hand over it.

She shakes her head at Harry. "You have to let them take me. If you try to be the hero and they find out about my daughter, if you compromise her safety trying to save me—I will never forgive you."

He stops moving, then, and she tosses the invisibility cloak over the both of them, just in time for the darkness to dissipate.

"Well, well, what do we have here?" an unfamiliar voice calls out, just as another whispers the disarming curse and Hermione feels her wand fly out of her hand.

Then another set of hands are on her wrists, and she has to quell the age-old panic that always returns when another's sweaty skin touches hers; tries to stay calm even as her hands are roughly tugged behind her back, tightly bound with coarse rope.

(As she feels control over her body and her life slip out of her hands.)

It takes everything in her to keep from jerking her face to where the boys are while she internally pleads with them to do as she says.

(This is the only way they all make it.)

"What's your name, girl?"

"Penelope Clearwater," she says, carefully modulating her voice, trying to show just the right amount of fear—the way a half-blood would, scared of the situation but knowing they're not the target.

Not claiming to be a pure-blood, which surely they'd know, but a half-blood—beneath their suspicion.

"Blood status?"

"Half-blood."

"Hm. What's a half-blood doing using the Dark Lord's name in Godric's Hollow in the middle of the night for, then?"

She swallows heavily, trying to look sorrowful. "I was—I had to stop in the area, so while I was here I was paying my respects. To the Dark Lord's t-temporary fall—and celebrating his recent return to power. I'm sorry I forgot about the taboo, I—I got caught up in my emotions and sought to address Him by name. I know it was a mistake."

"Did I hear her right, Stan?"

"Sure did, Scabior, sir. Pay 'er respects, she says."

"Interesting." Scabior analyzes her face, and she tries not to flinch as she feels the unnamed third Death Eater's breath on the back of her neck.

"So, Penelope," he stretches out the name, enunciating each syllable as he steps closer and closer. "What makes a half-blood so devoted to our side she's paying respects tonight? Don't you have a muggle parent—shouldn't you be on that idiotic side, with Dumbledore's ghost and every other bleedin' hero wannabe in Britain?"

This much, she can answer; had dark moments once upon a time that give her the exact rationale. "I-I do have a muggle father. My mother died in childbirth, so I was only ever raised by m-muggles. And they were horrible, and abusive; the parents made being at home hell, and the muggle children in school were awful bullies who treated me like a monster for being different. All of them are horrible. I'm glad to be rid of them; once I found out I was a witch I never looked back."

A story based in facts, she's always found, is one that will be best believed, and so she weaves Riddle's own origin with her own experiences.

In her darkest moments, years ago, they were thoughts she'd had; between her uncle and parents traumatizing her so thoroughly, and the gruesome treatment she'd suffered during primary school at the hands of her peers…

(If she'd let it fester, it would've been all too easy to turn against the muggle world. To let the hate consume her, rather than the love for the fact that it's as much her identity as theirs.)

Scabior had initially seemed skeptical, but as she speaks he seems to believe her more and more; Stan, too, is nodding along with understanding, as though her story is not an uncommon one.

"Hm. Well, usually my friend Fenrir would take care of someone like you, but seeing as he was killed by that mutt bastard last year, and you're one of us, just this once I'll—"

He's going to let her go, she can see it in his eyes; there's a price, something he wants, some condition, but he's not going to kill her.

But he pauses midsentence, and she hears Stan suck in a breath, and it's like a switch flips as the atmosphere abruptly changes.

She's confused, for a moment, clueless as to what could've caused such drastic tension around her.

And then hair begins falling onto her shoulders—

(Brown curls. The blonde updo she'd carefully constructed slipping back to her natural state.)

The Polyjuice wearing off, then. Just when she'd been so close.

The rope on her wrists is pulled tighter; Scabior nods toward her assailant and then she winces as a knee to her spine forces her to the ground, knees brutally hitting the stone of the grave before her.

"Why, then, does such an innocent half-blood who serves our Lord feel the need to Polyjuice herself? Doesn't seem like something someone truly on our side would do." Closer, closer, till his wand is pressing against her throat, beginning to break the skin. "Who are you?"

"I—I've told you, my name is—"

"I don't think so, you little bitch," Scabior hisses. "Stan, switch with Rowle so he can help me decide what to do with the filthy liar."

Hermione is jostled as the hands holding her bound wrists change, her captor stepping closer to the Death Eater in charge.

He takes a long look at her before sucking in a deep breath. "That's Potter's mudblood."

Scabior's head jerks to his companion. "No fucking way."

"I'd stake my life on it—ripped the pictures off the front page of the Prophet when she and the bastard himself were on the front page."

"Isn't that interesting."

Hermione attempts to jerk out of Stan's hold, but then there's a hand on each of her arms—

And then she's spinning as the ground is gone from beneath her.

/

She's never been there, before; has never even seen it.

And yet she knows where she is immediately.

The wrought iron gate, peacock feathers scattered on the cobblestones—Hermione has been hearing about this place regularly, in thorough detail, since she was ten years old.

So she's on guard immediately as they drag her inside; has her magic and her mind braced, because if she doesn't act quickly things are about to go very, very badly.

Even so, as she's dragged through the entryway there's a part of her taking in every detail, memorizing each step, trying to learn everything possible about the place where her soul mate has grown up.

(It's dismal, which seems unavoidable given it's served as Voldemort's headquarters for three years, now; but despite the pervading darkness, she can see Narcissa's small touches—photos of Draco laughing at every age along the foyer that very nearly derail her focus entirely.)

It's eerily quiet for such high vaulted ceilings she's heard a million times are prone to echoing; she can't hear anything but the laughter of her captors, feet heavily slamming on the marble floors.

They're in the open sitting room, and she has a split second to spot the fire burning in the fireplace before she's thrown to the ground, collapsing forward onto her knees with her arms still bound behind her back.

"What's this?"

Hermione's gaze shoots upward and she feels her heart race as she meets Narcissa's eyes.

The older woman's attention flits down her body for just the briefest of moments, and Hermione knows what she's asking; she slowly moves her eyes from one side to the other in lieu of shaking her head.

(No, they don't know—Lyra is safe.)

"This is Potter's muggle—she was alone, but we figured she can tell us where he is. The Order's secrets. All kinds of useful information underneath this infernal mess of hair."

Lucius steps forward, brows drawn together. "You're certain it's her? If the Dark Lord is called and discovers we're mistaken, it's all of our necks on the line."

"Well, there's an easy way to figure it out," Bellatrix says, waving away his concern with greedy excitement in her eyes. "Draco spent six years in school with the pest, surely he can tell us if it's really her or not. You, go fetch him."

Stan hurries away to do so, and Hermione feels terror flood her body. Her soul mate is brilliant, and strong, and careful, she knows he is.

But he'll throw every caution in the world to the wind the moment he sees her in danger—and she won't let his life be the price for her freedom.

(She would burn heaven and drench hell first.)

There's a gentle probe in her mind, and she's careful to maintain a stoic expression as she carefully lets down her mental wall just enough for Narcissa to slip inside.

I'm so sorry for what's about to come, Narcissa's voice whispers. I will do whatever I can to get the two of you out of here. I have a plan in motion. But your pain…I am so sorry, dear girl, but I'm not strong enough to prevent it.

It's okay, Hermione replies. I knew what I was getting into when I made the choices I have. Lyra is safe, and happy, and loved. I regret nothing.

Lyra. Even mentally, the wistful sigh is audible. I love her already. I so hope I survive this war long enough to meet her. Narcissa takes a long breath she passes off as a tired sigh, but Hermione can see the light and sorrow swirling behind her eyes. I'm so sorry you're having to make the same sacrifices…so many of us have fought so hard hoping you would never have to.

Before Hermione can reply, footsteps enter the room—

And then there's nothing else but him.

It's a horrible moment, and the circumstances are deadly, but laying eyes on her soul mate for the first time in months and months, all she can do is drink in the sight of him.

It's a lifetime of careful control that allows him to hide his reaction from everyone around them when he spots her—the only tangible evidence of it all the way his pupils dilate when he spots her, the tension of his muscles as he takes in the scene before him.

His left hand twitches, the one that usually reaches for her own, or presses against the small of her back.

(It kills her not to be able to run to him—not to be able to touch him, make the darkness all around them disappear.)

"Draco," Bellatrix says. "We think this is Potter's mudblood. Do you recognize her? Is it her?"

He takes the question as an opportunity to take a step closer to his soul mate; to stare even harder, unapologetically.

His face scrunches up, the way it does whenever he's deep in thought, and Hermione wants to scream because she knows what he's doing—knows he's contemplating lying, saying she's someone else, prepared to face the repercussions later if it means she won't be harmed now.

But he comes to the same conclusion she already has—that while knowing her identity might mean they'll torture her, believing her to be no one of consequence would mean her immediate death. "Yes. That's her."

"You're sure?" his father demands; he raises his wand as he does so, and Hermione has to tamp down on the flare of anger that erupts as she watches Draco oh so slightly flinch at the motion.

"Yes, Father. It's definitely her."

It's horrible and yet almost comical, the fact that he's being asked to weigh in as expert on the matter, with Lucius so clueless as to the reality.

(So clueless that the woman before him is the human his son knows better than any other, could recognize even if his senses didn't work.)

(That of everyone in the entire world, he is precisely the most qualified to answer the question.)

"I'll summon the Dark Lord," Lucius announces. "Bella, if you'd like to go ahead and get started."

"It would be my pleasure," she promises in a gleeful whisper.

There's a split second as she reaches for her wand and her knife, and Hermione can see Draco already on the verge of killing her and dooming them all.

So she summons all of her vestiges of strength, channels everything she has into casting a wandless, nonverbal body bind.

Draco glares at her as soon as it hits him, betrayal and frustration in his eyes as he stands frozen with his arms at his sides.

(But this is for the best—this is necessary.)

"Tell me your name," Bellatrix orders, wand raised.

Hermione glowers, silently, refusing to give her the satisfaction when she'll torture her anyway. She steels herself in the split second before the word leaves Bellatrix's lips, and then—

"Crucio."

It's electric, the pain that zings through every nerve of her body, the curse Bellatrix is clearly an expert with.

(All of which Hermione had already known; she'd met Alice and Frank a year or two ago.)

"Let's try again; tell me your name," Bellatrix repeats.

But Hermione doesn't break; she's been through worse her entire life.

(It would take much more than this for her to crack.)

The curse hits her again; longer, this time, growing more intense each second.

Perhaps it would be harder to handle if she hadn't just gone through labor weeks upon weeks earlier; if she didn't know a pain just as harrowing, now.

Perhaps she would let herself scream if she didn't know Draco would hear, if she didn't know he would witness any distress she displays.

It goes on and on; Bellatrix repeats the question time after time, and while Hermione can't help whimpers of pain that eventually escape her, she doesn't let out a word, despite the agony.

(Her silence, her suffering—they're the price for the safety of the two people who matter most.)

After a few minutes, Bellatrix stops casting; steps closer, a blood curling smile on her face. "Well, then. Let's try something different." She drops down to Hermione's side, pressing a knee into her heaving chest.

She's held back the whimpers, the cries, but she can't control the physiological reaction the pain has already caused.

"Let's make sure," Bellatrix hisses, as she pulls a polished silver blade from within her cloak, "you never forget the scum you are."

She reaches for Hermione's right arm, and even as she braces for continued torture Hermione thanks the sheer dumb luck that's kept her captor from reaching for the arm that bears her soul mate's Dark Mark. Taking a deep breath, she mentally prepares for what's to come—mentally prepares to hold back her own reaction, try to do whatever she can to keep Draco from knowing how much pain she's truly in.

The metal presses to her skin—still, taunting, for just a moment.

And then Bellatrix begins to carve in earnest, and all there is, is—agony.

Part of it is familiar; memories creep in of a darker time, of hopelessness and desolation and needing to feel pain to feel alive, to release the sadness and pain that was consuming her, to feel like her hurt was real.

(She's not there, anymore—thank god, those feelings aren't returning.)

But this is worse; this is that but so deep she can't figure out how many layers Bellatrix is going through to leave whatever marks she is.

And it's not just the sting of the knife—there's a burning sensation that she thinks she's hallucinating at first, but as Bellatrix continues her work the feeling grows stronger and stronger, spreading as the pain does.

(It's not just a regular blade, then; poisoned, or cursed.)

She holds back for as long as she can, teeth clenched so tight with pain it hurts her jaw. Still, it's only bearable so long, as both the knife and the curse creep into her flesh. Eventually the excruciating pain is too much to bear—she lets her eyes flit to Draco briefly in apology, hopes she'd body bound him with little view of the agony clear on her face, and then when she can't stop it anymore lets out a bloodcurdling scream.

I'm sorry, she wishes she could tell him—sorry it's come to this, sorry it's happening where he can see, sorry they never stood a chance at happiness.

"Oh, she can speak, can she?" Bellatrix trills. "Keep singing, little bird. We love to hear your voice."

Once the first cry escapes her lips, she can't keep the rest from following; incessant shrieking breaking out from her chest, her entire body convulsing even as Draco's aunt holds her arm still to slice her way through.

The older woman digs especially deep, holding the tip of the blade. "Where is Harry Potter?"

"I don't know!" Hermione sobs, every muscles in her body twitching and shaking. "We split up, b-before. I haven't s-seen him in months! Please! I promise!"

"We'll see about that," Lucius hisses. "The Dark Lord can see into your mind—we'll know whether you're lying or not."

The sliver of Hermione that's still capable of rational thought takes half a second to wonder why they're not having Narcissa use legilimency on her, now.

And then it hits her—they have no idea. That Narcissa is a legilmens, that she can occlude, the true strength of the power she possesses; none of it.

(It's the only way she's survived this far without being found out, logically.)

Bellatrix repeats the question once more, and Hermione repeats her lies convincingly.

At last the pain relents, and she's just laying on the floor, gasping, feeling herself grow lightheaded as blood trickles down her arm and onto the hardwood of the drawing room.

There's a moment of peace—just a moment, while Bellatrix and Lucius discuss amongst themselves.

(Where Narcissa leans down to wipe up the blood to keep it from staining, as an excuse to crouch down to where she can squeeze Hermione's shoulder with apology, and solidarity, and love.)

(Where she can quickly approach the doors of her mind and whisper desperate apologies, try to alleviate pain, promise even now she's working toward Hermione's escape.)

(It's okay, Hermione replies; and she means it, despite the hurt every nerve ending is incessantly reminding her of.)

She echoes Lily's words back to Draco's mother: we can withstand anything when it comes to protecting our children.

Then the front door swings open, slamming into the wall.

(Everything changes.)

Everyone in the room goes still, Bellatrix and Lucius both nervous and thrilled, desperate for approval.

In the recesses of her mind, Hermione undoes the body-bind on Draco; while Bellatrix and Lucius were none the wiser, Voldemort is far too perceptive and would notice in an instant.

Would wonder why—it would be the beginning of the end.

(If this isn't it already.)

"My Lord," Lucius greets, sweeping into a bow. "Thank you for honoring us with your presence."

"Where is the girl?" Voldemort demands without acknowledging him.

Bellatrix hurries forward, gesturing to her handiwork. "Just here, my Lord. I've already started so she would be worn down for you, but she is…unusually stubborn."

"Most animals are." Red eyes flash as he peers down at Hermione. "Well done, Bella."

The woman in question preens, and Lucius blusters beside her, hurriedly attempting to curry favor. "I assisted, my Lord. And it was Draco who identified her."

"So you're not completely useless, then."

He steps closer to Hermione, then, meeting her gaze with a chilling smile. "Miss Granger, we meet at last. I've heard so many tales of your escapades and person over the last few years."

"And I-I've heard you're a narcissistic sociopath who commits murder indiscriminately and is attempting to incite a genocide because you can't handle the fact that no one loved you as a child." Her chest is still heaving from pain, but she doesn't hold back. "It's okay, Tom, we all have our daddy issues. Most of us just don't start a hate group and become mass murderers because of it."

His expression darkens at her use of his given name, but overall he appears pleased by her rebuttal. "A fighter; very well, then," he smirks. "It's been a while since I've had such fun."

He takes stock of her, then, nods approvingly at the label Bellatrix has carved into her arm. "Cursed blade?" he checks.

"Of course, my Lord. The scar will remain for as long as you allow the filth to live."

Hermione bites down on the sorrow that fills her at the comment. She'd figured as much, but it still hurts; the idea of the slur used to erase the validity of her very existence on her own skin.

(And on Draco's of course, because that's how this has always worked.)

"I admit," Voldemort continues speaking to Hermione, expression intrigued. "I did not expect to see you this year. I expected you would be otherwise…occupied."

"Yeah, because of your…r-rat," she spits, not toning down her glare at all. "Whoever tampered with my property. Having s-students do your dirty work now, Riddle?"

"Ah, so you noticed? You really are as clever as they say you are. Shame—what a waste." His eyes narrow. "But it shouldn't have been traceable until it was gone—did it not work, then?"

Before she can say anything in response he's waving his wand, a shimmering diagnostic spell fluttering over her. "No, you definitely went through labor—apologies for not sending my congratulations. Though another baby mudblood in the world isn't much cause for celebration in my book."

Hermione can't stop herself—squeezes her eyes tight with anguish, biting the inside of her mouth hard enough to draw blood as he says it.

She can practically feel Draco's heart break from across the room as the understanding floods through him; as he processes the realization of exactly why things have been so off, why she's been acting so different, even distant. He's slowly fitting together every moment, every interaction since they've seen each other last, reliving it all through new eyes with a desolate understanding of just what he's missed.

A child—his soul mate had been pregnant, and given birth to their baby. He has a child.

(It's all she can do to keep from meeting his eyes, from taking the risk to beg him to forgive her for keeping it from him right here and now.)

She hears rather than sees his sudden intake of breath as the shock hits him; and no one could blame him—compared to what he's feeling a gasp of surprise is nothing.

And Voldemort doesn't appear suspicious; interprets it as the stunned reaction of a classmate and peer at a teen pregnancy. "Shocking, isn't it, Draco? I imagine Little Miss Perfect is the last one any of your classmates would have guessed for teen pregnancy. And out of wedlock, too."

He clicks his tongue like a disapproving teacher as he turns back to the diagnostic results. "Breastfeeding, are we? And yet still on the frontlines of the war…I'll give you credit, mudblood, I underestimated your tenacity. I thought it would be enough to stop you." Pushing back the sleeves of his robes, he raises his wand to her once more. "Anything you'd like to confess before we begin? Aren't you rather tired of the cruciatus?"

"You'd crucio me even if I told you everything you wanted to know," she whispers acidly. "You won't get anything out of me."

"We'll see," he promises in a hiss. "Crucio."

And it hurts differently than Bellatrix's casting had; it's a sharper, more pointed pain.

She can only hold off from screaming for ten minutes, this time; then it's all rushing from her throat in a rasp.

After what feels like hours, he pauses in his ministrations. Without warning, he whispers, "Legilimens."

She feels sharp claws attempt to tear into her mind instantly, more strength than she's ever been up against mentally behind them.

But unlike her skin, the walls of her mind are not so easy to destroy; they are adamas, celestial bronze, diamond—everything impenetrable, the product of a lifetime of secrecy and internal fortification. The last year of endless hours doing nothing but shielding has done nothing but strengthen them.

Voldemort continues attempting to barrage her with attacks, repeatedly trying to slam and slice and trick his way through her shields. And it's hard; it takes everything in her to fend him off, to hold up her mental fortress despite the incessant and aggressive offense being launched her way.

Even in her weakened state, though, she maintains it; her body may shake, and she may be dizzy and nauseous and faint from the pain, but her mind, her strongest shield, will stand against anything.

"An occlumens. How interesting."

He hums thoughtfully, but the wrath and disbelief in his eyes makes it clear he's surprised at the turn of events—enraged that the weakling before him is strong enough to withstand his invasion, one that next to no one ever has.

"Did Dumbledore train you—the better to protect his prized pupil?"

When she only scowls defiantly in response, Voldemort sighs. "Narcissa, bring me a vial of veritaserum. It appears the fun ways will be of no use on this one." As Narcissa leaves the room, he glares down at Hermione. "Why won't you just give up? It's idiocy to carry on like this, child—you're only causing yourself more pain.

"You are…a fool," Hermione whispers through rapid breaths. "I…only ever agreed with Albus Dumbledore on… one thing. You know nothing of love. And it will…always be your downfall."

"She thinks she knows so much, does she," he replies with a cold laugh.

"I'm not the one who's…clueless," she pants. "You thought that having a child would make me weak—would make me give up, and walk away from the war. But you've given me the greatest motivation in the world to fight." She smiles, then, unable to hold back glee at how furious the truth makes him. "You should've known, Tom. You should have seen this coming. You've been defeated by a mother's love before."

He crucios her for using his given name once more; short spurts, giving her just enough time to feel the involuntary twitching of her limbs in between the shots of fire in her veins. Even once Narcissa has returned, hurriedly pressing the glass bottle into his non-dominant hand, he carries on with the torture.

It's only when her vision is starting to flash black and unconsciousness approaches that he relents. She lays there gasping in oxygen, and he levels the wand at her chest once more.

"Now, then," he says, not having broken a sweat. "Come here, Draco."

Draco steps forward immediately, expression confused. "My Lord?"

In a split second his entire body tenses, stock still; the yew wand is at his throat.

"Raise your sleeve."

Draco immediately rolls up his left sleeve, proffering the forearm emblazoned with the Dark Mark.

But Voldemort doesn't remove the wand pressing into his skin. "The other one."

He freezes as he realizes what's happening, and Hermione tries to rally any remaining strength to save him, but there's not enough—she can't force her trembling muscles to move.

Wand still pressed to Draco's throat, Voldemort flicks one finger and the sleeve is levitated upward; there, much more visible without the blood and puffy skin, the word MUDBLOOD is engraved in jagged font.

(The jig is up, then.)

(There's no way to comprehend it, as everything collapses around them all at once; the world they've so carefully protected for years falls apart in the space of a single moment.)

Lucius roars with anger at the revelation, Bellatrix pointing her own wand at her nephew beside him; both appearing angry enough to kill him themselves right then and there.

"Did you really think I believed you?" Voldemort hisses. "Three years of apathy and restraint, never detecting a single emotion from you, and you thought I wouldn't suspect something amiss? That I would believe the one time your careful mask breaks is because of mere surprise at a classmate's scandal?"

The blond doesn't bother defending himself, doesn't argue or make excuses.

(He's too busy trying to come up with a scenario where he, Hermione, and his mother all survive this.)

"I admit, I'm stunned you were able to hide it for this long. Especially with everything else my spy was able to deduce, for him not to have uncovered this…well, Smith and I will be having words."

Hermione's heart clenches with betrayal. "Z-Zacharias? He's the one who…"

Voldemort's snake eyes glimmer. "No one ever suspects the whiny tagalong, Gryffindor or Hufflepuff. And no one expects any of them to be anything but noble, despite all the evidence to the contrary." He narrows his gaze at Draco. "The Order hasn't sustained heavy losses in ages; I gleaned that we had a traitor in our midst. I never fathomed it would be you. Well done. I hope it was worth your life."

Hermione begins attempting to drag herself across the floor, desperately pulling her body weight even as she winces while her blood continues to splatter along the hardwood.

But before she can get there, or Voldemort can let the green light fly, or anyone else can begin to move, there's a deafening crack throughout the drawing room, and then Dobby is there, standing determinedly in front of Draco as though it's not the most dangerous thing he's ever done.

Lucius seethes, capable of speech for the first time since horror and rage had overtaken him at the reveal of Draco's bond with Hermione. "You little—"

"You will not harm Master Draco!"

He snaps his fingers and Voldemort's wand flies out of his hand, and then with one hand still on Draco he reaches a spindly limb for Hermione's outstretched hand.

"Shell Cottage," Hermione whispers, so only Dobby can hear.

A heartbeat and an earth-shattering crack, and they're all gone.