They both collapse as they land on the grass.
Dobby's gone again in an instant; Draco can only hope it's to get his mother.
He moves to Hermione's side, looking her up and down for any further injury caused by the abrupt departure.
She's unconscious, the fresh wound on her arm yet to coagulate; she's not on the brink of death, or anything, but definitely needs immediate medical attention.
He's not sure where they are, but since it was Hermione's idea he can only hope it's safe—can only hope there's help on the other side of the front door.
Draco scoops her up in his arms, staggering toward the door desperately. Before he can knock, it's thrown open; wards must've been set off when Dobby apparated them onto the property.
Before him can only be a Weasley, but one he's never seen before: long hair and an earring confirm what the scarring of his face suggests—this must be Bill.
(Hermione and Harry were right about him being hot, he thinks.)
Bill's wand is pointed at his face before he can say anything.
"Please," he begs. "Please, I know you have no reason to trust me, but I swear I'm on your side—I've been an informant for the Order for almost two years, ask McGonagall. And even if you don't believe me, just—please, Hermione needs help. That's all that matters—please help her." His voice breaks as he tries to stress the importance of the situation.
Bill's eyes go wide as he registers Hermione's limp form, held tight to Draco's chest. "How do I know that's really her and not a Death Eater you've imperiused?"
There are footsteps, and then Fleur appears at his shoulder, her wand also at the ready. "Mon dieu—Draco, 'ow are ou 'ere?"
"You know Malfoy?" Bill narrows his eyes thoughtfully. "You trust him?"
Fleur cocks her head to the side, mind moving a million miles an hour. " 'e was kind to me when not many were. I always believed zat 'e was a good person, despite evidence others provided to ze contrary. But—it 'as been years. And I know 'e is a confirmed Death Eater."
"Please," Draco repeats, begging now. "Please, you have to help her. Floo McGonagall, or Harry, or Sirius and Remus—anyone, I don't care, but she needs help. She was tortured for hours and hours."
Bill turns to Fleur, an unspoken conversation passing between them.
"Worst case scenario, it would be better to 'eal 'er and be wrong than ze alternative," Fleur decides aloud. "Draco, 'and over both of your wands—I will do what I can to 'elp, and we will send for McGonagall once 'ermione is stable."
"Thank you—merlin, thank you," he whispers, almost overcome with relief. He allows Bill to summon his wand from the pocket of his robes, Hermione's own still being at the Manor.
He hurriedly follows Fleur into the cottage, through to the guest room where he gently lays Hermione on the bed.
"Cedric!" Fleur calls through the house. "I need you!"
He rushes into the room seconds later, eyes going wide at the side of Hermione's pallid form. "Fuck."
"Less standing, more 'ealing," Fleur commands. "You've always been better at magic like zis than me."
"Of course. Can you grab a few pain relief potions while I start on the spells?"
She goes to fetch them, leaving the rest of them alone, Bill's wand still out and his gaze trained on Draco.
As Cedric begins casting, he meets Draco's eyes with a grimace. "It's nice to meet you—without all the posturing and the war, I mean. I'm so sorry this has happened—I can't imagine how hard this must be for you."
Bill raises his eyebrows "What are you talking about—why would this be hard for him?"
"If it were Theo injured like this…merlin, I'd lose it." Cedric says with an empathetic frown. When Bill remains confused, he gestures as though it's the most obvious thing in the world. "She's his soul mate,"
Draco's eyes go wide at the declaration. "How do you know?"
"Figured it out a while back. She hides it well, but when your soul mate is trapped on the dark side…well, you know the signs." He makes a face as he gently bandages her arm. "We got coffee at the muggle shop your mum goes to, the last time I saw her before the ministry fiasco."
"Your mother…never mind," Bill shakes his head incredulously. "You're really her soul mate, then?"
"Yes," Draco admits, thumb gently rubbing across the knuckles of her uninjured arm. "I love her more than anything. That's how I've been working for the Order—I would write information for her to relay as my liaison."
"Our spy," Bill murmurs. "The one McGonagall gives us intel from—it's been you all along." When Draco nods, he sighs, running his hands through his hair as he attempts to process. "I'll go send word to McGonagall to come—and Sirius and Remus."
A moment later, there's shouting outside the cottage, and Fleur and Draco both bolt outside, expecting an attack; instead it's Dobby, there with three other people.
(None of them is his mother, though—she's running out of time.)
Dobby's gone again in an instant, and Draco assesses the scene even as his mind dwells on the two most important women in his life being in peril; it's the goblin and the wandmaker his father and aunt have been holding hostage for months, and—
He sucks in a deep breath as he realizes exactly who's come with them; freezes and reaches for his wand, but it's still in Bill's grasp.
"Fleur! Stun him!" he cries, but there's no time—
So he throws himself, fully tackling Wormtail to the ground.
"Get off me! I—I'm a victim of the Dark Lord, same as anyone!"
Peter attempts to wriggle his way free, but Draco's grip is like iron, such is the hatred for this man after everything he's done—after the ways he's hurt people Draco considers family.
Without hesitation, Fleur stuns him, turning to Draco with a questioning glance.
"He's the one that brought You-Know-Who back to life," Draco explains, eyes burning with hatred. "And the secret keeper who betrayed the Potters."
Fleur's eyes narrow with understanding. "Zis is Pettigrew?" Nostrils flare as she levitates his body, taking no caution to prevent him from hitting bushes or tree branches. "I am sure we can set something up as a 'olding cell. Remus and Sirius will be wanting words with ze bastard."
And people like Wormtail are a special kind of horrible, Draco thinks; not ever willing to show their face, too cowardly to admit to the awful things they believe, and yet being the ones most instrumental in dark forces taking over. Being friends with people as staunchly anti-blood purism as James Potter and Sirius Black, while being a supremacist all the while; it's not just spineless, it's the insidious kind of evil that allows causes like this to persist.
(Because people believe they're not as bad as Voldemort, so it's okay; they're on the same page as timid Peter Pettigrew, so they must not be in the wrong.)
She marches Wormtail's unconscious form inside, and it's only a beat before there's another loud crack, another crash landing in the soft grass that surrounds the cottage.
"Mother!" Draco runs toward her.
Dobby's ears are pointed downward. "I is trying to save Mistress, but she insists Dobby gets the prisoners first." He waves an arm toward where Ollivander and Griphook sit in a daze. "I is trying to get Mistress out in time, b-but Miss Bella tried to—and then—Mistress took the knife meant for Dobby."
"This is not your fault, Dobby, and I would do it all over again given the opportunity," Narcissa rasps, holding a hand to her side. "You are family, and I do not let anyone harm my family when I can stop it. I took that knife for you just as I would Draco or Andromeda. Besides, Bellatrix would be nothing if she weren't violent; I consider this a sisterly parting wound."
Draco's face goes tight with rage. "No—Mother, tell me she didn't."
"It's fine, little dragon," she assures him breathily. "She didn't get anything vital. It's just a cursed knife, so I won't ever be able to run or anything like that, and I might not live quite as long. And of course I won't be able to heal it by magic. You know how Bella thinks to do it the muggle way is the worst thing imaginable."
"Do not sit here talking to me with her knife buried in your side," Draco hisses. "Merlin, Mother, are you insane?"
"Don't worry about me," she insists, getting to her feet even as she fights back a wince. "How is Hermione?"
He forces himself to take a deep breath before helping her to her feet; Dobby stands on her other side, casting every spell in his repertoire to make her steps lighter, her wound less burdensome.
"She's stable," he promises, voice thick. "Cedric is tending to her now. Sirius and that lot should be here soon."
With his child, hopefully—the child that is all he can think about, even as he panics over Hermione and his mother's health, even as he worries for what repercussions they'll face now that his father and Voldemort know of his betrayal and connection to Hermione, even as he worries for the future of the war and how they'll possibly find a way out of this mess—
All the while, the baby is all he can imagine, all he can wonder about; desperate to meet them, to know everything about them, everything he missed during Hermione's pregnancy.
He keeps trying to picture it—what they look like, how much Harry and Ron must have coddled Hermione along the way, how she must've felt when she found out, alone and on the run and unable to tell him.
(Which he instinctively hates, feels incredibly hurt by, but—her choices led to here and now, where all of them are alive and safe and okay, and how could he ever fault her for what may well have been the only reason they ended up in such a state?)
It's then that it hits him, and he pauses in their trek toward the house, turning toward his mother with a frown. "The tapestry—you knew?"
"Yes," she confirms, entirely unapologetic. "I disillusioned it so no one would see as soon as I saw." She sees the frustration in his eyes. "Go on and say it, then. You won't feel better until you get it out."
"I—" he sighs, free hand tugging at his hair desperately. "I understand why you made the decisions you did. And you were probably right in doing so. But I just—how could you know I had a child all these months and not tell me?"
"I knew all you would ever want was what was best for the baby—and that was for you not to know. So it was one of the easiest things I've ever done."
The cool, collected honesty with which she says it—merlin, it enrages him even as it makes him respect her even more.
They head inside, and Fleur casts the beginning healing spells on Narcissa while Cedric finishes up working on Hermione; she's stoic, despite the pain Draco knows treatment must be causing, and can see Fleur's respect for her growing.
(He's a little terrified at the idea of the two of them becoming friends, especially once Tonks is thrown into the mix, but at this point it seems inevitable.)
Cedric comes in a few minutes later, and despite the clear tiredness in his posture he smiles kindly as he takes in the sight of Narcissa, readily raising his wand to treat her. "Draco, she's alright—will need to be on bed rest for at least a week, more if we can possibly get her to, and I'll need to send for some things from the apothecary as soon as I'm done treating the both of them, but she's stable. We'll need to get an actual healer to check her out for any long-term impacts or side-effects, of course, but—she's through the worst of it."
Draco hurriedly murmurs his thanks, filled with anguish as he looks back and forth between his mother's pallid form and the door.
Taking pity on him, Narcissa lets out a light laugh, even as she holds back a wince. "Go to her, darling."
He's out the door without a word, practically tripping over himself to get to his soul mate. Takes his place at her side, gently taking her hand while he waits for her to wake.
And with the way things have been, and the chaos of the last twenty-four hours, it's nice to just—stare at her. Drink in the sight of her before him, real; not the dream he's been having for months, always interrupted by nightmares, not about to be ripped away from him, but here. Safe.
(Together outside of Hogwarts, for the first time, after so many years of hiding and secrets and suffering.)
He hates that she has more scars now, that she's been through even more pain than the last time they were together. Hates that she's been up against so much more than any person should have to be.
But the strength to survive it all, everything she's withstood—he hates that she has the scars, but merlin is she beautiful, evidence of her bravery on her body.
He knows for the rest of their lives he'll see the white line on her throat and feel horror at the memory of the blade that had been pressed there—but he'll also remember her defiance even as Voldemort himself tortured her, that she took it all to protect their family, their child.
(It's overwhelming, the love and awe he feels as he stares at her. As he considers all that she's done, all that she's borne—how much stronger she is than he can ever hope to be.)
A few minutes later, Hermione's eyelids begin to flutter; she lets out a quiet hum before they open all the way.
And then his favorite color in the world, that deep brown that owns his heart, is staring back at him.
"Hey, Juliet," Draco whispers, brushing hair out of her eyes. "You scared the shit out of me, you know that?"
She hums in acknowledgement, squeezing his hand in hers. "I missed you. I'm so glad you're safe." She shoots upward in the bed. "Your mother—is she okay?"
"I swear to fucking merlin," he mutters under his breath, eyes rolling. "Both of you asking about each other before making sure you're okay yourselves. You're going to give me an aneurysm."
Hermione's not fazed by his irritation, though; merely keeps her expression serious and locked on him until he caves with a sigh. "Yes, yes, she's okay. She was stabbed while escaping, and it will be a rough healing process and cause her some life-long side effects, but she's here and safe and alright."
"Thank god," Hermione lets out a breath. "Where is here, exactly—did we end up making it to Shell Cottage, then? I hope we're not being a burden on Fleur and Bill…"
"Yes, that's where we are. They're perfectly fine, and Cedric is here too—laying low after his stunt helping you lot at the ministry, apparently. He's the one who did most of your healing. And Bill sent for Sirius and that lot, so they'll be here soon."
Something within her settles, then. She swallows, not meeting his eyes as she explains, "It was just supposed to be for an hour, doing recon, but we were in Godric's Hollow—"
"So Harry got overly emotional and accidentally broke the taboo," Draco realizes, shaking his head.
"It's not his fault." Hermione's voice is steel, as though declaring him to contradict her.
"Hey, you know I would never say that," he promises softly. "I think he's the only person in the world who cares about you as much as I do. I know he would never do anything to hurt you. Honestly, I'm worried he's going to be blaming himself for what you went through for the rest of his life."
"Me too," she admits. "And I hate it—it could've been any of us, you know? There have been multiple times I had to clap a hand over Ron's mouth, or stop myself mid-sentence; it's just bad luck no one was able to remind him in time. And given how emotionally volatile we all were, and the fact that it was the first time he was seeing his parents' grave in his life? I can't imagine what he was feeling."
"So how did the snatchers just get you?" Draco sighs, and before she can reply, says, "It's going to be something idiotically self-sacrificial, isn't it—I already know I'm not going to like the answer."
Hermione laughs, and then winces. "Threw the cloak over them, pretended it was all me, yes. I had to. Neither of them can occlude. I couldn't risk You-Know-Who using legilmency on them and finding out about you and I—about the baby." Eyes closing, she takes a deep, stuttering breath. A tear slowly drips down her cheek. "This is the first time I've been away from her since she was born. It's killing me."
Her eyes fly open, then, wide with horror. "Oh, god, that must sound so incredibly selfish when you only just—and I've had all this time, and I'm complaining, when you haven't even had the chance to—"
"Hermione," Draco says gently, free hand wiping a tear from her cheek. "Stop panicking. It would never in a million years cross my mind to feel offended that you're worried about our child—especially not your first time away from them, and in the middle of a war. Of course it's killing me too, but that doesn't mean you don't get to feel your pain, baby."
He bites his lip nervously before asking her to clarify. In the smallest voice he's ever used, he whispers, "It's—we have a daughter?"
Hermione nods slowly, trying to force herself to stop crying, but now that it's started a flood begins.
"I—Draco, I'm so sorry. I wanted to tell you every day, but—"
"Shh, shh, you did the right thing, love. Don't apologize for doing what you had to for us all to survive." He rubs his thumb along the back of her hand. "I—god, I'm sorry you were alone through it all. I'm sorry I wasn't there for you. What—" he swallows heavily, nerves showing through for the first time that day. "Tell me everything."
And she does—once she starts talking she can't stop, and all the details of the months he's missed spill out of her; them being hungry and terrified on the run, the day she realized they had a tag along, desperately hiding it and being so full of both love and terror throughout her pregnancy.
She tries to shield him from the worst of it, but he knows her too well; stops and convinces her to open up about the loneliness, how scary it was, the moments she was so worried out of her mind something would happen to the little nugget before they would ever see the light of day.
There are good things, too: the way Draco's eyes light up when she tells him about tracking her growth, the photos on her muggle camera she took to document it for him when she had the chance, the way he laughs when she tells him about panicking thinking she'd eaten something poisonous only to realize it was the baby moving for the first time.
She hates feeling like she's monopolizing the conversation, but anytime she attempts to shift the focus to him, or the war on the whole, he shushes her and demands to hear everything about what she went through, about the path to their child coming into the world.
(And he didn't get to be there, so—she can't blame him. Indulges him entirely.)
After a little while, the door flies open without a knock, and she tenses preparing to ask whoever it is to leave—
But then it's her brother, eyes wide with concern, bundle held gently in his arms.
"Hermione—thank god." He's at her side in an instant, free hand reaching for hers as though to prove to himself it's really her, that she's really safe.
"I'm okay," she promises, reaching for his face as she attempts to soothe his fears. "I'm alright, I promise."
"If you hadn't—if you weren't—" tears well up in his eyes and he shakes his head, unable to finish the sentence. Turning to Draco, he reaches to hug him with the free arm. "I'm so glad to see you, too. And that your mother's okay—Andy's right behind me and beside herself excited to see her. Dads too, of course."
Before Draco can respond, the form in Harry's arms whimpers—and then Draco's attention is consumed.
Harry smiles sadly. "Haven't let her out of my sight since the moment you were taken."
"Thank you, Harry." Hermione lets out a deep sigh as her baby is pressed into her arms—at last, feels like everything is right for the first time in so, so long.
(The war is still going, but—her soul mate is beside her. Her daughter is in her arms.)
(In this moment, everything is okay.)
Harry silently pads out of the room, seeing the moment that's about to take place, and Hermione can't help the bittersweet smile that forms on her face.
"Draco, she says, voice soft. "This is our daughter, Lyra."
He presses a fist to his mouth as he takes in the sight of her for the first time.
Unsteady on his feet, Hermione can barely hold back further tears as Draco falls to his knees beside her, eyes locked on the tiny face that so mirrors his; tiny blond tufts of hair sticking out of her beanie he can already tell will grow into incredibly thick curls like her mother's.
"I know we'd planned to wait longer—obviously the timing wasn't our idea," she begins, and Draco's lip twitches at the mention of Zacharias and the circumstances regarding their daughter's conception which he still doesn't fully understand.
"She's perfect, though," Draco murmurs, wholly enraptured. "I can't believe we made someone so perfect."
"Me either."
He just stares, for a moment, taking their daughter in, as though he's trying to memorize the shape of her tiny nose, the shade of her lips, the exact number of eyelashes brushing her pale cheeks. Eventually, he gets to his feet—clearly too anxious to ask the question his soul mate knows he wants to.
(She takes pity on him.)
"Do you want to hold her?"
He nods so sharply she worries he might crack his neck, carefully reaching down to lift their daughter from her chest.
(It's already clear Lyra is the most precious thing in his world.)
"Hi, sweetheart," he whispers, pressing a kiss to her forehead.
And he cries—of course he cries, when she snuggles into his chest, tears silently pouring down his face.
"I—Mia." He shakes his head, lip trembling with emotion. "The last year has been hell. And I—so many times, I thought I'd never be happy again. It felt like the end. But now you're—you're here, and Lyra…" a heaving gasp for breath as sobs shake him, even as he tries to staunch them so as to not disturb the little girl in his arms. "Now none of it matters. This, you two, it's—it's everything. I didn't even know I was still capable of being this happy again."
Hermione scoots over on the bed, patting the now-empty space beside her; Draco gives her a look, but relents once she gives a pleading frown, cautiously lowering himself onto the mattress without jostling Lyra.
She lets out a sigh as she leans into him, feeling like she can relax for the first time in nearly a year. "Harry calls her LJ," she says into his shoulder. "Because her middle name is Joy—something Lily said to me, when we were talking about life and motherhood and being so young and bringing a child into the world…"
"Lily, as in—Harry's mother?" Draco clarifies with raised eyebrows, looking concerned. "The one who's been dead nearly two decades?"
"We found the resurrection stone, it was one of the horcruxes as a ring and then Dumbledore left it to Harry in his will."
Draco closes his eyes in defeat. "Every time I'm away from you lot for two seconds it's something. Of course the fucking hallows found you too."
"Harry has two of them, actually. We're hoping if he gets the wand too he can survive the whole being-a-horcrux-himself thing."
They're quiet for a moment, and then Draco's eyes fly open, and he looks at her, expression urgent. "Her middle name is Joy—but you didn't give her one of our last names, right?"
A giggle escapes her; the happiness she just can't help at having him with her again, of no one else understanding, but them being on the same page even without having discussed it. "Everyone else was confused by it, but no, I would never. She's a Black, from day one."
Hermione falls asleep again, eventually; when she wakes up again, Draco's whispering to Lyra, who's staring up at him with big brown eyes.
She considers pretending to still be asleep, for a moment, but Draco notices before she can, giving the biggest, most genuine smile she's ever seen on his face.
(And they might still be at war, but—he's free. And they're a family, at last.)
"I can—if you want a moment, just the two of you—"
"If you think I am ever voluntarily letting you out of my sight again you're insane."
/
By the time the door swings open next, she's impressed they've managed to restrain themselves so long.
"Kitten," Sirius declares, "Why am I, once again, finding you in a recovery bed?"
"We are in a war, you know, it's not entirely my fault."
He goes to Draco, who's once again in the chair, having finally relinquished his grip on Lyra a few minutes earlier so she could eat, now snoozing in her mother's arms.
Sirius slowly reaches to pull him into a hug; the younger man flinches, stiff in the unfamiliar embrace, until Sirius quietly tells him, so no one else can hear, "It helps, I promise. One day it won't feel so foreign."
And he understands, then; it's not just a hug because he's glad to finally see him again, to know he's free, but because Sirius is perhaps the only one save his soul mate who understands exactly what it is to escape a home life like that—who knows what he needs despite how unused to it is, in order to heal, now that he's at last out from under Lucius's thumb.
Remus is quiet, just sits at the edge of Hermione's bed, taking in the sight of her with an ever-worried frown.
"Get on with the lecture," she tells him, holding back a snicker when he rolls his eyes.
"No lecture this time," he promises. "You did—exactly what I would have in your shoes. I hate that it brought you pain; I hate that we're seeing you having to heal once again. But you did everything right as a member of the Order. And as someone I think of rather as a daughter…"
He's choked up and can't continue, so Sirius finishes for him. "We're very proud of you, kitten."
"What, you won't let me in because you want to let them have time alone but you'll let those heathens barge in?" Ron's outraged voice comes through the other side of the door just a beat before he does.
"Maybe we should go out there before he and Bill start with a full on Weasley fight," Hermione suggests.
"I hope you don't think you're walking any time soon," Sirius says with a scowl, as though daring her to contradict him.
"What, you're going to carry me?"
"If it keeps you from further injuring yourself, yes. Draco, take the baby from your girlfriend, please."
Wide eyed, Draco shrugs apologetically at Hermione before doing exactly that; she glares at him, but lifts her blanket, sitting up so it's easier for Sirius to scoop her into his arms.
"I am sorry if this makes you uncomfortable," he says quietly as they head out of the room. "But you really can't afford to be injured any longer than necessary during times like these."
Hermione sniffs at him in response. "Don't lie to me. You just want to impress your husband."
"Yes, well, multitasking, then, isn't it?" He winks cheekily.
She sighs, reluctantly thanking him as he sets her on the couch in the living room.
Ron's on her in an instant, being gentle as possible as he reaches for a desperate hug, letting out a deep breath.
"I'm okay, Ron. Really," she promises.
"I know, and they told me that as soon as we got here, but. You know how I am."
"Mother hen," Hermione says fondly.
Cedric approaches, keeping his distance so as to not overcrowd her, but clearly concerned. "How are you feeling?"
"Just fine—thank you for making that the case. I really appreciate it."
He smiles gently. "Of course. I'm just glad to see the three of you alive—and that you and Draco are finally able to see each other again."
Hermione grimaces with understanding. "Me too. How's Theo?"
"Alright. He's in and out, so I can communicate with him often, which I'm very grateful for, but I haven't seen him in months, so. You know how that goes."
Lyra lets out a cry just then, and the inhabitants of Shell Cottage seem to notice her only then, their attention having been focused on Hermione.
"Um," Bill looks unsure of how to articulate his question. "Obviously we're an Order safe house so anyone who needs shelter here is welcome, but—can I ask why there's a baby? And why Malfoy is holding them?"
"Just Draco," Hermione corrects habitually. "And the baby is ours."
Fleur and Cedric's eyes nearly bug out of their heads, and Cedric chokes on the water he'd been drinking. "I'm sorry, what? You had a baby?"
"It's been…one hell of a year," she replies.
Unlike the other two, Bill doesn't look shocked; instead, his shoulders shake with laughter. "Hermione—you have to let me be there when the rest of the family finds out. This is priceless."
She rolls her eyes. "If you like. But given that the twins and Ginny have known about Draco and I for years and Percy is married to his cousin I don't think it'll quite as dramatic as you're hoping."
"He really just means Mum," Ron calls out, ducking when a pillow comes flying at his head a split second later.
"Speaking of mothers," Draco says, neatly changing the subject, "Where is mine?"
"She and Andy ducked into a guest room as soon as we got here," Harry explains. "They were both crying before they got the door closed so I don't know how long it'll be till they come out. But Dobby's in there with them, so I'm sure they're alright."
"Oh! Zat reminds me," Fleur pipes up, snapping her fingers when it hits her. "Remus, Sirius, did you 'ear? There's a present for you."
Sirius grins, but after working so many hours together Remus knows her too well not to catch the gleam in her eye. "For us? Where is it?"
"Oh, in ze pantry, of course. Zat is, after all, where one would usually find a rat."
Notes:
chapter title from daylight by taylor swift
Also tiktok informed me there are lots of dramione fans on wattpad so currently working on uploading this there as well (user @everydaynerd1) if that is any of y'alls preferred ff medium
Take care of yourselves out there! as always, thank you so much for reading.
I promise I will update as soon as I can. all my love
Chapter 47: all my life I've been fighting
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Sirius's expression isn't one any of them have seen often; and yet it's familiar to Hermione.
(It's the same one she wears whenever Harry's aunt and uncle are mentioned, the same one she wears when Draco flinches at sudden movement.)
(When Ginny swallows heavily at the mention of possession, when Pansy's eyes go cold, when Sirius assumes the worst and Remus believes he's unworthy of love.)
It's the face of righteous rage—of someone who's tried so hard to do all the right things in all the right ways faced with one who would harm their loved ones. It's the face of vengeance that knows neutrality is not kindness when an innocent is wronged, when to stand by would allow more harm to be done; vengeance that knows to allow it is to allow it to happen again.
(Protective, lethal rage and love in its purest form.)
His husband is likewise angry, eyes bright, but cautions him at the sight of the depths of his wrath. "Pads—"
"I want him to suffer," Sirius says simply. "The way he deserves to."
"James wouldn't want us to—"
"Bullshit. Not for his own murder, maybe. But if James knew what it had done to Evans—if he knew what Harry would go through because of it, everything the Dursleys would do…he'd be the first one in line."
"Fine. You're right. But be that as it may, however worth your ire he is, you have made it this far without stooping to that kind of low. If you're the one who tortures him, you live with that forever—and he is not worth that. He doesn't deserve to leave that kind of mark on you; he deserves nothing more than to be forgotten. Just kill him and be done with it—that way we can move forward and try to somehow start healing from what we should've healed from two decades ago."
"At least see if he knows anything useful first," Bill suggests. "People let plenty of things slip around those they don't think pose a threat."
"I have some veritaserum in my bag," Hermione adds tiredly. "Use that."
Remus tilts his head back, looking up to the ceiling as he sighs. "Do I want to know how you got ahold of that?"
"Brewed it myself," she promises sweetly.
"Yes, that's what I was worried about," he mumbles. "And how, exactly, did you get ahold of the ingredients?"
Hermione purses her lips. "You're not even going to spend a second being impressed that I managed to brew it before you yell at me?"
"Not when I know the depraved places you either stole from or polyjuiced yourself to enter."
Meanwhile, Sirius is quiet for a moment, pensive as he considers the situation at hand. "I know what I want to do," he says. "Let's wake him up."
They take him out, using an incarcerous to tie him to the chair before Remus casts a rennervate.
Peter's eyes go wide, then growing even more panicked as he begins to thrash when he realizes that he's stuck—and precisely who surrounds him.
"Hello, Peter," Remus says, arms crossed as he and his husband stand side by side, staring down the man they once considered a brother. "Wondering what we're going to do to you? Me too. I let Sirius decide, you see."
Peter gives a muffled cry against the gag in place, terror filling his face as he looks to the man in question.
"Don't worry, Pete, I gave it plenty of careful thought." Sirius winks. "Wouldn't want a marauder to have anything less than he deserves, of course. But before we get to that, we have a few questions for you—Fleur, would you mind?"
Fleur briefly removes the gag, pouring the veritaserum down his throat before he can begin to speak.
As soon as he's sputtered the clear liquid down his throat, he begins to beg and plead and bargain, making up every possible lie in an attempt to convince them he's innocent of it all, coward traitor that he is.
When it becomes clear that won't work, he grows quiet for a moment, his beady eyes darting from side to side.
The silence is suspicious—Fleur can see the signs of someone plotting, so she has the gag at the ready again when he opens his mouth and starts to say, "Volde—"
She shoves it back in his mouth, pulling it tight enough to dig his teeth into the gum of his cheeks. "Nice try," she whispers airily. "Do anything like zat again and you will learn what it is like to 'ave your skin peeled back one inch at a time."
She stays on guard, but he's too scared to try it again after that, returns to attempts to convince them to let him go, somehow.
They ignore it all, asking every possible question to garner information about the Death Eaters they can; most of what he provides they already know, but the confirmation with what Draco had been able to find is welcome.
After thirty minutes or so, when they've wrestled every bit of intel possible from him—nothing huge, but little snippets of knowledge that might come in handy later on—Bill replaces the gag, and Sirius lets out a deep sigh. "Well, Moony, I think that's all there is."
"I think so too, Pads. Are you ready to tell us what it is you have planned?"
"I considered cruciatus till his heart gave out. Locking him in a room with pictures of James and Lily to let the guilt consume him until he starved to death. Snape's slicing curse. Using one of our basilisk fangs." He doesn't move a muscle, merely continues keeping eye contact with Peter as he grows more and more fearful of whatever fate awaits him.
"But then I realized that no amount of suffering will make it right. No amount of pain I can cause him will match the betrayal he caused; and that's with Harry having survived. Which he didn't think he would at the time; he thought telling Riddle would consign all three of them to death. And no amount of pain makes up for the fact that he was okay with being the reason my son died—as a baby." The grief is too much; Sirius has to pause and swallow heavily before continuing. "And you were right, Moony. He's not worth the gum on the bottom of my shoe, let alone causing the kind of guilt I would live with—and it wouldn't make it better.
"So. As you two well know, transfiguration has always been my greatest strength. And since while I was locked away, suffering for a crime I didn't commit, you were contentedly living out your life as a beloved pet, I've decided to trap you in your animagus form, Peter. Since you clearly love it so much, it seems fitting to make the change permanent. Once I've done so, we'll drop you off in the middle of a forest somewhere and let nature take its course. You have lived nearly six times the lifespan of the average garden rat since then, after all."
Sirius glowers at the man who was once his friend, trying to tamp down the resentment and anger and hatred that's been building inside him for the last sixteen years. "It didn't have to be this way, Wormtail. You were one of us, once. Our friend. Our brother. We would've died for you. But you took the love we gave you, the trust James placed in you, and warped it into a tool for betrayal. Even this is more mercy than you deserve."
With that, he waves his wand, and doesn't speak again until the deed is done.
/
Shortly thereafter, Narcissa and Andy emerge from the room, both perfectly prim and put together, not a hair out of place.
(If Hermione weren't an expert at façade herself she would never be able to tell that they've both recently been sobbing their eyes out.
Narcissa turns to Hermione. "Dear girl, I—I am so sorry for what you went through. I never considered that place a home, but nonetheless, I am so—"
"It's not your fault," Hermione says firmly, reaching to clasp the other woman's hand in her own.
(They're both trembling.)
"You're the only reason we're all still alive. That's—that's the most important thing." She forms a small smile. "Besides. I have the rest of my life to feel the weight of that night. Right now, I think there's someone who'd like to meet you."
She'd had tunnel vision up till now, only concerned with her future daughter in-law's well being; but now Narcissa lets out a quiet gasp, pressing a hand to her mouth as she follows Hermione's gaze to Draco.
He grins as he steps closer; though reluctant to spend even a second without her in his arms, he holds out his daughter to her grandmother. "Mother, this is Lyra Black."
Narcissa's entire countenance lights up, the happiness on her face enough to remind anyone else in the room precisely why her marriage contract had been so sought after once upon a time. "Merlin and Morgana," she whispers, and it's been nearly two decades since she held an infant but she slips into the familiar grip all the same. "Hello, little one. I've been looking forward to meeting you for a very long time."
/
"Hermione."
The anguish in Cedric's voice, the way he'd hesitated before saying her name after analyzing the diagnostic he'd cast—she knows what it means.
(Something's wrong—something irreversible.)
He'd asked to do a full workup with her awake, to see precisely where she stood in recovery once stable. While Draco and Narcissa had a moment to themselves, she'd stepped away for the assessment, offering to take Lyra but easily leaving her in her father's desperate embrace.
"Just tell me," Hermione asks briskly. "I can handle it."
"I—I'm so sorry. I swear, I did everything in my power, but maybe I fucked up. I'm only meant to be a battlefield triage medic, I don't have the same training as a proper Healer, so maybe there was a way—"
"Cedric, you kept me alive. Whatever it is isn't your fault—Bellatrix and Riddle are the ones who did this to me. There's no reason you should feel any guilt, under any circumstance. I owe you my life. Just say it."
"Curse related injuries…well, if there's scarring, they won't heal. There are no ways to magically reverse them—no maybes, no miracles, that's it," he explains. He swallows, meeting her eyes. "Hermione…I'm so sorry, but…because of the prolonged cruciatus and everything else, there's permanent scarring. And it…if it had been your spine or brain, or anywhere central to the nervous system the way you might assume, there's no way you'd be alive. But instead the damage is largely localized around your reproductive system. And it's…it's severe enough that there's no way you'll ever be able to get pregnant or carry a child ever again."
The realization slams through her painfully.
"Oh," she says, voice small as she processes. "Okay."
Cedric's expression is pained. "I'm so sorry. Do you want me to get Draco, or Fleur, or—"
"Harry. I need—I need Harry."
He exits quickly, and Harry's hurrying inside, concerned gaze locked on her instantly.
Without a word he climbs into the bed beside her, letting her lean into him without explanation.
"Did he—did he tell you?"
Harry nods, just once. "He said he didn't think you would want to say the words, yet; but he didn't tell anyone else, of course."
"I…" she clamps down her jaw, staring up at the lightbulb as she tries to hold back the pressure growing behind her eyes. "It's not like it matters, really. Draco and I always hated being so lonely, we've always wanted a big family, but we wanted to adopt at least some of our kids. It would never make any difference to us either way, so this—it's not that I can't biologically carry any more kids that's upsetting me."
Her brother nods with sorrowful understanding. "But the choice was taken away from you."
"Exactly. And I didn't really want to ever be pregnant again anyway, especially not with how many kids might be left alone in the wake of the war and need a home when this is all over, but—the fact that I don't get to be the one to decide that? I just…I thought I was past choices about my body being taken from me." Her chest heaves. "But of course they managed to take that too. It's—I can never get it all out of my head anyway, but they managed to make it worse."
"I'm so sorry, Mi. This is such bullshit. You deserve so much better."
(The guilt churns within him, the itch to plead for her forgiveness, because it's all his fault—but he can't, won't make this about him. Knows she would only comfort him, then, and she's the one who needs support right now.)
"Do you think it'll ever end?" she asks, voice breaking as she stares up at the ceiling. "Because I keep—I keep thinking we're through it. Once we both were living with your dads, I thought, 'okay, we're in the clear, no more trauma now.' And yet it just keeps happening. The tournament, and the ministry, and the battles, and the horcruxes, and this…and I know we're in a war, so it should be expected, but—we've been fighting all our lives, even when we weren't. And I'm just so tired."
"I don't know," Harry admits, rubbing a thumb over the back of her hand as she grips his so tightly her knuckles turn white. "I do the same. "I keep thinking it's over, and then something happens, and I'm like, 'well, made it at least a year this time. Maybe next time we'll make it two.' And how horrible is that, that we're—practically interval training abuse and trauma? I…I'm at the point where I don't believe it'll ever end most days, too. And I just wonder what the point is. Why do we even bother fighting? Is there anything beyond this?
"I look at my dads, and…they've been fighting this war since they were our age. And they're the lucky ones, the ones who survived—and had twelve years of torture and imprisonment or solitude and desolation, , and they finally found happiness but they're still fighting the same goddamn war that killed my parents."
"I'm going to stop you there, Mister Potter."
They both sit upright with wide eyes at the sight of Professor McGonagall, who'd managed to enter the room and close the door with neither of them noticing.
"I'm so glad to see you both alive, and safe." She sighs as she takes a seat in the empty chair beside the bed, before meeting both of their eyes with a serious gaze. "As you may be aware, I am even older than your parents' generation. I have been teaching as long as they have been alive."
The older woman sips at the mug of tea in hand. "I was born in 1935 Europe, to a muggle father and a pureblood mother."
They both make a noise of realization, their primary schooling years enough to make them understand.
"My childhood was defined by war, not unlike your own. My parents were consumed with both the muggle and magical wars, facing Hitler and Grindlewald respectively. And I was young, but even then it was all-consuming. My father was drafted to join the British service, and my sister voluntarily enlisted to fight against Grindlewald. Within a year I lost my father to a gun, my older sister to a Reducto, and my primary school friends to a bomb dropped on civilians."
"God, that's—that's awful professor," Harry whispers. "I'm so sorry."
"Thank you, Harry. I am as well. But that's what war looks like, isn't it?"
"is that—" Hermione bites her lip. "Is that why you trusted Dumbledore so much?"
McGonagall's lips curve downward. "Unfortunately, yes. Before I knew him well, he was something of a legend—and beyond that, he defeated the man who was the reason my sister was gone. It made sense that he was the Light side. I didn't know enough about his personal background, or understand the nuance of it all, then—and even once I did, he was always our best chance, terrible as he was."
She sighs, leaning back in her chair. "Eventually both wars ended, of course. I grew up, my mother and I tried to find solace in their sacrifices being worth something. In the evil that had been defeated—the idea that humanity had seen what could happen, and would never again let it get that far. And yet I watched the wars continue, in Vietnam and Korea in the muggle world, in the classroom and courtroom in the magical. When Mister Riddle began rising to power…you can imagine how futile it felt. I'd been born during a time of suffering, my childhood was defined by bloodshed and discrimination and loss, everywhere I looked, and yet here it was, happening all over again.
"I tell you this because I understand your frustration. I understand the urge to give up. You have both been through immense struggles, far more than any person should experience—let alone at such a young age. I would never dare to devalue the hardships you've been through, or the exhaustion that you feel. Because it is completely valid. And this fight…it is exhausting.
"It is exhausting to watch generation after generation fight and die for the same causes, from the year of your birth until you are old and grey. It is exhausting see and teach and care for children year after year, only to see the same problems eat away at them as they grow, to see the same hopelessness they grow into so predictably it seems a right of passage. It is exhausting to watch entire generations decimated and ravaged by war—to look at memorials to honor the dead full of names who I still see as eleven year olds brimming with hope and excitement and nerves as I lead them to the Sorting Hat. To see a wand raised against me which I remember desperately trying to change a toothpick to a needle for the first time. To have a soldier at my side that once sobbed in my office because of difficulties making friends—and later attend their funeral. It is exhausting to see the both of you and your peers now, fighting in a war the generations before you died to end that you might live a better life. Every year I live, there is one more reason why it all feels pointless.
"And yet," she says, and her hands shake but her voice doesn't, as her gaze pierces them both, "every day there is something new to fight for. No matter how much loss there is, or how desolate I feel. I will consider giving in—and then a little boy will walk through the doors of Hogwarts with eyes the size of saucers, full of joy like nothing else in the world as he picks up his camera. Regardless of the darkness, there can be a child so delighted and awe struck that he simply can't stop himself taking pictures because he simply can't bear to miss or forget a single moment of it." She smiles at the fond way Harry laughs, remembering. "I will consider giving in—and see a former pupil who told me at age sixteen that he'd been disowned and would never find happiness because he wasn't worth loving married to his soul mate with three children they love more than this world, always smiling even when things are at their worst. I will consider giving in—and see harmony between houses and students from every kind of family working together, and find out my students have all joined together, formed an inter-house coalition no one before them could have dreamed of."
Her expression is proud as she sets her tea down, reaching for a hand from each of them. "I can't promise it will end," she tells them honestly. "I'd like to believe it will—that this is bigger than us, that what we're seeing is a wave of change. But even if it doesn't, it is still worth it, for even a single of those moments. The very fact that we are here having this conversation is made possible by all the fights that came before. It never stops being soul-crushing, the way it repeats—the way we have to fight the same evils. But every moment of happiness I see makes it worth it. Every single speck of light is worth any amount of fighting."
/
Hermione's antsy, before the meeting; the Order hasn't had a cohesive gathering of all members since the beginning of the war, but given the circumstances…McGonagall and Kingsley, who'd taken up the mantle after Dumbledore's death, had deemed it necessary.
They're back at Grimmauld Place, freshly warded and with double and triple security to ensure only members have access. It's dangerous for all of them to gather like this, now more than ever, but…
(The end is coming.)
There's no use taking half-measures and hiding in shadows rather than pushing forward anymore.
Her thoughts keep drifting to her head of house, after the talk they'd had; seeing every one of their interactions through a new light.
(And trying to find those specks of light, despite the bitterness and desolation inside her.)
It's loud and chaotic as always while the different members arrive, going through the various security checks before making their way into the kitchen. Everyone is more than thrilled to see her, Harry, and Ron, there, of course, as off grid as they've been all year. Molly nearly shouts their heads off, while Cho beams with delight and asks if they've been taking care of themselves to whatever degree is possible.
Fred and George steal her away for a moment, managing to separate from the rest of the crowd.
"Right, then, what's going on?" Fred asks, no prelude.
Her chest feels tight with anxiety. "What do you mean?"
"Why do you look ready to throw up or cry or curse someone?"
"I don't—" she blows the hair out of her face and gives up the pretense when they give her an identical look of disbelief. "Draco's here. McGonagall is revealing his identity to the Order today since he was compromised and will be fully working as a member, now."
"Brilliant! That's a good thing, then, why are you anxious about it?"
Hermione makes a face. "I just—I'm worried about how everyone will react. McGonagall's already agreed to seat Harry, Ron, and I nearest to where he'll enter, so worst case scenario we can defend him, but. Knowing the prejudices certain members hold against his father…well, I'm just worried they'll never treat him as anything but the enemy."
And on top of that Lyra is home alone with Luna, the first time Hermione's been away from her since Shell Cottage, and she's not handling the separation well.
(Especially not after what had happened the last time she'd left her; her body is tense, as though waiting for it to happen again—subconsciously, she's just waiting for the next crucio to hit.)
She can't tell them any of that, though; she and Draco had agreed Lyra would be safest if no one else was informed of her existence until the end of the war.
("If merlin forbid, something happens to us," Draco'd said, Hermione's head tucked into his chest where they lay, Lyra snoozing in the makeshift crib beside them, "And it's not safe for anyone to know she's mine, because of my father, or the Death Eaters, any of it. If we're not there to protect her, Harry and Luna will take care of her, right? I'm assuming you made him godfather; Luna's hair is close enough to pass Lyra off as their own, and they could claim they wanted a space related name to match her mother's. I hate it, but hiding her is the best way to keep her safe, for now.")
So she says nothing about it; bites down on everything eating away at her in front of two of the people she's closest to in the world and lets them assuage her less heavy hearted fears.
Eventually, it's time to start, so she takes her seat, Harry and Ron instantly sitting beside her, like if they sandwich her and love her enough they can protect her from everything she's facing, all the tumult that's about to go her way.
"I hereby call this meeting to order," Kingsley's voice reverberates throughout the extended kitchen.
It's a mark of the gravity of the moment that the twins don't make an Order pun.
Kingsley turns to McGonagall, and she gets to her feet to address the room. "First and foremost, before we begin our usual proceedings and address our next steps, I have an important announcement. The informant who has been providing us intel for the better of the last two years has been compromised." She pauses for a beat while everyone exclaims and exchanges hushed whispers, waiting for them to quiet before she continues. "Luckily, we were able to extract them to a safe house immediately afterwards. They will be joining us in just a moment, and I expect complete civility and respect to be afforded to them, as they are the only reason we have been so successful in the war thus far, and have been willing to put their life on the line every moment of the last two years for us."
Her narrowed gaze flickers around the room, ensuring they all understand her, before she calls, "Come in."
The door opens gently, and Draco's face is expressionless as she steps inside.
Hermione's grip on her wand is tight as she braces herself for the rest of the room's reactions when her soul mate enters.
Molly, Moody, and Aberforth are on their feet with wands pointed in an instant; other older members are likewise shouting in outrage.
Even Kingsley is taken aback—even more so when he sees Hermione, Harry, and Ron shoulder to shoulder in front of Draco with wands at the ready, as they have been from the moment there was a flicker of movement at the other end of the room.
(Unnecessary, given the shield charm Remus had put up as soon as McGonagall made the announcement, but he's proud of them nonetheless.)
"What is the meaning of this?" Kingsley demands. "You don't mean to say the Malfoy heir is on our side."
"I do," McGonagall says indifferently.
Aberforth scowls, and Molly splutters indignantly. "But he's—hes—"
"A Slytherin?" Andromeda asks sweetly.
"From a family full of Death Eaters?" Sirius says likewise.
"The only thing he is that should matter to any of you," Hermione interrupts, voice lethal with anger. "Is that he is a member of the Order and the reason so many of us are still alive and able to sit around this table." She stares daggers at those with wands still out. "But before you say or do anything else, I will also be so kind to inform you that he is my soul mate, and I take any insults or threats against him personally. I will not hesitate to curse anyone who threatens him."
"Miss Granger," Moody bites out, "You are simply too naïve. The boy has used your connection to trick you; this is why I argued against children being in the Order, you don't understand how low the other side will sink—"
Fleur's wand flashes and Moody is silenced, as she glares at him with white hot rage, the memory of Hermione's injuries upon her arrival at the cottage burned into her brain. " 'ow dare you," she spits.
"All these years of fighting, watching what they've done to Harry…but I don't know how low they'll sink, do I?" Hermione asks, voice a whisper. She shoves back her sleeve, tearing off the bandage and brandishing her still-healing wound for them all to see. "What's this, then? Fun memorabilia from my time with Bellatrix? A sweet souvenir from before Riddle had a go at me with the cruciatus for hours himself?"
Everyone around the table goes quiet at the sight, at the venom in her voice.
"I know perfectly well how low they will sink. And I know perfectly well that my soul mate is the one I trust above all others."
"And if you could shut your fucking mouth for one moment," Ron adds, protective instincts flaring, "instead of assuming you're the only one with anything to bring to the table, you might notice that plenty of people didn't bat an eye when Draco walked in, because they already knew. Harry, Ron, Sirius, Remus, Fred, George, Percy, Tonks, Andromeda, Cedric, Fleur, Bill, McGonagall—all of these people know to trust him, and yet you're too caught up in your bullshit of sides and black and white to see it."
"Mister Weasley is correct, however ineloquent," McGonagall agrees, even as she rubs at her temples while taking in the scene before her. "Mister Malfoy came to me shortly after the Department of Mysteries battle and offered to serve as our informant, asking for nothing but amnesty and safety for both his mother and himself. His loyalties are more certain to me than almost anyone else here. We owe him a great debt, and I will not tolerate anyone treating him otherwise. Is that clear?"
The table gradually mumbles its assent, a few more reluctant than the rest.
Nonetheless, Draco relaxes beside Hermione, and that's enough to soothe the edges of her rage. She urges him into her seat, and he rolls his eyes, knowing exactly the display she intends to make but following her direction nonetheless.
Once he's sitting, she perches on his lap, crossing her arms with an expression that dares anyone to comment.
(Cedric and Tonks snort at her display, Percy more disproving than anything, but the twins' prideful grins are worth the fire in Molly's eyes at the movement.)
The rest of the meeting is intense; recitations of casualties and losses, intel gathered, civilians who've been harmed or smuggled to safety.
"It is clear that the war's resolution is approaching, whatever that may look like." Kingsley's tone is grave, and his strength in politics is clear—the way he's able to look around a room and make every person feel personally called, as though he's speaking directly to them. "Please keep your galleons on hand—thank you again for the idea and for crafting them, Miss Granger—and be at the ready at all times in case a need for you arises."
"When the time comes, we must be ready," McGonagall agrees, expression in harsh lines. "Theis ends here. We will not watch another generation face this fight."
The words echo through the chamber, sending chills through most of them.
"I hope that the next time we're all together is the last time there's a need for the Order. Have a good night, everyone. Stay safe."
The weight behind it all is heavy on all of them, as they begin to depart; some hastily, to escape the foreboding they can feel, others lingering to say goodbye just in case.
Hermione can't take it—the darkness in the room, the helplessness and hopelessness she feels, almost unable to breathe just thinking about what's coming—she needs to be home, daughter in her arms.
It's too much, looking around at these smiling faces that mean so many different things, so many people she cares for in so many ways; and yet when she looks around the room, all she can do is wonder how many of them will be nothing but a corpse, soon.
(She can't.)
So she hurriedly slips through the floo, Draco on her heels, not pausing or speaking or thinking until she's there, reaching into the bouncer to hold Lyra to her chest.
(Only then can she breathe again.)
She can't stop the rest of it—it's all so out of her control, so heavy, so completely unavoidable it makes her nauseous to think about.
But she can protect her daughter. Nothing else is in her hands, but she can make sure her daughter is here, and safe, and always will be. It's the only thing she can focus on—the only way for her to stay sane.
After some of the more auxiliary members leave, the rest of the Tonks Manor residents make their way over, Fleur, Bill, and McGonagall tagging along.
They're sat around the table as Draco rattles off everything he can remember, hoping to strike anything that might be of use. They're been there for two hours when he remembers something while Remus and McGonagall converse.
"There's something in Bellatrix's vault." The insinuation comes during a beat of silence, from a pensive looking Draco, Lyra snug in his arms and Hermione leaning into his side, staring down at the baby. "There was only so much I could find out without them wondering why I cared, so I know mostly only what I overheard or was mentioned in passing. But in any case, she was obsessed with its security; heard someone caught by snatchers had a sword once and wouldn't think about anything else till she'd been to her vault to calm down. I never understood the paranoia, but…"
Harry, Hermione, Ron, and Sirius all cock their heads at Remus in question.
"I don't see what else she would be that desperate to protect," he muses, rubbing at his jaw. "We could start putting together a plan to get into the vault later today, especially if Bill and Griphook are willing to lend their expertise."
"Love a good heist," his husband says cheerily.
"I…I mean if you're serious, and it's necessary for the war effort, I can definitely lend a hand." Bill makes a face. "Not that I've ever planned on robbing Gringotts, or anything, but…you know how sometimes when you're bored, you have intrusive thoughts about all the ways you could get away with something like that? All the ways their security is lacking?"
"Sometimes I forget you're related to Fred and George," Remus mutters with an ever-weary eye roll. "But in this moment that feels impossible."
"I like to think I inspired them a little bit," Bill says with a cheeky grin. "Anyway, my point is…this is something I may or may not have given a little bit of thought to in the past. But never seriously, so—I'll need to give it some thought to figure out the best way to do it all. We'll definitely need Griphook's help, but I don't know exactly how willing he'll be. I'll let you know when I have a more concrete plan." He scrunches his nose in thought. I know I'm probably not supposed to ask this but what, exactly, do we think is in her vault?" Bill asks.
Harry hesitates, but—hiding it is the reason they've been so unsuccessful in the first place.
And if something happens to them, other people need to know—need to be able to end this.
"A horcrux—a piece of his soul. He made six," he explains, internally wincing at the face his sister makes, knowing he's omitting himself. "We've found and destroyed all but two—one is the snake, which is with him, so we can't take it out until the end. But the other we've had no leads on. It's most likely something related to Slytherin, or even another founder—definitely something old, with significant ties to the magical community. If this is it…"
"We could actually stand a chance at beating him," McGonagall murmurs.
Harry meets Hermione's eyes, neither of them saying what they both know. The thought that's been consuming them both for the last year, as the finale of this war approaches.
(That they have to figure out how to kill the one inside him, first.)