Frank wandered the halls of the manor, his steps slow and uncertain. He wasn't entirely sure what he was doing or where he was going, but his feet carried him on, searching for something—someone. His thoughts kept drifting back to Hermione, the woman who had somehow managed to slip into their lives and become an integral part of it. He had noticed her absence earlier in the day and had been unable to shake the restless feeling ever since.

His emotions were a tangled mess whenever he thought about Hermione. The conflicting feelings gnawed at him constantly, leaving him in a state of perpetual unease. On one hand, every time he looked at her, a sharp pang of bitterness twisted inside him. He couldn't shake the belief that she was somehow responsible for Alice's death. He knew it wasn't logical, but in his grief, Hermione had become an easy target. Her sudden appearance in their lives, the drastic changes she'd brought—it all seemed to coincide too perfectly with the loss of his wife. And because of that, Neville had no mother.

Yet, even as that anger simmered within him, Frank couldn't deny the other side of his feelings. He couldn't ignore how Neville's eyes lit up when Hermione was near, or how Harry seemed to cling to her with the kind of trust that only a child could give. She was so warm, so patient with them—so utterly devoted. It was impossible not to trust her when she held his son with such care, when she soothed his fears, taught him new things, and loved him as if he were her own. Every day, she proved that Neville was safe with her, that she would never harm him.

But that only made Frank's confusion worse. He was caught between his need to blame someone for Alice's death and the growing realisation that Hermione wasn't his enemy. In fact, she was doing everything in her power to protect and care for the very child he feared she might harm.

Yet, when he stood before her—when they were face-to-face—Frank couldn't control the bitterness that spilled from his tongue. His grief and guilt twisted his words into barbs, and he lashed out at her almost reflexively. It was as if the sight of her sparked something inside him that he couldn't contain. He saw the hurt in her eyes every time he snapped at her, the way her face fell when his words cut too deep. And every time, a part of him regretted it immediately. But the moment passed, and the cycle continued.

He hated himself for it—for being so cruel to someone who had only ever shown kindness to his son. But he couldn't stop. The guilt of knowing that, in some twisted way, he blamed her for things beyond her control, warred with the burgeoning trust he felt for her. It was as though he was stuck in a loop—grieving Alice, seeing Hermione's goodness, and then sabotaging any chance of peace by driving her away with his harsh words.

Frank was trapped in his own emotions, a prisoner to his grief and confusion. And the worst part was that, deep down, he knew that pushing Hermione away wouldn't bring Alice back. But still, he couldn't help himself.

After checking the usual places—the library, the sitting room, the nursery—he finally sought out his mother. Augusta was in the drawing room, comfortably nestled in her favourite chair, her attention focused on a book about rare magical plants. She looked so at ease, and for a moment, Frank hesitated, unsure if he should even bother her with his unease. But he needed to know.

"Mother," he began, his voice tentative. "Have you seen Hermione?"

Augusta looked up from her book, her sharp eyes meeting his with a knowing look. She tilted her head slightly, as if considering how much to reveal. "Oh, you just missed her! She went out."

Frank's heart sank, a strange sense of dread settling in his chest. He tried to ignore it, but the feeling only grew. He swallowed hard, struggling to keep his voice steady. "Out? On a date?"

Augusta's lips curved into a small, secretive smile. She didn't answer, simply returning to her book, leaving Frank to stew in his thoughts. The lack of an answer was more troubling than anything she could have said.

Feeling dismissed, he turned and left the room, his steps aimless as he wandered through the manor. He eventually found himself outside, the cool evening air doing little to calm his restless mind. The garden, usually a place of solace for him, felt distant and uninviting. He walked past the hedges, the flowers, the familiar paths, but everything felt wrong. His thoughts were a tangled mess of confusion, jealousy, and something else he couldn't quite identify.

Why did it bother him so much that Hermione had gone out? Why did the idea of her being with someone else—laughing, talking, maybe even… more—make him feel like this? He had no right to feel this way. She was her own person, free to do as she pleased. But the dread gnawed at him, sinking its teeth deeper with every passing moment.

He couldn't eat, couldn't speak, couldn't think clearly. The world around him blurred as his mind drifted back to Alice—sweet, bright Alice. The memories of her at Hogwarts flooded his mind, unbidden and relentless. He could see her laughing in the Gryffindor common room, could hear her chiding him for getting into yet another duel with the Slytherins. But the memories felt like they were slipping away, the edges growing fuzzy, as if time was erasing her from his mind.

Panic surged within him. He couldn't lose her—not again, not in his memories too. But no matter how hard he tried to hold onto them, they kept slipping through his grasp, like sand through his fingers. He felt paralyzed, trapped in this state of numbness, unable to do anything but stand there and watch as the world moved on without him.

As Frank struggled to hold onto Alice's memory, scenes of Hermione with the boys flooded his mind, pushing the images of his late wife further into the background. He recalled the way Hermione would crouch down to Neville's level, her voice gentle as she taught him how to pronounce new words. The pride that would light up her face when he got it right, the way she clapped her hands softly, and how Neville would beam up at her in response.

Then there was Harry—so small and fragile, yet so lively in her presence. Frank could see Hermione scooping Harry into her arms, twirling him around in the garden as he squealed with delight. Her laughter rang out like music, and Harry's chubby hands would reach for her hair, tugging at the strands as she pretended to be captured by him. She'd cradle him close afterward, pressing kisses to the top of his head, whispering words of love and comfort.

He remembered another moment, just days ago, when Hermione sat with both boys on the grass, Neville in her lap and Harry resting against her shoulder. She'd been reading them a story, her voice soft and soothing, and both boys were utterly captivated. Frank had watched from the shadows as she gently rocked Neville, her fingers absentmindedly brushing through his hair while she held the book in one hand. Harry had fallen asleep against her, and she'd carefully adjusted him, ensuring he was comfortable without waking him. Her tenderness was so evident, her affection so genuine, that it was impossible not to be moved.

These memories of Hermione, so vivid and filled with warmth, were overshadowing the old memories of Alice that had once been his refuge. The more he tried to hold onto Alice's image, of watching her with Neville, the more Hermione's presence invaded his thoughts—the way she smiled, the way she cared for the boys, the way she brought life and joy back into the manor. His heart ached with confusion, guilt, and something else he couldn't quite name.

Yet even as the panic continued to swell within him, his body remained still—rigid and unyielding, his hands clenched tightly at his sides. His breath grew shallower, his chest tight with the weight of emotions he couldn't process. But despite it all, despite the turmoil raging inside him, Frank couldn't tear his mind away from the woman who had unwittingly become the centre of his world.

Frank didn't even notice when Hermione approached him in the garden. He was too lost in his own thoughts, trapped in the past. The memories of Alice felt so far away now, like a distant dream he could no longer reach. His mind was a fog, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't find his way out.

"Frank?" Hermione's voice broke through the haze, soft but insistent. It took him a moment to register it, to realise that she was standing there, beside him. But he couldn't respond. He felt like a ghost, disconnected from everything around him.

Hermione hesitated, clearly unsure of how to reach him. But she wasn't one to give up easily. She returned moments later with Harry and Neville in tow, their small hands gripping hers as they toddled toward him.

Neville was the first to reach Frank, his tiny fingers tugging at his sleeve. "Dada, owas!" the little boy babbled, holding up a handful of daisies with a wide, toothy grin. Frank blinked, his gaze slowly focusing on the child at his feet. Neville's innocent joy was like a beacon in the darkness, pulling him back to reality.

Harry, more hesitant, clung to Hermione's leg before finally reaching out to take hold of Frank's hand. The small, warm grip felt like an anchor, grounding him in the present. Slowly, the tension in Frank's shoulders began to ease, and the fog in his mind started to lift.

He looked down at the two boys, their bright eyes full of curiosity and trust. They weren't asking anything of him—just being there was enough. It was a simple, pure connection, free of the complexities that had weighed him down for so long.

Hermione knelt beside the boys, her gaze steady as she spoke softly to Frank. "The boys need you. They need you to be here with them."

Frank met her eyes, the weight of her words sinking in. She was right. He had been so consumed by his own pain, his own guilt, that he had forgotten about the living—about the two boys who needed him now more than ever.

"I... I'm here," he murmured, his voice hoarse but sincere. It was the first step, but it felt monumental.

Hermione smiled—a small, reassuring smile that held a world of unspoken understanding. "Good," she whispered. "That's all that matters."

As the evening wore on, Frank slowly began to re-engage with the world around him. He wasn't fully himself yet—he knew that would take time—but for now, he was present. He was here. And that was enough.

Later that night, as Frank sat in his room, the weight of his thoughts pressed down on him like a heavy fog. The memories of his time with Alice, of everything they had shared, seemed to blur and twist in his mind. But one memory stood out clearly, cutting through the haze—his confrontation with Hermione after learning of Sirius Black's suicide in Azkaban.

Frank sat in his room, staring blankly at the wall, the weight of his thoughts pressing down on him. He couldn't stop thinking about Sirius. Sirius, who had died alone in Azkaban, without ever revealing his feelings for Alice. Frank had learned the truth too late, and it had shattered him. The revelation that Sirius had been in love with Alice had felt like a betrayal, even though he knew deep down that it wasn't. But the anger, the pain—it had consumed him, leading him to lash out in the worst possible way.

His gaze drifted to the nightstand, where a framed photo of Alice stood—a frozen moment from their happier days. Her laughter, captured forever in that still image, seemed to mock him now. Frank reached for the photo with trembling hands, his fingers brushing over her smiling face. Memories flooded back—how she used to laugh at his jokes, how her eyes would light up when she talked about Neville. How she had been the centre of his world.

But now, even that felt distant, slipping through his grasp. It wasn't just the memory of her that haunted him. It was the knowledge that another man had loved her too. A man who had been his friend. The thought of it burned in his chest, the pain sharp and unbearable.

Without realising it, his grip on the photo tightened. The edges of the picture crumpled under the pressure of his fingers, Alice's smiling face distorting as the paper folded. Frank's breath hitched, and he looked down at the damage he'd done. Horror washed over him as he saw the crumpled image, the lines now marred by his careless grip.

"What have I done?" he whispered to himself, dismayed. His hands shook as he tried to smooth out the creases, but it was no use. The photo, like everything else in his life, was damaged. He let out a ragged breath, sinking back onto the bed, the crumpled photo still in his hands.

Guilt clawed at him. How could he be so careless? How could he let his anger—his confusion—overwhelm him like this? Alice deserved better than his bitterness, better than his frustration over something that wasn't even her fault. He felt ashamed, sickened by his inability to move past it, to let go of the pain that had been festering inside him since her death.

Frank closed his eyes, fighting back the tears that threatened to spill over. All he wanted was to hold onto her memory, to keep her alive in his heart. But instead, all he seemed capable of was causing more damage, more hurt. First with Hermione—now this.

For a long moment, he just sat there, staring at the crumpled photo, lost in the storm of his emotions. He didn't know how to make it right. He didn't know if he could.

But he knew he had to try.

The memory of hexing Hermione flooded his mind, making him feel sick to his stomach. He had been so blinded by grief and anger that he had attacked her, demanding answers she didn't even have. The look of shock and hurt on her face haunted him, and the guilt was overwhelming. She hadn't even fought back. She had simply stood there and taken his anger as he had dished it out. She had tried to reason with him, but her words had sounded muffled to his ears. And then he had grabbed her by her throat. Merlin, he wanted to throw up at that memory. For the first time in her life, his mother had yelled at him for his irresponsible and horrible actions against Hermione. She had demanded he apologise to her right away, but Frank had been adamant it wasn't his fault for lashing out. His mother had smacked some sense into him and told him how disappointed she was in him for raising both his wand and hand at a lady—his saviour, nonetheless.

The fear and dread in her eyes when Hermione glanced at him still made him sick to his stomach. How could he have done that to her? She didn't deserve it—none of it.

Frank couldn't sit still any longer. He needed to make things right. He needed to apologise. He stood up abruptly, leaving his room and heading down the hallway in search of Hermione. His footsteps echoed in the quiet corridors of the manor, his heart pounding in his chest. When he reached the boys' bedroom, he hesitated for a moment, hearing the sounds of splashing water and children's laughter coming from the bathroom. He knocked softly.

"Come in if you don't mind getting splashed," Hermione's voice called out from the other side.

Frank pushed the door open and stepped inside. The sight that greeted him made his heart ache and warm at the same time. Hermione was kneeling by the large bathtub, where both Neville and Harry were happily splashing water everywhere. Their faces lit up when they saw him, and before he could react, they both splashed him with water.

Frank couldn't help but smile, despite the heaviness in his chest. "You two are going to soak the entire bathroom," he said, his voice softer than usual.

Hermione glanced at him with a small smile. "They're having fun, though. Do you want to help with shampooing their hair?"

Frank hesitated, his gaze shifting to Neville. He hadn't been able to fully connect with his son since Alice's death—it hurt too much. But now, seeing Neville so happy, playing in the water with Harry, something inside him softened. "Yeah, I can help," he said quietly.

As Frank knelt down next to Hermione, taking the shampoo she handed him, his mind drifted back to the photo of Alice, crumpled and distorted by his own hand. He poured a small amount of shampoo into his palm, trying to focus on the task at hand. The smell of lavender filled the air, a gentle contrast to the turmoil within him.

Neville giggled as the suds formed, grabbing a yellow rubber duck and making it quack loudly. The sound, so pure and innocent, should have brought him joy. And for a fleeting moment, it did. Frank found himself relaxing as he worked, the mundane task of lathering Neville's hair grounding him in the present moment. Here, with his son and Hermione, he could almost forget the weight that pressed on him.

But then, in the midst of the laughter and splashing water, the image of Alice's crumpled photo flashed in his mind. Her smile, now marred by his anger, haunted him. She should have been here with them, sharing this moment, guiding Neville's small hands as he played with the bubbles. The joy that had flickered in his chest dimmed, replaced by an aching emptiness.

Frank tried to push the thought aside, focusing instead on Neville's bright eyes and the way he looked up at him, trusting and happy. But no matter how hard he tried, the memory of that photo, and the guilt that came with it, wouldn't leave him. It lingered in the corners of his mind, a constant reminder that she wasn't here—that she would never be here again.

As Neville splashed water onto his shirt, Frank forced a smile. He had to stay in the moment, for Neville, for Harry, and even for Hermione. But each time he smiled, each time he tried to let go and enjoy the small moments of happiness, that crumpled photo seemed to reappear, pulling him back into the past.

Alice's absence felt sharper now, cutting through every bit of happiness he allowed himself to feel. And though he tried to focus on the present, tried to connect with his son and the life still in front of him, the guilt kept pulling him back, reminding him that no matter how hard he tried, she wasn't there to share these moments with him.

Still, he did his best to look like he was having fun. When they were done, Hermione bundled the boys up in fluffy towels, and they giggled as she dried them off and helped them into their pyjamas.

As they left the bathroom, Frank cleared his throat. "Hermione… Can we talk? When you have a moment."

Hermione looked at him, her expression curious but not unkind. "Of course. Just let me get the boys settled first."

A few minutes later, after tucking Neville and Harry into bed, Hermione walked out into the hallway where Frank was waiting. She looked at him expectantly. "What's on your mind?"

Frank hesitated, unsure of how to begin. The guilt twisted in his gut, and he found himself blurting out, "I need to know the truth. About Sirius and Alice."

Hermione frowned, clearly confused. "The truth? What do you mean?"

Frank stepped closer, his voice desperate. "Did you know? Did you know that Sirius was in love with Alice? Were you keeping it from me?"

Hermione's eyes widened, and she instinctively stepped back. "Frank, no. I didn't know. No one even suspected it. I told you that day."

Her words hung in the air between them, and for a moment, Frank felt like the ground was slipping out from under him. He had been so wrong. So horribly wrong. The guilt surged up inside him, and before he could stop himself, he dropped to his knees in front of her.

Frank's mind swirled in chaos as he knelt on the floor, every emotion he'd been suppressing crashing over him like a wave. He tried to form coherent words, but all that came out were accusations, each one laced with the guilt he couldn't shake. "Why didn't you tell me sooner?" he snapped, his voice rising despite his intentions. "You must have known something! How could you not? You were close to Sirius—closer than I ever was! You must've seen the signs!"

Hermione's face hardened, but there was hurt in her eyes, too. "Frank, I swear, I didn't know. I would never—"

"Then why didn't he tell me?" Frank cut her off, his voice trembling. "Why did he die without saying anything? Why didn't he fight for her? For us? How could you all just stand by and let this happen?" His voice cracked, and he felt his control slipping further. "How could you all just let Alice slip away from me?"

Hermione took a breath, trying to remain calm, but Frank's words were like daggers. "Frank, none of this is fair. You're hurting, I get that, but—"

"I'm sorry!" Frank suddenly screamed, his voice breaking into a sob. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry for everything! For blaming you, for blaming Sirius, for being so blind, for letting Alice... for letting her..."

The tears that had been threatening finally broke free, and his body shook with the force of his sobs. Everything mixed together in his mind—Alice's bright smile, Sirius's ghostly absence, the children's laughter, Hermione's confused and pained expression. He felt like he was suffocating under the weight of it all. "I'm a mess," he choked out, the words spilling over each other. "I'm a disaster. I couldn't protect Alice, I couldn't be there for Neville, and now I'm ruining everything with you too. I'm failing them—Harry, Neville, and you. I'm just... failing everyone."

He was rambling now, his thoughts a jumbled mess as they all fought to escape at once. "I'm sorry for the way I treated you, for hexing you, for questioning you when you've only ever tried to help. I'm sorry for every hurtful thing I've said. I'm sorry for not being the father Neville needs, or the friend you deserve, or the man Alice wanted me to be. I'm sorry I couldn't save Sirius, couldn't save her... I'm just so damn sorry."

Frank's sobs grew louder, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he finally let everything out. He didn't know what he was saying anymore, his mind too clouded by grief and guilt and regret. All he knew was that he had to keep apologising, keep trying to make up for everything he'd done wrong.

His voice grew weaker as he continued, each word a struggle. "I don't know how to fix this," he whispered, his hands trembling as they grasped at Hermione's robes. "I don't know how to fix any of it. I just... I just need to know you'll be okay. That Neville and Harry will be okay. That... that maybe one day I'll stop feeling like this. Like I'm drowning in all of it."

Frank collapsed fully onto the floor, his forehead pressing against the cool wood as he continued to sob, every ounce of strength drained from him. He had nothing left—no words, no fight, just an overwhelming sense of defeat. And in that moment, he felt more alone than he ever had before.

Hermione slowly knelt down beside him, placing a hand on his shoulder. Hermione took a deep breath, her expression firm as she looked down at Frank, still on the ground. "Frank, I understand that you're in pain. I really do. But that doesn't give you the right to take it out on me. You hexed me, you lashed out, and you blamed me for things that aren't my fault. I get that you're grieving, but your pain doesn't justify hurting others—especially those who are trying to help."

Her voice remained steady, unwavering. "I'm trying to move past it, but trust is earned, Frank. You have to prove to me that you're willing to change. You need to take responsibility for what you did and work on yourself. That means getting real help—therapy or whatever it takes. If you keep bottling up this grief and anger, it's going to destroy you… and the people around you."

Frank looked up at her, guilt and shame written across his face. "I know. You're right. I'll try… I'll find someone to talk to. I don't want to hurt anyone else, especially not you or Neville."

Hermione nodded slowly, her eyes still holding a mix of compassion and caution. "Trying is a start, but it's not enough on its own. I'll be watching, Frank. For Neville's sake and mine. But you need to know—I'm not just going to forget what happened. If you want to earn my trust back, you're going to have to work for it."

She hesitated for a moment before extending her hand to him. "Stand up, Frank. Let's start moving forward, but know this—I'm not giving you a free pass. This is just the first step, and I need to see that you're serious."

Frank took her hand, rising to his feet with a mixture of relief and lingering guilt. He knew he had a long way to go before he could earn her trust again, but for the first time, he felt like he had a direction. Hermione's words had given him a chance, but he understood that it would take more than just words to prove himself. As he stood there, he silently vowed to take that step—and the many that would follow.

With a shaky breath, Frank nodded. "Thank you," he whispered. "Thank you, Hermione."

She gave him a small, sad smile. "We'll get through this together, Frank. I promise."

He wasn't alone in this—he didn't have to be. And maybe, just maybe, he could start to heal.