Sunday had unfolded quietly, a peaceful reprieve from the chaos of the past weeks. The full moon had passed without incident, thanks to Remus's careful preparation and the Wolfsbane potion, and now Hermione, Remus, Andromeda, Ted, and little Teddy were enjoying a rare, serene afternoon in the park. It was one of those perfect days—the sun warm but not too hot, the sky a brilliant blue, and the sound of children's laughter carried on the light breeze.
Hermione was still playfully teasing Remus about his pre-full-moon anxiety, her grin wide as she nudged him lightly. "You were worrying for nothing, Remus. You handled everything perfectly, as always. I think you actually had a better time as a wolf out of the cage than inside."
Remus chuckled, his arm resting around her shoulders. "It's not that I don't trust myself on the Potion… it's just…" He trailed off, shaking his head with a rueful smile. "Alright, maybe I was worrying too much."
"And here I thought you were always a calm, cool professor," Ted chimed in, sitting on the park bench with Andromeda. His eyes twinkled with amusement as he glanced over at Hermione. "Speaking of unnecessary worry, you seem to have had your fair share too, Hermione. I saw that little statement from the Department of Mysteries."
Hermione groaned but couldn't help the smile creeping onto her face. "Oh, Merlin, don't remind me. I spent months losing sleep over what the Department might do if they found out, and all they released was a short paragraph telling the world to mind their own business."
Ted laughed, shaking his head in mock disbelief. "You should've known better than to expect transparency from them. The DoM could bury all the mysteries of the world and still tell you it's classified."
"You know well enough it wasn't transparency that I was afraid of," Hermione shot back.
Remus chuckled beside her, his hand slipping down to intertwine with hers. "You know, Ted's right. For all your worrying, that little statement could hardly have been more anti-climactic."
Hermione sighed, though there was a lightness in her voice. "I know, I know. You'd think I would've learned by now, but they always manage to surprise me."
Teddy, who had been toddling around, suddenly giggled as his hair morphed from brown to bright purple, drawing all their attention with his antics. Andromeda laughed, scooping him up, and for a moment, everything seemed perfect.
But then, out of the corner of her eye, Hermione saw something—or someone. A figure, faint and translucent, lingering near the edge of the park. She blinked, her heart skipping a beat as she realised it was a ghost, though none of the others seemed to notice it. The spirit wasn't aggressive, merely watching her from a distance, its expression unreadable.
Hermione felt a chill creep up her spine. She tried to shake it off, returning her focus to the conversation around her, but the ghost stayed, unmoving. Her mind raced—there were so many spirits at Hogwarts, but this one felt different. It wasn't tethered to a place; it felt like it was tethered to her. Or at least attracted to her presence.
"Everything alright?" Remus's voice cut through her thoughts, his hand gently squeezing hers. He had noticed the slight tension in her posture, the distant look in her eyes.
Hermione quickly shook her head, forcing a smile. "Yeah, everything's fine," she said, but her voice was too quick, too light. Remus's eyes narrowed, clearly not convinced, but she wasn't ready to dwell on it. Not yet.
She looked away from the ghost, focusing on the sun-dappled park and the laughter of the children, determined to enjoy the rest of the afternoon. But the ghost lingered at the edge of her mind, a quiet but insistent presence. She didn't want to worry the others, not today, but the more she thought about it, the more she knew she couldn't ignore it forever.
The prophecy. The Veil. The Hallows. Everything Croaker had said.
She would have to return to the Department of Mysteries soon. There was something there—something important that she needed to understand. Whatever was happening, whatever this ghost was, she was certain it was connected. And that made her resolve stronger.
Remus squeezed her hand again, drawing her back to the present. "If you want to talk about it later, I'm here," he said softly, his eyes full of understanding.
Hermione nodded, grateful for his quiet support. "I know," she whispered. But for now, she would let the mystery rest. There was plenty of time to chase ghosts later.
Hermione may have been ready to let the ghostly encounter rest for the moment, but the ghost, it seemed, had other plans.
Later that evening, back in the quiet of her apartment, Hermione found herself once again alone with her thoughts. The events of the day, the lighthearted moments with Remus and Teddy, and that strange encounter in the park had left her unsettled. As she prepared to sit down with a book, the comfortable silence of her space was shattered.
The ghost reappeared.
It hovered in front of her, just as before—faint, translucent, and watching her with an intensity that sent a shiver down her spine. Hermione's heart raced, her mind scrambling for answers. What did it want? Why was it following her?
Before she could even open her mouth to ask, the ghost moved with startling speed, flying directly toward her. Hermione gasped, instinctively stepping back, but it was too late. The ghost passed through her, and with it came that familiar icy chill she had felt at Hogwarts, when one of the castle's resident ghosts had accidentally walked through her. It was disorienting, sending a shock of cold through her body.
But this time, something was different.
Hermione turned, expecting to see the ghost hovering behind her, but it wasn't there. In fact, it was nowhere to be seen. It had vanished, completely and utterly, as though it had been exorcised right out of existence.
The implications hit Hermione all at once, her mind reeling. What had just happened? Ghosts didn't simply disappear like that. She had never heard of such a thing. Even at Hogwarts, ghosts were bound to their existence—they couldn't just... cease.
She sat down hard, her legs trembling as she tried to make sense of it. The more she thought about it, the more unsettling the idea became.
It was almost as if… she were a portal.
A portal to the afterlife.
Hermione's pulse quickened as her mind ran wild with the implications. Could it be? Could she somehow be connected to the Veil, the ancient and mysterious gateway to death itself? She had already felt a strange pull toward the Hallows, reportedly the Veil fluttered in response to her taking hold of them. Was this why? Had her connection to the Hallows turned her into some kind of link between the living and the dead?
The very thought sent a wave of nausea through her. What did it mean for her? And more importantly, was it something she could control, or was she simply a conduit for forces far beyond her comprehension?
She stood abruptly, pacing the length of her apartment. The room suddenly felt too small, too constricting. She needed answers. This ghost had followed her, attached itself to her in some way, and then... passed on? Moved through her and into the afterlife?
Her thoughts spiralled, tangling and knotting in her mind.
The next morning, Hermione marched into the Department of Mysteries, her mind still buzzing with the questions that had plagued her all night. She dropped a thick stack of notes on Saul Croaker's desk with a soft thud, the parchments overflowing with diagrams and carefully inked explanations. The meticulous detail was unmistakably hers, born from hours upon hours of calculations and experimentation.
Croaker, a man as unreadable as the mysteries he governed, raised an eyebrow but said nothing as he flipped open the top page. His eyes scanned the contents, his fingers tracing the runic symbols she had drawn. His eyebrows rose further with each page he read, his usual stoic demeanour slowly giving way to curiosity.
"So let me get this straight," Croaker finally said, his voice measured. "You hid yourself in a pocket dimension where death couldn't reach? That's how you survived the Killing Curse?"
Hermione folded her arms, the ghost of a grim smile tugging at her lips. "Yes and no. I drew an array that would concentrate magical energy derived from time. Time currency. You can see the references to the theory of it on page 50. The more time I invested into it, the greater the magical resistance the sphere accumulated. So I calculated how much time it would need to withstand a spell with the magical coefficient of something like the Killing Curse."
She paused, watching as Croaker's eyes narrowed in thought.
"When the Killing Curse hit that sphere," she continued, "it created a magical cascade reaction, reflecting the curse back on the caster. But as a side effect, it sent me to that pocket dimension, where no time exists. I was spit back out once the time currency that was put in ran out."
"Fascinating," Croaker murmured, flipping through the pages once more. "This is an interesting theory as to how one could theoretically travel forward in time."
"I wouldn't recommend it," Hermione said dryly, her tone serious. "I think the only reason it worked for me is because I already had a future counterpart in place. Because I was from the future in the first place. When I was thrown into the future, I ended up in the body of my counterpart in this timeline, the two of our consciences merging. If someone used this array and there was no future body to arrive in, I'm not sure what would happen."
"Yes, yes, I see," Croaker muttered absently as he scanned the detailed notes she had made on page 37 regarding this. "It's not entirely safe, but theoretically sound."
Hermione watched as Croaker turned back to the earlier pages. His curiosity seemed to heighten, but his expression remained difficult to read.
"How did you end up back in the past anyway?" he asked after a moment, still reading. "Time-Turners don't usually allow for travel further than a few hours, even with modifications. Were you an Unspeakable even then?"
"No," Hermione said, shaking her head. "Dumbledore only had theories on what happened, but what I know for sure it wasn't deliberate on my part to travel to the past. In my timeline, there was a battle at Hogwarts on May 2, 1998—spells were flying everywhere. His theory was that a combination of those spells reacted with the castle's inherent magic, unravelling the timeline. I was pulled in because I'd used a Time-Turner so many times during my original third year to attend extra classes. My magic was already entangled with time."
Croaker's lips quirked in what might have been approval. "Yes, that sounds plausible. Time magic tends to latch on when it has an anchor."
"Exactly," Hermione nodded, her eyes flickering over the notes he was now carefully tucking away. "But I didn't come here just to drop off research. I want access to the Death Room and any documentation you have on that and the Deathly Hallows."
Croaker set the stack of papers down, his gaze sharpening. "So you're staying on, then?"
"It seems so," Hermione admitted, her tone thoughtful but resolute. The revelations of the past few days had forced her hand, leaving her little choice but to stay connected with the Department and the mysteries within. "I need to figure out what's happening, and I don't know where else to turn."
"What is happening?" Croaker's voice was still calm, but his curiosity was unmistakable.
Hermione hesitated for only a moment. "I don't know yet exactly," she replied slowly. "I'll let you know when I do."
Croaker regarded her for a moment, as though weighing her words and the weight of the secrets she carried. Then, with a curt nod, he gestured toward the entrance of the Department's inner chambers. "Go ahead. The Death Room's always waiting. I'll have the research sent to your desk."
As Hermione made her way deeper into the heart of the Department, the weight of her purpose settled in her chest. She was staying on—she had no choice. Whatever was happening with the Hallows, with the Veil, and with her, it was all interconnected. The truth lay somewhere within the walls of the Department of Mysteries, and now it was up to her to uncover it.
In the end, Hermione couldn't bring herself to enter the Death Room that day. As she stood outside the heavy door, the faint whispers emanating from within sent a shiver down her spine. Her instincts screamed at her to turn back, to wait. Something about the atmosphere of the room felt too ominous, too close. She could almost feel the weight of death itself pressing on the other side of the door.
The memory of Sirius's fall through the Veil haunted her, as fresh as if it had happened yesterday. In that other timeline, though she hadn't witnessed it herself, she had heard Harry's recounting of how he had watched helplessly as Sirius slipped through the archway and vanished into nothingness. Now, with her own connection to death stronger than ever, she couldn't shake the fear that stepping too close to the Veil might pull her into its depths. She had already been tethered to time and death in ways that were unprecedented—there was no telling what might happen if she approached the Veil without being fully prepared.
And then there were the Hallows.
The Resurrection Stone and the Elder Wand were safely tucked away in her beaded bag, but the Invisibility Cloak was still with Harry since she returned it. The thought struck her suddenly: she didn't dare approach the Veil without all three Hallows in her possession. A gut feeling told her that her connection to death and the Veil might be tied to the Hallows themselves, and the idea of facing the Veil without them felt reckless, as though she'd be walking into the unknown without the tools she needed to survive it.
Not yet, she told herself. She needed more research, more preparation, before she would step into the Death Room and face whatever waited for her there.
Turning away from the door, Hermione felt the tension ease from her shoulders. She would come back when she was ready, when she understood more. She wasn't about to tempt fate—not with the strange and powerful connection she seemed to have with death looming over her. The pull of the Hallows was strong, but so was her need for caution.
With one last glance at the Death Room, Hermione made her way back through the dimly lit corridors of the Department of Mysteries, her mind already churning with plans. She would gather the Hallows, research everything she could, and when the time was right, she would face the Veil.
But not today.
Teddy was sitting in his high chair, chubby fingers gripping a small spoon as he clumsily scooped up bites of his dinner. The Lupin cottage was warm and cosy, bathed in the soft light of early evening, and the sight that greeted Hermione when she arrived brought a small smile to her face. It was a simple scene, domestic, peaceful, and she felt a pang in her heart—a deep yearning for this life. A home. A family. With Remus.
But then, almost on instinct, her mind wandered back to the Hallows. To the Veil. To the strange connection she seemed to have with death itself. She wasn't sure she could ever truly have this—this peaceful, ordinary happiness—if ghosts might loom over her for the rest of her life, seeking her out as a portal to the other side. Could she really build a life with Remus while that threat hung over her head?
Her thoughts were interrupted as Remus looked up at her from across the room, his smile warm and genuine. "Long day?" he asked, his voice carrying the comforting weight of familiarity.
"Very," Hermione sighed, but the heaviness in her chest lightened at the sight of him. Being here, with him and Teddy, felt like an anchor to something real amidst the uncertainty swirling in her life.
Teddy, however, had no such burdens on his small shoulders. He looked up from his high chair, a grin breaking across his little face as he spotted her. "Myne!" he exclaimed, clapping his hands with excitement.
Hermione's heart melted at the sound of his nickname for her, and she crossed the room quickly to ruffle his soft hair. "Hello, Teddy," she said warmly, leaning in to place a gentle kiss on the top of his head. His small fingers reached out, grasping for her, and she gave him her hand to hold for a moment, enjoying the innocence of his joy.
Remus stood from where he had been sitting at the kitchen table, coming over to wrap an arm around her shoulders. "You look like you've had quite the day," he said softly, his eyes searching hers, concern lacing his tone.
Hermione leaned into Remus, trying to let herself get lost in the warmth of his embrace, the simplicity of this moment—domestic, peaceful, and far removed from the chaos that had always followed her. She wanted this so badly—a life with Remus and Teddy, a real family, a future where they could live without the shadows of their pasts darkening every step. But the prophecy, the Hallows, the spectre of death itself, still lingered in her mind. She knew that as long as those questions went unanswered, she couldn't fully let herself settle.
"I have," she murmured, her voice distant. But then she forced a smile, motioning to the scene before her—the soft glow of the kitchen lights, Teddy babbling in his high chair, and Remus beside her. "But this," she said, "this makes it better."
Remus pressed a soft kiss to her temple, squeezing her shoulder in reassurance. "You're always welcome here," he said quietly, the sincerity in his voice wrapping around her like a warm blanket.
Her heart ached with the truth of it. This was what she wanted more than anything—a home, a family. But could she have it, knowing that death itself seemed to be watching her every move? Would she ever be free to live the life she so desperately wanted, or was she bound to something much darker?
Teddy's small hand tugged at her fingers, babbling excitedly as he tried to get her attention. "Myne!" he exclaimed.
Hermione's heart softened at the sound, chuckling lightly as she bent down to plant another kiss on his forehead. "I missed you, too, Teddy."
For now, she let herself sink into this moment, allowed herself to believe, even just for a while, that this could be her reality—a family, a peaceful life. The looming shadows, for the moment, seemed just a bit farther away.
But Remus's next question shattered the quiet serenity between them.
"Hermione," he began, his voice hesitant, almost awkward. "Can I ask you something?"
She turned to him, curiosity piqued by the sudden shift in his tone. "Of course."
Remus cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable with what he was about to say. "Are you... pregnant?"
"What?" Hermione's eyes widened in shock. "No? At least I don't think so?" She quickly pulled out her wand, performing a diagnostic spell she had picked up from a Healer's text. The results confirmed that she wasn't pregnant. Relieved, but still baffled, she turned to him. "What made you even think that?"
Remus cleared his throat, clearly embarrassed. "Not to be... well, it's just—how do I say this? You know how heightened my senses are, right?"
Hermione frowned, uncertain where this was going. "Yes…"
Remus shifted awkwardly. "I couldn't help but notice that... well, you haven't had your monthly cycles since you came back… In fact, now that I think about it, you haven't had them even when we were in school together."
Hermione blinked in surprise, and then her eyes widened in sudden realisation. "Huh. So that spell is mind-based after all."
Remus raised an eyebrow. "Wait, what? Spell? What do you mean?"
Hermione sighed, trying to explain. "Back in my original timeline, before the Horcrux hunt, I cast a spell to block my cycles hormonally. With everything going on at the time, it was the last thing I wanted to deal with. Food was hard enough to find, let alone feminine hygiene products. I just never got comfortable with spelling the… evidence of it away. So that solution seemed easier."
Remus's expression shifted to concern. "Why didn't you—how come you still don't have them now? You are in a different body."
"Like I said, apparently it is mind based, and the mind influences the body to stop the production of certain hormones," Hermione shrugged, feeling a little sheepish. "I guess I just forgot about it. It became so normal that I didn't have cycles that I didn't even think about it when I fell back in time. Or when I came back to the present. It just stayed in place."
Remus looked thoughtful. "So the spell has been active for... how long?"
"Two and a half years, just about," she admitted. "Though for this body, only four months."
"And you can just reverse it? No side effects?"
Hermione nodded. "Yes, it should go back to normal in a few months after I cancel the spell."
"Are you sure? Shouldn't… I don't know, St. Mungo's take a look at you?"
"Remus, even Muggles have contraceptives that work on a similar principle. It's fine."
Remus stared at her, clearly waiting for her to undo the spell right there. But when she didn't move, he frowned. "Well... go on."
Hermione hesitated, biting her lip. "I think... I might keep it in place a little longer."
Remus stared at Hermione, his brows furrowed in confusion and concern. "What? Why?" he asked, the tension in his voice clear. He could sense there was something Hermione wasn't telling him.
Hermione hesitated, torn between the secrecy her Unspeakable vows required and the trust she had in Remus. He knew of the prophecy long before she ever became an Unspeakable, and if anyone deserved to know the truth, it was him.
"The prophecy orb in the Department of Mysteries," Hermione said quietly, meeting his gaze, "my prophecy orb... it apparently extinguished when I vanquished Voldemort in 1978, but when I came back, it started glowing again."
Remus blinked, his confusion deepening. "What does that mean? Is Voldemort not dead?"
"I don't know," Hermione admitted, feeling the weight of the mystery pressing down on her. But as she replayed the words of the prophecy in her mind—for she will not rest until either of them is put to rest—the pieces of the puzzle began falling into place, one after the other.
The pocket dimension. When she reflected the Killing Curse back at Voldemort, he had been standing within the runic circle with her. She had dragged that last sliver of his soul with her into the void. And it returned with her when the time currency ran out. But he had no body to return to like she had. His soul was not at rest yet.
Hermione's eyes widened. "Oh, Merlin," she breathed, her heart hammering in her chest. "I have to go."
"Wait—what?" Remus looked at her, bewildered, but Hermione was already moving, grabbing her wand and her bag. She turned to him, her expression frantic.
"I have to finish it, Remus. I know what to do now. I have to find Voldemort's soul. I have to put him to rest for good."
Remus stared at her, stunned. "Hermione—wait!"
But she had already disapparated, leaving Remus standing there, baffled. Hermione knew where she needed to go.
Hermione appeared in Godric's Hollow, her heart pounding as the familiar village came into view. She hadn't been back here since her return from the past, and seeing the town now, it felt eerily different. There, in the town square, was a statue—not of the Potters, as she'd remembered it from her original timeline—but of herself. The image of her own likeness cast in stone, standing where James, Lily, and Harry had once been honoured, sent an uncomfortable shiver down her spine.
She took a steadying breath and glanced around, searching. At first, there was no sign of him. The air was still, the village quiet. But then, in the cemetery, her eyes caught sight of a wispy figure standing near one of the gravestones.
It was Tom Marvolo Riddle.
He wasn't the grotesque figure she had come to associate with Voldemort—the snake-like man with crimson eyes and slitted nostrils. Instead, he looked shockingly... normal. A dark-haired, fairly handsome man in his fifties. By wizarding standards, he was still quite young, and yet, there was an unmistakable weariness in his translucent form.
He stood quietly, overlooking Ignotus Peverell's gravestone, as if contemplating something far beyond the stone before him.
"Hello, Tom," Hermione said softly, breaking the silence.
He turned to her, his expression calm and almost... cordial. "Wondered when you might show up," he replied, his tone laced with dry humour.
Hermione blinked, caught off guard by his demeanour. "Sorry it took me some time to figure it all out," she said, feeling almost embarrassed by the admission.
"Don't be hard on yourself," Tom said, waving off her apology. "Who could have foreseen this? Even with providence." He chuckled, a sound so ordinary that for a moment, it was easy to forget who he had been.
Hermione's eyes narrowed. "How do you know the wording of the prophecy?"
"There are a lot of things one gets to know in death," he replied cryptically, the corners of his mouth quirking up as if sharing a secret.
She just hummed in response, unsure how to react to this strange, almost surreal encounter. She had expected hostility, resistance—anything but this calm, resigned version of Tom Riddle.
He continued, his voice quieter now, more reflective. "I see now what a folly it was, chasing immortality."
"Just that?" Hermione asked, unable to hide her scepticism.
Tom's gaze dropped to the gravestone before him, his voice softening even further. "No, not just that. I was blinded by hatred—hatred for Muggles and Muggleborns because of my father. And then later, I hated the Purebloods, too, for how they treated me, believing me to be a Muggleborn. Only for them to come crawling back when they learned I was descended from Salazar Slytherin himself..." He sighed, shaking his head. "It all seems rather silly now, looking back. There were so many more productive things I could have done with my talent. So many wasted years."
Hermione felt a pang of something she hadn't expected—pity. "Yes, well," she said softly, "the Muggles do say hindsight is twenty-twenty."
Tom smiled faintly, almost as if he had expected that response. "Indeed."
A silence stretched between them, but it wasn't uncomfortable. There was a sense of finality in the air, a feeling that something long overdue was finally reaching its end.
"Well," Tom said after a moment, his voice carrying a note of quiet resignation, "it's time."
Hermione nodded. "Yes, I think it is."
Just as she reached out toward him, the quiet of the cemetery was shattered by the sound of shouting behind her.
"Hermione! Where are you?"
"Minnie!"
The voices of Remus, Sirius, James, and Lily echoed from the town square, drawing closer with each second.
Hermione's heart skipped a beat, and she turned back to Tom. Without hesitation, she reached out her hand. "The next great adventure awaits you," she whispered, her voice full of both sadness and resolution.
Tom looked at her, his eyes calm, almost grateful. He gave her a small, knowing smile before taking her hand. As he passed through her, a bone-deep chill surged through Hermione's body, so cold and so intense that it took her breath away. Her knees buckled beneath her, and she collapsed onto the tombstone behind her, her body trembling from the cold as Tom Marvolo Riddle faded into the afterlife.
"Have a nice rest, Tom," she whispered into the quiet air.
It was then that her friends found her, rushing toward her with expressions of worry etched across their faces.
"Hermione, are you okay? What happened?" Remus asked, his voice full of concern as he knelt beside her.
Hermione looked up at him, her body still trembling slightly from the encounter, but her heart felt lighter than it had in weeks. She managed a small smile, her voice soft but steady.
"It's finished."
"Why do you have to keep doing this, Minnie?" Sirius fumed, trying to catch his breath as he bent over, hands braced on his thighs. "Rushing off to danger without a word to anyone? I'm getting too old for this nonsense."
"Remus knew," Hermione replied, though her voice lacked the usual conviction.
"Not where or why!" Remus retorted, his eyes dark with frustration. "You can't just leave me like that after saying something like, 'I have to go put Voldemort's soul to rest!' How does one even do such a thing?"
Lily, looking just as bewildered but with a hint of worry in her eyes, asked, "What he said!"
Hermione exhaled, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear. "I'm the Master of Death."
The group fell into a stunned silence for a moment before James, always the one to speak first in situations like these, blurted, "What does that even mean?"
A wry smile tugged at the corner of Hermione's lips. "Apparently it means I'm an Exorcist."
Sirius straightened up, his brows furrowing as his incredulous expression softened ever so slightly into amusement. "An Exorcist?"
"Yes," Hermione sighed. "Any takers on me going to take care of Binns? He's been a professor for far too long, in my opinion."
James let out a snort of laughter, which quickly dissolved into a more subdued chuckle as he rubbed the back of his neck. "Well, if you're offering..."
The tension broke just a little, but Remus wasn't laughing. He stepped forward, his voice low but laced with concern. "This isn't a joke, Hermione. Master of Death or not, what if something had happened? You can't keep running off like this."
Hermione's expression softened at his words, the weight of her actions finally catching up to her. "I know, Remus. I'm sorry. I just—"
"Felt like you had to do it on your own?" Remus finished, his tone more gentle now, though his frustration was still palpable.
She nodded, biting her lip. "I didn't want to drag anyone else into it. This was... my responsibility."
"You're not alone, Hermione," Lily said softly, stepping forward. "We're here for you. But you have to let us help."
Hermione felt a lump rise in her throat. "I didn't mean to worry everyone. I just... It's hard to explain."
"You've got time," Sirius said, his earlier anger fading into something more like protectiveness. "And next time, you're telling us. No more solo missions, Minnie."
She couldn't help but laugh a little, the warmth of their support breaking through the cold remnants of her earlier encounter with Voldemort's ghost. "No more solo missions. The girl with the providence is finally at rest."
"And while you're at it, put Binns on the list," James quipped, trying to lighten the mood.
Hermione smirked. "I'll see what I can do. By the way, can I borrow the Cloak?"