The chart by Harry's bedside indicated adjusted dosages for the potions he was receiving. Following Hall's recommendations, the pain-relief potions had been removed.
Hermione had always trusted precise calculations and research. This time, however, an uneasy feeling gnawed at her—a strange sense that this change might not be for the best.
She peeked into the twins' room. A tall man in his forties was zipping Michael's jacket while Robert swung a cheap Muggle backpack on his shoulders, the bag thudding against his back and eliciting peals of laughter. The man glanced up and noticed Hermione.
"We were just about to leave," he said.
Michael ran to her and wrapped his small arms around her as far as they could reach. Hermione ruffled his hair with a warm smile.
"We're going to Uncle's!" he exclaimed excitedly. "We're going to live with him!"
The man extended a hand.
"Tyler Scott. You've been taking care of the boys, haven't you?"
"Yes, that's right," Hermione replied, shaking his hand. "From time to time."
The scars on the boys' cheeks had mostly faded, leaving only faint red marks. Their energy, however, was as boundless as ever. For days now, they'd been running riot through the ward, testing the patience of every nurse on duty.
"Thank you. I know this must have been... a difficult time for them."
Hermione resisted the urge to say it hadn't been easy for her either.
"Their mum… Robert and Michael's mum… is my sister," Scott added quietly.
"How is she doing?" Hermione asked.
"Well... we won't be spending Christmas together. She's on a locked ward, four floors up."
"I'm sorry…" Hermione murmured.
They both fell silent for a moment.
"I have something for you," Robert interrupted, tugging on Hermione's sleeve. He handed her a piece of paper with a child's drawing—a portrait of her. The drawn figure blinked and moved slightly, its cascade of brown curls shimmering.
"Really?" Hermione crouched down to meet his gaze. "This is a beautiful gift."
"I have another one for Mr. Matt from the gingerbread newts," Robert said, holding up a second drawing. This one depicted Matthew as tall as a giraffe, with wildly disproportionate arms and legs, but the character grinned broadly from the paper.
"He's in the office..." Hermione began, but the twins didn't wait. They bolted down the hall toward the healers' room.
"I've never seen a child this young bring drawings to life…" Hermione remarked, showing the portrait to the twins' uncle.
"Robert's had the knack since he could first hold a crayon," Scott replied with a faint smile. "Michael never took to drawing; he always preferred building blocks."
Scott picked up a small suitcase packed with the boys' belongings. They stepped into the hallway together.
"Thank you again. The boys spoke very fondly of you," he said.
Moments later, the twins burst out of the healers' room, followed closely by Matthew, who was holding Robert's drawing.
"I'll still be visiting Eden—the boys' mother—so..." Scott trailed off awkwardly.
Hermione masked her uncertainty with a polite smile. Why did he think she needed to know that?
"Merry Christmas," she said abruptly, her tone final. "I need to get back to work."
Robert and Michael hugged her tightly one last time.
"I hope you get good presents," Hermione said, squeezing them both.
"You too!" Robert replied with a grin.
"And a really special one!" Michael added, his eyes sparkling.
On her desk in the healers' room lay a folder. One of the interns was in the corner, leafing through a thick tome on herbal medicine.
"Has anyone been looking for me?" Hermione asked, feigning a casual tone.
The intern shook his head. Hermione opened the folder, her hands steady despite the unease creeping up her spine. It was an Auror's report, and her eyes immediately caught the signature at the bottom—Jennifer Rose.
The report detailed the discovery of a wizard's corpse found near London. His chest had been slashed open, with a charred void where his heart should have been. She forced herself to maintain a neutral expression as she studied the photograph, though the image was harrowing. The victim couldn't have been older than twenty.
"Suspected use of unknown dark magic. On-site reconstructionists confirm this hypothesis. The spell appears to have a blast-like nature and erases informational traces in its wake."
Reconstructing crime scenes was a complex art, reserved for specialists. Even then, to uncover the truth, one had to know exactly what they were looking for. Not every scene yielded itself willingly, like an open book.
Did Hermione even have the right to access this report? She glanced at the dates. The body had been found on December 20th, just three days ago. She knew she wasn't supposed to involve herself in this—not since leaving the Auror Office. She had promised herself, sworn never to tread that path again.
But how could she ignore it when so much of it seemed tied to Harry?
"What's that?" Matthew plopped unceremoniously into the chair opposite her desk, snapping her out of her thoughts.
"Nothing," Hermione replied automatically, quickly shutting the file.
"I saw you getting all teary-eyed over your portrait," he teased with a grin.
Hermione instinctively shoved the file into one of her drawers.
"Portrait?"
Matthew pointed to the wall behind her, where a collection of the twins' drawings had been pinned alongside the staff duty roster. Her animated likeness smiled down at them, curls bouncing softly.
"Oh," she sighed lightly, "probably no more than you did. Anyway, admit it—what did you get your sister?"
"I'm giving her the gift of my charming brotherly presence," he grinned. "No, honestly, I've got nothing. What do you buy for a woman who has everything? Another useless thing?"
Hermione sighed.
"And what about you?" Matthew asked slyly. "What did you get for your husband? A sweater? Or are you giving him… your boundless love?" He wiggled his eyebrows playfully.
"I'm not telling you," she said curtly.
"Weasley, so grown up and still so shy," he chuckled. "Happily married, but sometimes…"
"And shouldn't you be finding yourself a wife by now?" Hermione interrupted, smirking.
"I can't find one pretty and smart enough," he joked, as usual, with a mock-dramatic tone.
Before Hermione could retort, a nurse appeared at the door, her expression serious.
"Dr. Weasley, Black is waking up."
The room fell instantly silent. Hermione and Matthew exchanged a stunned glance, then shot up from their seats, rushing toward the corridor without a word.
Harry coughed violently, as though his body had forgotten how to take in air. His body tried to curl up, but it had long since lost the memory of how to move that way.
"Try to breathe deeply," Matthew instructed, pulling back the bandages. The wounds across Harry's chest had reopened, and from some, a foul, dark blood oozed steadily.
Harry opened his eyes just as Hermione leaned over the bed. He moved his lips, perhaps attempting speech, or maybe just reacquainting his muscles with the act of forming words.
A nurse quickly handed over a chamomile infusion and a pile of gauze. Hermione worked to clean the dark, oozing fluid from the bloodstained sheets. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw two interns enter the room, their curiosity betraying their training.
Harry barely managed to take a breath. She watched his pale, sickly skin tighten over his ribs as his muscles spasmed in a desperate attempt to pull in air.
"Shhh," Hermione whispered softly, pressing a cloth soaked in calming elixir to his forehead.
His eyes found hers, and for a moment, recognition sparked. She saw it clearly—his gaze had changed.
"Good to have you back among the living, mate," Matthew said with forced cheer. Both he and Hermione, however, couldn't ignore the black sludge slowly seeping from the reopened wounds. Their eyes met briefly in silent understanding.
"You're in St. Mungo's Hospital," Matthew said, trying again. "Can you tell me your name?"
Harry's eyes flicked to Hermione, and he tried once more to speak. The sound that emerged, hoarse and broken, was far from a recognizable word.
"Don't," Hermione interrupted quickly. "Don't try to speak yet."
On the other side of the bed, Greta appeared carrying a tray of vials filled with shimmering silver liquid.
"This will be unpleasant, but I need to examine you," Matthew warned, shining his wand light into Harry's eyes. Harry grimaced, turning his head away.
"Sirius... I have to," Matthew persisted.
Hermione shifted the compress on Harry's forehead and spoke over her shoulder. "Greta, prepare 100 milligrams of 50% frankincense and devil's claw infusion."
Matthew froze, looking sharply at her. "Wait. What?"
"Greta?" Hermione prompted firmly, ignoring Matthew's expression.
"Ten percent will suffice," Matthew said loudly, clearly seeking confirmation.
Greta hesitated, glancing between them, then left the room to retrieve the infusion.
"Hermione?" Matthew pressed, lowering his voice once Greta was gone.
"This is my patient," she cut him off curtly, her tone leaving no room for argument. She uncorked the vial labeled 50% and continued, "And I won't allow him to suffer unnecessarily."
"But—"
"I've made my decision," Hermione snapped, her resolve unwavering. "I'll handle it myself, thank you."
Harry's coughing fit intensified, drawing their attention back to him. The nurse returned with the prepared vials.
"Let's clean the wounds first," Greta said, her voice firm but calm.
Hermione hesitated, then resealed the vial in her hand, stepping aside as Greta began methodically dabbing at the seeping cuts.
Matthew moved away from the bed, exhaling audibly.
"Don't forget to note the dosage in his chart," he muttered before turning to the two wide-eyed interns. "And you two—what's this? A show? Back to work!"
The interns scurried out, leaving the room heavy with tension.
Greta handed Hermione a cotton pad soaked in the shimmering silver liquid and gently peeled back the bandages, fully exposing the wounds. The skin around Harry's heart was still in tatters, some of the lacerations entirely blackened. Hermione pressed the cotton pad against one of the injuries, dabbing cautiously. Harry hissed in pain.
She paused, meeting his gaze, and took a deep breath.
"I'm sorry," she murmured softly.
Greta watched her closely, her expression unreadable. Hermione uncorked the vial of 50% frankincense extract and held it steady.
"This will help," she said gently. "You trust me, don't you?"
Harry nodded faintly. A single tear slipped from the corner of his eye, tracing a path down his cheek.
Greta collected the used pads with practiced efficiency.
"But we'll need to proceed carefully," Greta added, her tone deliberate, as she collected the elixir.
"I'll check on him in ten minutes," she said, stepping out of the room. The door closed with a soft click, leaving Hermione and Harry alone.
She sank onto the edge of his bed, watching him intently.
"You'll feel better soon," she promised.
Harry nodded again, his eyes fixed unwaveringly on her. It was as if he were willing her to understand something he couldn't yet articulate. Hermione hesitated, fighting the urge to hold his hand—it felt too personal, not the touch of a healer but something else entirely. And what if he vanished, like a dream evaporating on waking?
Then, unexpectedly, his hand fell gently onto her knee. His lips moved, straining to form words. Hermione leaned in closer.
"You… were in my dreams…" he rasped at last, his voice hoarse and barely audible.
She smiled softly, brushing away the tear still clinging to his cheek.
"I have to tell you, you look absolutely awful," she said, her tone lighter now. "Really, truly awful."
A weak, fleeting smile touched Harry's face. She squeezed his hand briefly as she stood up, but he gripped hers tighter, reluctant to let her go. Finally, with some hesitation, he released her.
"You too," his lips formed silently, the trace of a smile lingering.
The warmth and inviting scent of spiced gingerbread hit her as soon as she crossed the threshold of her home. The noise of chatter and laughter spilled out from the open living room door, filling the hallway with life. She stepped closer and peered inside.
"Hermione!" Ginny called from the couch. She sat surrounded by a small chaos of toys, while James babbled happily on the floor. Plush dragons floated around him, dipping and diving like tiny guardians. Next to Ginny sat a man Hermione didn't recognize.
"Come in and join us!" Ginny said, waving her over.
The man turned toward her, rising politely from the couch.
"I think we've met before," he said with an easy smile. "You're Hermione, right? You work at St. Mungo's?"
Hermione stepped into the room, studying him. There was nothing familiar about his face.
"Sorry," he added quickly, noticing her puzzled expression. "I've covered a few stories at Mungo's—health pieces for The Prophet. We've spoken a couple of times, though I wouldn't blame you for not remembering."
"Olivier Brown," he said, extending a hand toward her.
Hermione shook it, offering an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry… I really don't recall."
She felt as though this morning was entirely unlike any other she had experienced in her life. Of course, she was at work far earlier than she should have been. She had slipped out of the house while everyone was still asleep, even Ron, who hadn't stirred as she quietly left their bedroom.
Just after seven in the morning, she stood in the doorway of one of the patient rooms at St. Mungo's. He lay in the same bed as always, his chest rising and falling with slow, steady breaths. He was asleep. She felt the weight she had carried for weeks begin to seep out of her body, pooling at her feet and sinking into the floor. Today, she'd finally talk to him. She'd get answers. She deserved that much. She had been patient, done her duty, kept her distance. She deserved to know why.
The chart at the foot of his bed listed her recommendations from the previous day—additional potions and instructions for dressing the wounds.
How do you start a conversation with someone you haven't seen in so long?
"In good news, we're seeing significant progress with Mr. Black," Hall rasped, leaning heavily on a chair during the morning rounds.
The ward round was sparsely attended, with only a handful of eager interns scribbling down his every word. Holiday shifts were rarely popular among the staff.
"We're maintaining the cleansing of wounds and regular dressing changes," Hermione interjected.
Hall nodded, glancing over the notes in his file.
"Yes, yes, I see… keeping echinacea at low doses, silver… frankincense extract?"
"The patient reported significant pain," Hermione explained quickly. "We administered a higher concentration to alleviate his suffering after he regained consciousness."
Hall's gaze turned sharp.
"Can anyone tell me why we might prefer to avoid frankincense extract?" he asked the group.
The three interns exchanged uneasy glances.
"No one?" Hall pressed.
"Frankincense is analgesic and supports bone health. The poison attempted to—" Hermione began, but Hall silenced her with a raised hand.
"Anyone else?"
The room fell silent.
"Anyone?"
"In high concentrations, frankincense can be addictive?" Lisa Kramer ventured hesitantly.
Hall nodded approvingly. "Glad someone said it aloud."
"We haven't used this concentration before," Hermione said coolly, meeting his gaze. "Given potential cross-reactions, I opted not to introduce the jumpweed-based potion. When used judiciously, frankincense is not addictive. The patient regained consciousness yesterday after a prolonged coma. Considering his respiratory issues, I also added licorice root extract and an oxygenation spell to stabilize him. Of course, we remain focused on detoxifying the blood, but we should begin—"
"Sorry to interrupt," a nurse appeared in the doorway, addressing Hall. "Mr. Shacklebolt is here to see you."
"Ah, of course…" Hall sighed as he straightened, shuffling his papers. "We were just about done anyway. Mrs. Weasley, continue as planned."He handed Hermione the file and shuffled toward the door, addressing the interns as he left.
He handed her the folder of documents and made his way toward the door. "And if I don't see you all again… Happy Christmas."
Hermione blinked, startled, as Hall made his way down the corridor. She stepped into the hallway just in time to catch a glimpse of Shacklebolt waiting several paces away. They exchanged brief nods before disappearing into the head healer's office.
"I would've gone with the jumpweed potion," Lisa Kramer piped up suddenly.
Hermione glanced at her, distracted.
"Sure," she muttered absently, her focus still on the door to Hall's office. "Well then, Happy Christmas, everyone."
With that, she strode quickly toward the nurses' station, feigning casualness. She arrived just as Hall and Shacklebolt vanished behind the office door.
"Mrs. Weasley?" one of the nurses called out as she passed by, balancing two floating trays of empty vials. "Mr. Black was asking for you."
Hermione approached the slightly ajar door to Harry's room and paused just before crossing the threshold.
"He's just another patient," she repeated to herself, once more, as if the mantra could anchor her nerves. Taking a deliberate step forward, she entered.
The room looked exactly as it had that morning, save for a little more light streaming through the window despite the gray, wintry day. He noticed her immediately, his face softening into a faint smile. She saw him try to lift his hand, but he managed only to raise his fingers in a weak attempt to wave.
"Hey," she said at last, moving closer to the bed.
"Hey," he rasped.
His eyes tracked her every move.
"You're going to get through this," she mumbled.
Harry's smile broadened, just slightly.
"How are you feeling?" she asked after a moment.
"Weak."
"For over a month, you were in a coma. The wound was extensive, and with the prolonged treatment involving a 30% concentration of—" she started, the words pouring out of her as a shield.
"I know," Harry interrupted with a shake of his head. His voice was hoarse but resolute. "I know what happened."
Hermione's shoulders slumped. Her usual tactic—barricading herself behind a flood of medical jargon—wasn't going to work this time.
"Do you need anything?" she asked finally.
"Will you sit?"
She nodded and pulled up a small stool.
"Is it… is it Christmas Eve today?" he asked, his voice faltering as a cough wracked his chest.
Hermione shot to her feet, reaching for a glass of water, but he shook his head.
"Yes," she said softly, smoothing out the edges of his blanket in an automatic gesture. "I told you—you've been sleeping a while."
He was silent for a moment.
"Does Ron know?" he asked quietly.
Hermione hesitated. Was this the moment they would plunge into the hard questions?
"No."
He studied her carefully.
"You haven't told him?"
"Ginny doesn't know either," she added quickly.
"Anyone?"
"No one," she admitted.
Harry said nothing, his expression unreadable.
"I need you to explain some things to me before—" she began, but he cut her off.
"It's better that they don't know. Leave it that way."
He turned his head to look out the window.
Hermione felt a sudden, fiery jolt of frustration snake down her spine.
"All right," she said at last, swallowing her anger and standing up. "We don't have to talk about it now."
She turned to leave, but his hand shot out, clutching the hem of her white healer's robe. She froze.
His eyes locked onto hers, and he shook his head weakly.
"You don't understand. You know nothing."
"Then explain it to me."
"Let it go. Just let it go."
She wanted to hit him. To shake him. After everything she'd done—lying to Ron, deceiving Ginny—all to keep his presence here a secret, he was brushing her off. Yet, at the same time, she felt an overwhelming sense of relief. He was speaking. He was alive. This wasn't the clinical satisfaction of a healer saving a patient. This was something entirely different.
But his silence drove her mad.
"You need to rest," she said hastily, taking a step back. "I'll check on you later."
In the corridor, she spotted Hall speaking with Shacklebolt. It seemed the Head Auror was on his way out.
"Excuse me!" Hermione called, hurrying toward them. "Excuse me!"
Shacklebolt turned to face her, his professional smile firmly in place.
"Mrs. Weasley, working on Christmas Eve?"
"Good morning," Hermione replied, matching his tone with a falsely pleasant smile of her own. "I just wanted to inform you that Mr. Black has regained consciousness, and I think that—"
"I've already updated Mr. Shacklebolt on Black's condition," Hall interrupted smoothly. "We just discussed his progress."
"Ah, I've already updated Mr. Shacklebolt," Hall interjected smoothly. "We've just discussed his condition."
"I'm glad to hear Black is doing better," Shacklebolt said, his tone carefully measured. "An auror injured in the line of duty is always a—"
"I'll personally monitor his progress," Hall added, his words dripping with self-importance. "I understand everything…"
Everything? Hermione thought furiously.
"Keep me informed," Shacklebolt instructed, stepping away. "I must be off now. Merry Chr—"
"Don't you want to see him?" Hermione blurted, stepping forward. "Kingsley… please!"
She darted after him, leaving Hall standing dumbfounded in the hallway.
"You have to tell me what's going on," Hermione said, lowering her voice as she drew closer to Shacklebolt.
"With what?" He blinked at her with an almost exaggerated innocence.
"Don't act like you've been hit with Obliviate! I'm talking about Ha—"
"What time is it?" Hall interrupted loudly, his affected casualness ringing false. "Perhaps we should all head home."
"Do what you do best," Shacklebolt hissed under his breath, cutting her off. "Heal him. Make sure he can walk, breathe, interfering in things that aren't your business."
"Interfering?" Hermione repeated, her voice rising incredulously. "You cannot be serious!"
"Discharge him when he's ready and let it go. He'll vanish before you even notice."
"Shacklebolt, I can't believe you—"
"Merry Christmas," he snapped, spinning on his heel and striding away.
"Mrs. Weasley!" Hall called after her as he lumbered down the corridor toward her. "I'll need twice-daily updates on Black's condition from now on. On my desk, promptly."
Hermione felt as if she'd been slammed into the floor.
"And Merry Christmas," Hall added with a smirk, before trudging off.
If she were a little girl, she might've stomped her foot. Thrown a toy against the wall, just to watch it shatter into pieces. The sadness over breaking it would at least drown out the anger and helplessness.
But she wasn't a little girl anymore.
The thought looped in her head as she slipped off her white healer's robes. Her enchanted portrait—the one drawn by the twins—hung proudly by the coat rack. Its tiny Hermione stared down at her, arms crossed, wearing a look of stern disapproval.
The Burrow was alive with the scent of baking, spices, and roasting dishes—a warm, chaotic symphony that only the Weasley family could create. Hermione knew the moment she crossed the threshold, her tardiness would spark a wave of sighs from Molly and a few grumbles from Ron. She braced herself for it.
The first to greet her was James, who hurled himself into her arms the moment she stepped into the hall.
"Don't pick him up!" Molly scolded, bustling into view just as Hermione scooped up the toddler. "Sit down, dinner's nearly ready!"
"Mum's in a state because Percy and Molly won't be coming after all—they're spending Christmas with Audrey's parents," Ginny whispered in Hermione's ear as she passed.
Hermione leaned over to kiss Molly on the cheek.
"I don't have time, dear," Molly muttered, brushing her off as she turned back to the oven, where steam had just burst forth. "Bill! Bill! For heaven's sake, come help me!"
Hermione slipped past her, heading into the living room. Bill was passing through with Louis perched on his hip, while Fleur was setting the table, directing a parade of enchanted plates as they floated gracefully into place.
"It's good to see you," Fleur said warmly, glancing up from her task.
At the head of the table, Victorie was painstakingly folding a cotton napkin into a star shape, though the napkin itself seemed to have other ideas.
"Can I help with something?" Hermione offered, stepping closer.
"Don't be silly," Fleur replied with a smile. "I know you just came straight from work."
"We had an agreement," Ron muttered from behind her, his tone heavy with reproach.
"I know," Hermione sighed, turning to kiss him on the cheek. "I'm sorry—I had to take care of a few things."
"Take care of things," he muttered, his tone still heavy with disapproval.
Ginny waved at Hermione from across the room, beckoning her over.
"Can I ask you a favor?" Ginny whispered once Hermione was within earshot. "Olivier's going to be here any moment…"
"Who?" Hermione asked, startled.
"Olivier," Ginny sighed. "You know, Olivier Brown. The one I told you about."
Right. Of course. The journalist from The Daily Prophet, the one Ginny had been dating for weeks now. The one who had even been to her house.
"Sorry," Hermione muttered, feeling slightly embarrassed.
"Can you, you know, keep him company a bit?" Ginny asked, fidgeting nervously. "So he doesn't… get cornered."
"Of course," Hermione said with a quick, automatic smile. "Don't worry, it'll be fine."
"Easy for you to say," Ginny muttered. "You didn't invite someone you like to Christmas dinner."
Before Hermione could respond, James and Louis began wrestling over a plush dragon, their laughter escalating into a full-blown tug-of-war.
"I wasn't expecting so many people," Olivier said as he hung up his coat.
"Don't worry—they only look intimidating," Hermione whispered conspiratorially before raising her voice. "Ron!"
Ron and George were by the window, deep in a loud discussion about the last Quidditch match.
"You know Ron already," Hermione said as they approached, "and this is George, another one of Ginny's brothers."
George extended a hand to Olivier with a grin.
"Well, there are a lot of brothers," Olivier said awkwardly.
"And lucky you, they're all older," George quipped. "Nice to meet you. So, who do you root for?"
"Well, I'm not really—" Olivier began, but Ginny swooped in with James.
"I didn't realize you were here already," she said, kissing Olivier's cheek. "And I see you've met…"
"Yes, we've been introduced," Olivier replied, sliding an arm around her hesitantly.
"We were just chatting," George said with mock innocence, raising his hands as though to demonstrate. "So… which Quidditch team is your favorite?"
"Don't answer that," Ginny said quickly, cutting him off as James reached for Olivier. "Come on, let me introduce you to… someone else."
As Ginny and Olivier moved off, Hermione shot George a withering look.
"Seriously?" she muttered.
"What?" George asked, feigning innocence. "He seems all right. Bit jumpy, though."
"He's fine," Ron chimed in. "James likes him."
George squinted, watching Ginny and Olivier from afar. "They all seem fine at first, but then…"
"Enough," Hermione snapped. "Let her live her life, for Merlin's sake."
Ron reached out to put an arm around her, but Hermione slipped away, heading toward the kitchen.
In the kitchen, Molly was pulling an apple pie out of the oven, two trays of cooling pastries floating nearby.
"It needs to cool before they tear into it," Molly said with a tired smile as Hermione entered.
"Can I… help with anything?" Hermione asked hesitantly, leaning against the counter.
Molly didn't respond immediately. She removed her apron, folding it neatly before placing it on the counter. For a moment, Hermione felt a heavy sense of unease settle in her chest. She loved Christmas at the Burrow, but tonight, for the first time, she felt like her presence was a disruption, like she didn't quite belong.
"It's time to eat," Molly said, her gaze soft but unreadable. "Let's all sit down."
"To the hope that our family keeps growing," Molly declared, raising her wine glass for a sip.
"Though we're already quite the crowd," Bill added with a grin, glancing down at Louis, who had once again managed to spill juice all over himself. At the same time, little Fred was attempting to yank another candy from the Christmas tree, much to James's wide-eyed fascination.
"I'll go change him," Fleur sighed, rising from her seat and reaching for Louis. She didn't bother to hide her frustration as she disappeared into the next room with her son.
"You could help her, you know," Molly scolded, turning to Bill.
"I am helping," Bill replied defensively, leaning down to listen as five-year-old Dominique whispered something into his ear.
"I can't wait until they're old enough to take care of themselves," Angelina mused, deftly snatching a licorice wand out of Fred's hands. "You've had more than enough sweets," she scolded, ignoring Fred's indignant protests as she passed the candy to George.
"Oh, but then we'll just call them for dinner and complain they're too busy playing in the garden," George quipped.
"Yes, until they start coming home with surprises," Molly interjected, shaking her head knowingly. "A split lip, a bashed forehead, a bruised eye… I've seen it all."
Fred reached toward George, but his father waved his hands in mock helplessness. "Nothing here, mate," George said, feigning innocence.
"Well, it's a good thing we've got a healer in the family now," Angelina teased, giving Hermione a conspiratorial wink.
"Or we could just threaten them with a night at St. Mungo's," George added with a smirk.
"George!" Molly snapped, scandalized.
"Well, it probably wouldn't work anyway, not with Hermione," Ron chimed in.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Hermione asked, turning toward him.
Ron slipped an arm around her shoulders, drawing her close. She resisted the urge to pull away, aware of Molly's sharp gaze.
"Olivier," Molly said, her tone shifting as she addressed Ginny's guest, "you work with Ginny, don't you?"
"Yes," Olivier replied with a polite smile, "though I'm in the national news section, so a slightly different department. Mostly politics and current affairs."
"Olivier's doing brilliantly," Ginny said with a proud smile. "His articles often make the front page."
"That's just because they're timely topics," Olivier said modestly.
"And he's modest, too," Ginny added with a grin.
"Clearly," Molly said with a dismissive wave of her hand. "Now, how about another slice of apple pie for everyone?"
Hermione sank into the plush sofa by the fire, burying herself between the cushions. She glanced at her watch: just before ten. Despite her best efforts, thoughts of St. Mungo's crept into her mind.
Across the room, the rest of the family erupted into laughter at one of George's jokes. Molly had retreated to the kitchen, leaving the hum of cheerful conversation to fill the room.
"You alright?" Ron asked, settling down beside her.
She shook her head. "I'm fine. Just wanted a moment to sit."
The children were back at their mischief, scheming ways to swipe more sweets from the Christmas tree. James, ever resourceful, had managed to summon a hovering candy toward him, much to Fred's indignation.
"Did you see that?" Ron asked, his voice tinged with awe. "James—he's so clever, isn't he?"
Hermione smiled faintly, her thoughts elsewhere. Of course, he was clever. His father was clever, too. His father, who was alive. Who was recovering.
"I've been thinking…" Ron began, hesitating slightly. "I think it's time we had a child."
Hermione blinked, startled. "What?"
Ron turned to her, his expression softening. "You want children, don't you?"
"Yes, of course," she said quickly. "It's just… I haven't really thought about it in a while, and…"
"Exactly," Ron said, cutting her off. "You haven't thought about it."
Hermione plastered on a smile, hoping it was convincing enough to hide her discomfort.
"You caught me off guard, that's all," she said lightly, resting a hand on his knee.
"By next Christmas, let's make sure this family's grown a little bigger," Ron said, his eyes gleaming with hope.
Hermione swallowed hard.
"Next Christmas," she repeated, her voice barely above a whisper.
Ron's face broke into a grin.
"And ours will be just as clever as James," he said.
"Ron…"
"What?"
He leaned in, kissing her deeply, leaving her feeling even more unmoored than before.
Later, Molly found Hermione alone in the kitchen, drying a spotless serving dish.
"You could've left that," Molly said, flicking her wand to set the remaining dishes washing themselves in the sink.
"Sometimes it's good to get up from the table," Hermione replied, her voice tight.
Molly studied her for a moment, then smiled. "I know what you mean. Between us, I prefer cooking to sitting through dinner, but don't you dare tell anyone."
Hermione managed a weak smile.
Molly hesitated, her expression softening. "Darling, I've been meaning to ask… is everything alright? You've seemed… off lately."
The words hit Hermione like a jolt. She opened her mouth to reply, but her voice caught in her throat. She felt Molly's warm arms wrap around her, pulling her into a comforting hug.
"You can tell me anything," Molly murmured, stroking her hair. "If something's happened…"
Remember Harry Potter? The father of your grandson? He's lying in St. Mungo's under a false name and I have no idea why…
Hermione's eyes stung with unshed tears. It had been so long since anyone had embraced her like this, asking for nothing in return.
"I've just had a rough time at work," she finally said, blinking quickly to stop the tears from falling. "I'm sorry if I've been a bit off."
Molly studied her for a moment, then nodded.
"You've been working too hard," she said gently. "You're exhausted, my dear."
"I think I am," Hermione admitted softly.
"Is my son helping at all?" Molly teased with a knowing smile. "Should I knock some sense into him?"
"Better not," Hermione said with a faint laugh, wiping her eyes as discreetly as she could.
Molly squeezed her hand tightly.
"It'll be alright," she said firmly. "I know it will."
"Are you going somewhere?" Ron asked as she moved about the entryway, her actions brisk but careful. "It's almost midnight."
Hermione had hoped to slip out unnoticed. Fifteen minutes earlier, they had returned home from the Burrow via the Floo Network.
"I need to pop by the hospital for a moment," she replied, trying to keep her tone casual.
"They're calling you in on Christmas?" he asked, surprised.
She blinked rapidly, stammering, "Yes. I got an owl... but I won't be long. Promise."
"I'll wait up," Ron said, leaning in to kiss her.
She pulled away gently, just enough to cause him to chuckle softly.
"I'll be quick," she promised, avoiding his eyes as she slipped out the door.
St. Mungo's was eerily silent. The faint light emanating from the nurses' station cast a soft glow down the corridor, highlighting the emptiness. Hermione moved quickly, careful not to make a sound. Just in case someone crossed her path, she'd rehearsed a calm and casual expression—one that would suggest nothing unusual about her presence in the hospital in the dead of Christmas night.
She just needed to check on him.
The small lamp on the bedside table cast a muted light over the room. He wasn't asleep. As soon as she appeared in the doorway, he seemed to sense her presence.
She stepped inside, her heart tightening at the sight of him. Under the soft glow, his face appeared even more gaunt, shadows sharpening the angles of his features. He exhaled slowly, visibly trying to control his breathing.
"Hey," she murmured.
Harry extended a trembling hand toward her.
Harry slowly extended a hand toward her.
"Are you in pain? Is something wrong?" she asked quickly, moving closer to his bed.
"I've… been better," he muttered in a hoarse voice.
"Why didn't you call the nurses? What's happening?"
"They already gave me something for the pain… they said… more would be later…" he trailed off, exhaling sharply with a grimace, "but not now…"
She took his hand. "Is it hard to breathe?"
He nodded.
Hermione's gaze moved to the wounds on his chest. They weren't healing as they should—not that they ever looked good. She glanced at the chart hanging nearby. Everything was in line with Hall's instructions: a mild anti-inflammatory at 9:00 PM, along with a low-dose pain relief potion. If it had been up to her, she would have done it differently.
"How was Christmas?" he rasped.
"Well…" she began, "probably fine."
"Probably?"
He grimaced again, exhaling loudly.
"Besides the trouble breathing, is there anything else?"
"It hurts," he admitted, raising a weak hand to his chest. "And... it feels like my veins are burning."
Her stomach sank. The lingering suspicion she'd had for weeks grew heavier—the curse that had struck him had poisoned his blood, wreaking havoc throughout his body. It was long past time to rethink his treatment.
"Can you give me something for it?" he asked, his voice strained but desperate.
"Yes," she nodded, stepping back.
As she turned, his hand shot out, clutching at the hem of her coat. His grip was weak but urgent, and the fear in his eyes stopped her mid-motion.
"I'm not going far," she assured him gently.
Hermione shrugged off her coat and draped it over the back of a chair, scanning the room for what she needed.
"I'll figure something out," she promised softly.
Hermione slipped through the corridor, her steps light and deliberate. Next to the nurses' station was a small room stocked with medicinal potions. Without hesitation, she opened one of the cabinets, her hands deftly locating the bottles. She selected an 85% concentrated frankincense extract.
"You'll feel better," she said as she returned, pouring a few drops of the potion into a glass of water. She handed it to Harry. "The nurses will change your bandages later."
He nodded weakly.
"Will you stay for a bit?" Harry asked after a pause.
Hermione pulled over a stool and sat beside him.
"This should help you sleep," she said softly.
He watched her intently, and she averted her gaze.
"Were you at the Burrow?" he asked slowly.
She nodded.
"Did something happen?" he rasped.
"You know… can we not talk about it tonight?"
He placed a hand on her knee. She smiled faintly. Harry closed his eyes, and it was clear the potion was starting to take effect.
"Merry Christmas," he murmured, almost asleep.
"Merry Christmas," she replied.
"Mrs. Weasley, I didn't realize you were on duty today."
The moment Hermione stepped into the corridor, Lisa Kramer spotted her.
"Officially, I'm not here," Hermione said with a quick smile. "I just forgot to sign a document. Merry Christmas, Miss Kramer!"
Lisa watched her walk away until she disappeared around the corner.
Hermione hadn't been able to sleep. She had returned home just before 3 a.m., slipping into bed beside Ron, who didn't stir. She listened to his steady breathing and counted the minutes until the clock struck six. It felt as though she hadn't slept—or if she had, it was so light that her body had lost the ability to distinguish sleep from wakefulness. With Ginny and James spending the night at the Burrow, she wasn't awoken by a crying toddler or a mother's shout when her son spilled yet another bowl of porridge onto his sweater.
Before entering Harry's room that morning, she checked the corridor to ensure no one was nearby. The ward was unusually calm, the serene hush of Christmas morning wrapping the space in a deceptive peace.
Harry wasn't asleep. Sitting partially upright, he was staring out the window at the dreary December day.
"May I?" she asked softly from the doorway.
He glanced at her, the faintest attempt at a smile flickering across his face.
"How are you feeling?"
"Not great," he croaked.
She nodded, picking up his chart. Everything seemed to align with Hall's directives.
"Did it hurt last night?"
"I was able to sleep, so…"
She nodded again and set the chart aside.
"Are you on shift today?" Harry asked.
She hesitated briefly.
"You know how it is," she said with a faint smile.
"What about family Christmas?"
"I'm spending it with family right now," she said, gesturing toward him.
He studied her closely.
"Don't," he said with a grimace. He was clearly in a foul mood. He shifted on the bed as if trying to do more than sit up, but his muscles gave out quicker than he expected. "We're not family."
"Are you in pain?"
"Yes," he growled.
She didn't respond. She hadn't expected this turn of events.
"I thought maybe you needed something," she said finally.
"Don't look at me like you pity me."
"Harry…" She touched his hand.
"Sirius," he corrected her. "I'm a stranger to you. Let it stay that way. Go live your life as you did before."
He quickly pulled his hand away, surprising her.
"I'll come back later," she said after a moment, standing up. She didn't know what else to say.
"You don't have to."
He didn't even glance in her direction as she left.
Hermione locked herself in the healers' office, sinking into the chair behind the desk. She tried to steady the growing ache in her chest, that suffocating sense of unfairness. Her throat felt tight, and for the first time in a long while, she let herself admit it: she was hurt. Really hurt.
You bastard, she thought, taking a deep breath. Hermione began counting her breaths, desperate to wrestle her emotions back under control. Emotions, she reminded herself, were terrible companions, likely to push her into doing something she would regret.
And oh, how much she wanted to.
In the desk drawer was the file Jennifer Rose had given her. Hermione glanced at it, even though she knew its contents by heart. A part of her believed that reading it just one more time might yield answers to all her questions: How to help Harry? What curse had struck him? And, perhaps, the one she didn't dare voice—would the file somehow explain why her friend had abandoned his family, changed his name, and fled to Scotland?
Inside were the same photographs she had pored over too many times. The victim of the unknown blasting curse had a charred hole where his heart had been. The ragged wound bore a color reminiscent of the gashes across Harry's chest. She had studied these images repeatedly, but without examining the victim's body herself—without performing an autopsy—there was no way to know for sure. Maybe Harry had cast some protective spell that lessened the curse's effect. Maybe it had struck him only as a ricochet. Or maybe the caster hadn't had the strength or skill to do more serious damage.
What was she even looking for?
At least he was alive.
The door to the healers' office opened.
"I thought you'd gone home…" Lisa Kramer began apologetically. She entered the room with Paul, a second-year trainee, both giggling softly.
"I was just leaving," Hermione said automatically, closing the file and standing. She discreetly tucked it into her bag.
Lisa and Paul wandered to the far side of the room.
"Mrs. Weasley," Lisa said hesitantly, "I'm so glad Mr. Black is awake."
Hermione froze. "Excuse me?"
"He was your patient, wasn't he? You admitted him. I just thought—"
"He is my patient," Hermione interrupted.
"Of course," Lisa stammered. "I just thought you might want to know…"
"I already know," Hermione interrupted again, her voice clipped. It sounded more dismissive than she intended.
Lisa faltered, stepping back. "I'm sorry. I thought—"
"Goodnight, Miss Kramer," Hermione said, forcing a tight smile.
"Goodnight, Mrs. Weasley."
Hermione slipped into the hallway, furious with herself. She shoved the file deeper into her bag and closed her eyes, trying to push back the tidal wave of emotions threatening to engulf her.
"Mrs. Weasley," came Greta's polite voice from nearby. She had appeared beside Hermione almost out of nowhere. "I had a feeling you might still be here…"
"I'm leaving," Hermione said with a forced smile as she buttoned her coat.
"Would you have a moment? Mr. Black was asking for you."
"I've already been to see him," Hermione replied firmly. "Miss Kramer is on duty, so…"
"Mr. Black specifically asked for you," Greta said, her tone more insistent.
Hermione hesitated, glancing at her watch in a futile gesture of deflection.
"I understand. But I've already—"
"Mrs. Weasley," Greta interrupted sternly.
Hermione blinked, knowing she had no choice.
She cracked the door to his room open. He wasn't asleep. The small lamp by his bedside cast a faint glow, and he noticed her immediately.
"Were you leaving?" Harry rasped.
"Yes."
She took a step toward him, a storm of emotions brewing beneath her calm exterior. For the first time, she felt the bitter tang of fury mix with her other feelings—uncertainty, fear, pity, even the strange jealousy she hated admitting. Everything he'd done—turning their lives upside down, forcing her into a web of lies—rose to the surface. Yet the sight of him always seemed to strip those feelings away. He was still Harry.
"I'm in… a lot of pain," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Is it the same pain as before?" she asked, her tone softening despite herself.
He nodded, his jaw tightening as he exhaled shakily. When she reached for the bandages, he recoiled slightly, shrinking into himself.
"I need to check," she said firmly.
Gently, she peeled back the dressing. The wounds were worse—black ichor seeped from the edges, the tissue angry and raw. She sighed.
"I can't… bear this…" he choked out.
"You've already had pain relief tonight," she replied, her voice measured, though her heart twisted.
His hand shot out, gripping her wrist tightly. His eyes bore into hers, filled with desperation that cut through her defenses like a blade.
"Please," he rasped.
"Harry, I can't," she said, shaking her head.
His grip tightened, his knuckles white with the effort.
Hermione stepped out into the hallway. The nurses' station was empty. She had hoped to find Greta, who would undoubtedly have helped her, but the silence was thick, and her thoughts were louder than ever. The vial of frankincense elixir was exactly where she had left it the night before. This time, Hermione grabbed three and stuffed them into the pocket of her coat.
For weeks now, she had felt like a traitor, hiding a monumental secret from those she cared about most. She told herself it was necessary, that it was all for the greater good. That it had to be this way. Did she still hope, somewhere deep down, for some karmic reward for protecting her friend?
Or was it the hope of protecting someone who had once been her friend?
How thin was the line between a friend from the past and a stranger in the present?
When Hermione entered his room, she found Harry in a state of disarray. He was sweating, his face tight with pain, the sheets beneath him wrinkled as though he had tried to rip them apart with his hands. His breathing was shallow, labored. Tears streaked his face.
"Get out," he rasped, glaring at her through red-rimmed eyes.
The door behind her was ajar, letting in a faint draft. But the halls were silent, steeped in the stillness of the night.
"I can help you," she said softly, taking a step closer.
"You can't," he muttered, his voice shaking.
Hermione gently pulled back the blanket. The dressing on his chest was soaked with a dark, oozing substance.
"I'm cold," he whispered, his voice cracking. "So cold…"
Tears streamed freely down his face now, unchecked, unashamed. Hermione glanced at the chart hanging by his bed. Everything was being done according to Hall's plan. Everything looked right. But it wasn't enough.
"The pain…" Harry's voice broke, his words stumbling. "They said… they said there's nothing more they can do. But I can't… I can't anymore."
Hermione reached into her pocket and pulled out one of the vials. She uncorked it and tilted it to his lips, letting a few drops trickle into his mouth.
"What… what was that?" he asked weakly.
"Even if I told you, you wouldn't remember," she said with a small, rueful smile. "You were never great at potions."
"I wasn't that bad," he protested faintly, his lips twitching into a ghost of a smile.
She reached out and brushed the sweat from his brow, wiping away the tears on his cheek. When her hand lingered, he caught it, pressing it against his face. The elixir worked quickly; his breathing steadied, and the lines of pain on his face softened as his body relaxed into the bed.
"But you were better," he murmured, his voice drifting toward sleep.
She pulled her hand away slowly. Whatever curse had struck him, whatever man he had become, whatever mistakes he had made—he was still Harry.
"What are you doing?" Ron's voice startled her as he entered their bedroom. Hermione quickly shut the file she had been reading, her heart racing.
"Nothing," she stammered, trying to compose herself.
He stood in the doorway, watching her carefully. "What's that?"
"Just… something from work," she said quickly, placing the folder on the nightstand as casually as she could manage.
Ron's expression hardened. He wasn't prone to outbursts, but tonight, his demeanor chilled the room.
"Where were you all day?" he asked, his voice low.
"At work," she replied simply.
"On Christmas?"
"Ron, please…"
He sighed heavily and turned toward the bathroom. The sound of the faucet running filled the silence.
"You're upset," she called after him.
"I'm not upset," he said curtly, his tone betraying the lie.
"I can see that you are."
"You're acting strange, Hermione," he said, drying his hands roughly and tossing the towel aside.
"And you think this is normal?" she shot back.
"You were acting weird when I brought up kids earlier."
She took a deep breath, her pulse quickening. That's what this is about?
"It's not something we talk about every day," she said carefully. "You surprised me, that's all."
"Exactly," he muttered, brushing past her toward the bedroom. "We don't talk about it at all."
Hermione closed her eyes, her mind racing. She couldn't let the conversation spiral any further.
"Not long ago, two five-year-old twins were brought to Mungo's," she began, her voice steady but heavy with emotion. "Robert and Michael. Their own mother tried to poison them, Ron."
He froze, halfway to their bed.
"What?"
"She's in the closed ward now. Their uncle took them in just before Christmas." Hermione felt the weight of her words, but she pushed on. "Maybe I shouldn't pull the 'my job affects me' card, but it does, Ron. It does. Sometimes I… I can't handle it."
"You could've told me," he said after a long pause, his voice quieter. "You can tell me anything."
Ron stepped closer, wrapping his arms around her. His embrace should have been comforting, but Hermione felt a wave of guilt crash over her instead. Over his shoulder, her eyes drifted to the folder on the nightstand—the folder filled with photographs of mangled bodies and secrets she couldn't share.