"Don't bring up that!"
She was back on the moor, standing amidst the desolate expanse. The cold seeped through her, bone-deep, and the mist obscured everything around her. She turned toward the voice. It was Harry's voice. She wanted to say something, but no sound escaped her lips.
"Stay out of it!" he said.
Suddenly, deep gashes appeared on his chest, and thick, black blood poured out of them. He fell to the ground.
"NO!" she screamed, rushing to him.
"Hermione!" Ron was shaking her shoulder, and her eyes snapped open.
She woke so suddenly, it felt like surfacing from the depths of a freezing lake, gasping for air just before the world faded to black. Her shirt clung to her body, damp with sweat.
"You were screaming in your sleep," Ron mumbled. She pressed herself into him, still halfway back on the misty moor.

The library at St. Mungo's was one of Hermione's most unexpected discoveries. Access was strictly limited to healers and trainees, and the collection was vast—so vast it sometimes reminded her of Hogwarts. But no library, no matter how grand, could ever truly compare to that of her old school. Hermione walked down the long corridor between towering bookshelves. With every step, floating candles flickered to life around her, dutifully lighting her path. She paused by the section on dangerous spells and curses, but something deep within her whispered that nothing she could find in these familiar volumes would hold the answers she sought. "If the solution were that simple, someone else would have already found it," she thought grimly.
She moved on, her hand brushing the spines of ancient books until she stopped at a weathered, leather-bound book titled "The Treatment of Blood Infections." She tucked it under her arm and added another volume, "Herbs That Purify." Nodding politely to the older librarian at the desk, she headed toward the exit.

Hermione entered Harry's room without knocking.
"How are y—" she stopped mid-sentence, seeing Jennifer Rose standing by Harry's bed.
"Good morning," Jennifer greeted her warmly.
Harry was sitting up in bed, propped against a stack of pillows. He looked surprisingly well, far better than he had just a few days ago, when he had been writhing in agony, begging for pain relief. Since Christmas, she had administered the analgesic four times. Each time, she measured the doses meticulously, sometimes diluting the drops. She had double-checked the permissible proportions five times, ensuring that the dosage for an adult male wouldn't exceed the limit. She kept telling herself, "This is the last time," but Harry's pain-stricken face always convinced her she was doing the right thing.
"I didn't know you… had visitors," Hermione stammered, retreating a step. The frankincense elixir rattled in her pocket. Harry's gaze met hers, and there was something unfamiliar in his eyes.
"I can come back later," Jennifer said gently, glancing at Harry.
"No, it's fine," Harry replied quickly.
"Patients need company," Hermione said, half-heartedly, her feet refusing to move despite her intention to leave. "I just… I just wanted to check how you were feeling, and—"
"I feel fine. I spoke with the director; he said I might try standing up tomorrow," Harry cut in.
Hermione blinked rapidly. "Standing up?"
"That's wonderful," Jennifer added with a smile. "That's good news, right?"
"I… I'm not sure…"
"I don't want to take up your time, Healer Weasley," Harry interjected, looking her straight in the eye.
Jennifer's surprised expression flickered over Hermione's face. Hermione gave a curt nod. She hadn't expected such words from him. She backed out, closing the door behind her.
"That wasn't very nice," she heard Jennifer say. "She's really kind. I've spoken to her a few times."
Harry murmured something in response. Hermione squeezed her eyes shut. She was now officially an adult woman, a professional healer, eavesdropping outside a patient's room.

"Happy New Year!" Matthew said cheerfully, plopping into the chair opposite Hermione's desk and reaching for the tin of gingerbread lizards sitting on the corner.
"Happy New Year, Matthew," Hermione replied mechanically, not looking up from her book.
Matthew frowned. "What are you reading?"
"Nothing important."
He leaned over to tilt the book cover into view. "'The Treatment of Blood Infections'? Why are you reading something you already know by heart?"
She gave him a sharp look.
"Very funny."
"Come on, Weasley. I'd be shocked if there was a single textbook from our training days you don't know by heart."
Hermione sighed and closed the book with a snap.
"You're not wrong."
"You've always been a swot," Matthew teased with satisfaction.
"You're right; I won't find answers here. It'd be too easy."
"I didn't say that. So, how were your holidays?"
"His condition is stable, but still critical. Do you understand? And he's in pain. If he says it hurts, then the pain must be unbearable. And those wounds… I've been trying to figure out what hit him, but he can't remember… nothing, absolutely nothing…"
"I asked how your holidays were."
"Fine. He's stronger now, that's true, but the wounds… With every dressing change, we should see progress—some sign of healing. But it's so slow. And his blood… it's turning black. The pain attacks happen mostly at night, always the same—as if whatever this is keeps consuming him, eating away at his body. And the more we try, the more it feels like we're…"
She trailed off, seeing Matthew's expression. His face said it all: a mixture of "you've lost it," "are you drunk?" and "you clearly haven't slept in days."
"I get it. You can't stop obsessing over—"
Matthew was cut off by the door opening. Lisa Kramer stepped inside, offering a polite nod. Matthew watched her leave with a bemused expression.
"Healer Weasley, shall we take a walk to the cafeteria?" he said loudly, raising an eyebrow. Hermione forced a smile.

"…You worked through Christmas instead of spending it with your family. You said you'd take some time off at the end of the year, but here you are, rambling over a textbook," Matthew exclaimed as soon as they reached the corridor.
Hermione sighed. They walked in silence for a few moments.
"It's not that. I'm worried about this patient."
"If you worry this much about every patient, you'll end up in the long-term ward for mental cases."
Hermione stopped abruptly. At the end of the corridor, she spotted a familiar figure.
Kingsley Shacklebolt was leaving Hall's office. His face was as unreadable as ever, and his gaze carried the faintest hint of warning.
Kingsley didn't stop. He didn't nod, didn't say a word—just walked down the corridor and disappeared around the corner before Hermione could call out to him.
"Are you okay?" Matthew asked. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
Hermione shook her head abruptly. "I just… Go ahead without me. I forgot—"
Matthew shrugged as Hermione strode quickly toward Kingsley's direction.

"Can we talk?"
Jennifer Rose appeared suddenly in front of her, making Hermione jump.
"Sorry if I interrupted earlier," Jennifer started, but Hermione cut her off.
"No, I'm the one who should apologize. I should've knocked."
"I know I'm not family or anyone close, but… how is he? What's his condition?"
It was a question Hermione couldn't fully answer. Technically, Harry's recovery was progressing as planned. Today he had seemed stronger, and if things continued, Hall would likely push for discharge within 14 days. But the nocturnal pain attacks, the reopening wounds, the blackened blood… And Harry himself—angry, frustrated, and impatient—made everything so uncertain.
"I think he's improving, and… he'll get better. He's gaining strength every day."
"You don't sound convinced," Jennifer observed.
Hermione sighed. "Because I'm not."
A silence stretched between them.
"I've been reassigned to London. Permanently," Jennifer broke it with unexpected news. "I'll be based at the local office now. And… yesterday, I did some digging through old case files. I have a feeling that the attack on the 20th of December… it's eerily similar to what happened to us. I want to…"
Jennifer trailed off as a group of nurses passed by.
"I wanted you to take a look. I have a bad feeling about this, and I want to figure it out. Whoever's behind this… whatever it is… I spoke to Sirius about having someone trustworthy, and I meant you. If you're willing, we should talk. Just not here."
Hermione hesitated. The thought of discussing this with Jennifer felt… complicated for too many reasons.
"I'm sorry if my suggestion is…"
"No, it's not that," Hermione interrupted quickly.

That evening, he had another attack. Just as Hermione was about to leave work, she peeked into Harry's room. He lay drenched in sweat, looking entirely different from how he'd appeared that morning.
"Please," he rasped, grabbing the edge of her healer's coat with surprising strength. "Do something."
Hermione didn't hesitate. She had a method by now, one she had repeated enough times to refine it to an instinct. She carefully measured a few drops of frankincense extract into a glass of water and handed it to him. He drank it immediately.
"I spoke to Jennifer…" she began tentatively.
Harry had his eyes half-closed. She doubted he was even processing her words as the pain-relief potion began to take effect. He muttered something incoherent.
Hermione sat down on the chair next to him and took his hand in hers. He squeezed it weakly.
"You have to be strong, dammit," she said, her voice firm.
He didn't respond. Within moments, he seemed to fall into a deep sleep. Was it the pain that was draining him so completely? Or was his body becoming too dependent on the potion? She smoothed the sheets over his bed with a sigh.

When she got home, Ron was sitting at the kitchen table, his expression grim. As she bent down to kiss him, he recoiled abruptly.
"What's going on?" she asked with a nervous laugh.
Ron's eyes bore into hers. From beneath the newspaper on the table, he slid out the file she had received from Jennifer before Christmas.
"That's what I'd like to know," he said coldly.
Hermione froze, her whole body stiffened as if locked in a spell.
"You went through my—" she stammered.
"No, Hermione," he cut her off sharply. "I didn't 'go through' anything. Don't try to turn this around on me."
"I was consulting on a case for the Auror Office—"
"So you brought a file full of mutilated corpses into our home?"
"I needed time to think. I told you—I was consulting."
"You didn't tell me anything."
She shrugged.
"And why should I have to tell you?"
Ron stared at her in shock.
"Why?" he echoed incredulously. "Because I thought we always talked about everything. I thought we shared things. Isn't that how it's supposed to work? After everything we've been through, after everything we agreed on…"
"Ron, you get angry when I bring work home, and now you're angry that I didn't bring it home? Make up your mind."
A heavy silence fell between them. She wanted to brush past it, to end the conversation and move on, but Ron slowly rose from his chair.
"I don't want you consulting for the Auror Office," he said at last.
She crossed her arms over her chest. This wasn't about the file anymore.
"You can't forbid me from doing my job."
His anger flared visibly, and she could tell he was on the brink of exploding. He opened the file, pulled out the gruesome photographs, and shoved them toward her.
"You promised me," he hissed, his voice trembling with rage. "You promised me that we'd live a quiet life, away from all of this. You swore we'd have nothing to do with that place or that work. You know what this does to people. You've seen it. You know how it destroys families, how it drives people mad. You know how it ends."
"How?"
Ron stormed out of the kitchen, slamming the door open into the hallway. She had promised him years ago, even though giving up her job as an Auror had turned her world upside down. Ron wanted a simple life—a big family, a warm home—and she had understood that. She had agreed to it. At least, that's what she had always told him.
"Ron!" she called after him.
He grabbed his coat on the way out, not even bothering to look back.
"For weeks, you've been acting strange. You're always saying you're overworked and exhausted. Of course! Of course, because you think you're the only one carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders! And now I find out you've been scheming to get back into—"
"I'm not scheming anything!" she shouted. "Ron!"
"Do you even want a family? Or is this just like—"
"Not everyone is like Ha—" she yelled before catching herself.
"Don't you dare say his name in this house."
She thought he might strike her. She instinctively took a step back.
"I'm saying not everyone who works there ends up…"
"You've already changed," Ron snapped. "And you're telling me this was just one case?"
He slammed the door behind him, leaving the house in silence.

Ron didn't return that night. The worst part was that Hermione caught herself feeling a small measure of relief. Relief that she didn't have to keep talking, keep explaining, keep lying. She had postponed the inevitable.
But in the early hours of the morning, as the house remained eerily quiet, she realized that coming clean now would be nearly impossible. She had trapped herself in her own web of deceit.

During rounds at St. Mungo's, Hermione was barely present. She didn't respond when Hall commented on her cases, nor did she exchange her usual quips with Matthew. Lisa Kramer eagerly volunteered for every task, glancing toward Hermione now and then as if expecting some acknowledgment, but Hermione kept her head down.
"Poisoning. Patient with shallow breathing, reduced oxygen levels in the blood, and respiratory issues," Hall said as they reviewed a patient in room four. "Kramer, what do we do?"
"I'd recommend increasing the dose of the regenerative potion with a drop of oxygenating elixir. Additionally, inhalations of peppermint essence to support the airways," Lisa replied confidently, sneaking a glance at Hermione for approval. Hermione didn't even lift her head.
Matthew glanced at Hermione as if he wanted to say something, but he thought better of it.
The group moved on silently to room six.

When they entered Harry's room, he was sitting on the edge of the bed, legs dangling over the side. His hands gripped the mattress as though he were bracing himself to stand.
"The patient is showing signs of physical improvement. The wounds on his chest have partially closed," Hall commented. "Yesterday, I encouraged Mr. Black to take his first steps."
"The patient has complained of recurring pain," Hermione added quietly.
Her voice wavered. She looked as if she were ready to rush to Harry's aid at any moment. The trainees turned to look at her.
"I've discussed this with Mr. Black," Hall replied gruffly. "The situation is under control. How are you feeling, Mr. Black?"
"Like someone who's been treated like a lab experiment for weeks. I want to leave."
"Noted," Hall said dryly, addressing Lisa. "Maintain the current treatment plan. And, Mr. Black, I remind you to avoid overexertion. Baby steps."
Harry let out a quiet scoff.
"Duly noted. Like a school project," he muttered sarcastically, leaning back into the bed.
Lisa glanced at Hall, expecting some kind of rebuke, but the head healer ignored Harry's comment.
"Healer Weasley, anything to add?" Hall asked, breaking the tense silence.
Hermione felt the weight of every gaze turn to her.
"No. Nothing."
Hall nodded, leading the group out into the corridor. Hermione didn't even spare Harry a glance as she left.
"What's with you today?" Matthew whispered as they walked.
She didn't answer.

Half an hour later, Hermione walked into Harry's room without knocking.
"You shouldn't be trying to stand," she said sharply.
Harry was half-reclined against his pillows, a book resting in his lap.
"I spoke with Marcus Hall," he replied, not bothering to look up. "You know, my healer? He told me that standing is encouraged."
Hermione closed the door behind her carefully. She had noticed that Harry's condition had been steadily improving over the past few days. It gave her hope, but at the same time, the nightly attacks of searing pain continued like clockwork.
"I think it's too soon," she said, her voice laced with frustration.
Harry glanced up, smirking in that mocking way he'd recently adopted—something she didn't remember from him before.
"Well," he said lightly, "from what I discussed with my healer yesterday, it's still his call."
Her jaw tightened, teeth clenching instinctively.
"What's your problem?" she snapped.
"My problem?" He raised an eyebrow. "What's your problem?"
"I care about you, you idiot!" she burst out, throwing her hands in the air. "I care! Yes, you're stronger now, and I'm glad. But Harry, for God's sake—"
"Sirius," he interrupted firmly.
She strode toward his bed, her frustration clear. Harry's eyes widened as he took in her angry expression.
"Hermione," he began cautiously, "you need to understand something very simple. Me being here doesn't change anything. It never will. We don't know each other."
"What?" she asked, utterly thrown.
"I get it—you're invested in this, maybe because of…" He trailed off, waving vaguely. "But it won't change anything. I'll still be Sirius. I'll still do my job."
"You have a son," she said flatly.
"I know."
"And?"
He shrugged.
"I don't believe this," Hermione said, her voice shaking. "I don't believe this is coming from you of all people."
Harry closed his book deliberately and looked her in the eye.
"If I had a choice, I'd never have ended up in your ward. But no one asked me."
He held her gaze coldly, and she exhaled sharply. When he reached for her hand, she jerked back, unwilling to let him touch her.

Four hours later, Marcus Hall appeared in the healers' office doorway. Hermione had buried herself in paperwork, updating other patients' files, trying to get through her shift unnoticed. She just wanted to survive the day, go home, and maybe—just maybe—find Ron sitting at the kitchen table. But then again, maybe it would be better if he wasn't there—better if she didn't have to explain herself, didn't have to talk, didn't have to confront everything she had been avoiding.
Hall cleared his throat to get her attention.
"Healer Weasley, could I have a word with you?"

"Please, sit down," Hall said, gesturing to a chair as they entered his office.
Hermione sat, her body tense.
"I don't know how to handle this, but…" Hall began, pacing the room. "I can't ignore it."
"Has something happened?" she asked, her tone cautious.
"I have a great deal of respect for you, but…" He finally sat down, folding his hands on his desk. "I've received a report—an official complaint, actually—about several vials of highly addictive potions going missing from storage."
Hermione exhaled slowly, but said nothing.
"And I've been told," Hall continued, leaning forward, "that despite explicit instructions, you've been administering those potions to one of your patients."
"Do you have proof?" she asked, her voice icy and measured.
Hall leaned back in his chair, his eyebrows shooting up in disbelief.
"Healer Weasley," he said, his tone sharp. "I respect you, but we're not having this conversation like that."
Their eyes locked. Inside, Hermione felt like she was turning to stone. He couldn't have proof. There was no way he could.
"One of the trainees reported it," Hall pressed. "She claims you've been giving those potions to a patient against my explicit orders. And, I'm afraid, the matter has already been escalated."
Hermione's mind raced. She was calculating every possibility, every potential loose end, every clue that could point back to her.
"Hermione," Hall said, his tone softening. "You're one of the most talented healers I've ever worked with. But as your direct supervisor, I have to report this to the Healers' Council. There will be an inquiry, especially in this case…"
Hermione inhaled deeply, trying to steady herself. Her pulse quickened as adrenaline coursed through her veins. Panic nipped at the edges of her thoughts, but she forced herself to remain calm.
"Perhaps I made some unconventional decisions," she admitted. "But it wasn't about breaking rules. It was about saving a life."
Hall blinked, seemingly taken aback by her calm and determined tone. He stood slowly, crossing his arms.
"I can't allow this kind of… unilateral action."
"I'm telling you," Hermione countered firmly, "this wasn't some reckless whim. I was helping a patient. Since when is helping someone a crime?"
"You know very well this isn't about 'helping,'" Hall retorted.
"Then what is this about?" she demanded, her voice rising. "That man has been in agony for weeks. Nightly attacks, debilitating pain. I'm not just treating symptoms—I'm looking for answers. Answers that might save him!"
"Hermione," Hall interrupted sharply. His voice carried a weight she hadn't heard from him before. "This isn't about one patient. This is about your future as a healer. It's about the fact that you defied direct orders and administered a highly controlled substance to a patient. You may be brilliant, but there are rules, and what you've done over the past few days shows a complete disregard for those rules—for me, and for the patient."
Silence fell between them. Hall seemed surprised by his own outburst.
"Do you have anything to say?" he finally asked.
"His condition has improved," she said steadily. "You can verify it yourself. With controlled doses, we—"
"You're talking about treating an experienced Auror," Hall cut in, his voice heavy. "An Auror injured on mission, whose condition is being monitored closely by the Ministry. The Head of the Auror Office has been in my office more times than I can count. Hermione, I expected better from you."
Hermione let out a bitter laugh.
"And you're not asking any questions? None?"
"No, because I know I won't get answers. Maybe I don't even want them," Hall admitted, his tone resigned. "I know you're a former Auror, but you made a conscious decision to leave that life behind. I should've listened to Kingsley Shacklebolt and reassigned you from Black's case weeks ago."
"Because you know who he is?"
Hall's gaze hardened.
"That's none of my concern. I'm not here for cheap, thrilling news from page six."
Hermione stood abruptly.
"This is unbelievable," she snapped. "Everyone just stays silent, as if nothing's happening!"
"Pack your things," Hall said coldly. "Turn over the case files to another healer. I hope I'm being clear."
"And if I refuse?"
"Then I'll recommend your suspension pending the inquiry," Hall said bluntly. "Frankly, you should be banned from practicing medicine altogether."
"Why don't you just station Aurors outside the door and forbid me from entering Mungo's?" she retorted sarcastically.
Hall frowned deeply.
"I had hoped you'd deny everything," he admitted quietly. "You'll receive an owl about the inquiry. I suggest you think carefully about whether you want to continue your career as a healer."

"What's going on? Half of St. Mungo's is buzzing…" Matthew stopped in the doorway to the Healers' locker room, spotting Hermione sitting in a corner on the floor. The room was empty, and she had her head lowered.
"I'm suspended from working with patients," she said quietly, her gaze fixed on the floor. "I'm about to stand before the Healers' Council."
Matthew stepped closer, concern etched on his face. Hermione slowly raised her head, meeting his eyes with a dazed, defeated expression.
"I don't understand," he muttered.
"Do you want me to repeat it?" she replied flatly.
"No… I just… I don't understand how this happened. One of the trainees mentioned something while I was in the canteen… The nurses too…"
"I ignored Hall's treatment plan for a patient," she said, her eyes avoiding his. "I acted on my own."
Matthew backed up a few steps and sat on the windowsill, crossing his arms.
"Who?"
"Sirius Black."
"What did you do?"
"I treated him…"
"Yes, I heard that part," he replied with obvious irritation. "But what exactly did you do?"
Hermione stood abruptly and opened her locker. Reaching inside, she pulled out a small cloth pouch and withdrew a single vial of frankincense elixir. She held it up for him to see.
"You've got to be kidding me," Matthew said, staring at her.
"I was saving his life!" she snapped. "And now everyone is acting as if I've committed a crime! I gave the patient in Room Six frankincense elixir. Big deal, for Merlin's sake!"
"What possessed you?"
"I was helping him."
"That's not the point! What's gotten into you? Really, Hermione. I thought we were friends. I care about you, and you're acting…"
"Like what?"
"Like someone I don't know."
"Matthew!" She let out a short, bitter laugh. "Maybe you don't know me after all!"
"Oh, that's always the argument, isn't it?" he said sharply. "Do you even realize how close you came to being fired? You could've been banned from practicing medicine!"
Hermione shoved the vial into her pocket, her jaw tight. Silence fell between them, heavy and suffocating.
"If you had a problem, you should have come to me," Matthew said more gently, though his frustration still lingered. "You could've just said something. We see each other every day, Hermione. We chat about the weather, the lousy food in the canteen… And yet this—this is serious. I saw you talking to that Auror. You're treating someone who got hit with some unknown spell during a classified mission. Of course the Ministry is going to be involved. Of course there will be secrets. And you know what? I've got a bad feeling about all of this. A really bad feeling. Do you understand?"
The thought struck Hermione suddenly: Ron and Matthew must be conspiring against me. She wondered if they had spoken about the situation without fully understanding it, blowing things out of proportion. But when she looked up at Matthew, his face wasn't accusing—it was concerned. That's when the tears came.
She hadn't meant to cry, but she couldn't stop. Matthew moved closer and, without a word, pulled her into a hug.
"Think of it as a forced vacation," he murmured, stroking her hair gently. "It sounds better that way."
She let out a wet laugh.
"It doesn't sound better."
"Well, for you, I imagine it's a disaster. You've got to stop getting so involved."
They stood there for a long moment, her head on his shoulder, as she silently formulated a plan in her mind. She knew what she needed to do.
When she finally stepped back, and Matthew tried to give her an encouraging smile, Hermione handed him a small vial of elixir.
"He'll need this," she said simply.
Matthew shook his head, refusing to take it.
"I'm not doing this," he said firmly.
He turned to leave, but at the last second, Hermione grabbed his sleeve. She had to make him understand.
"Let me explain…" she stammered, her voice barely above a whisper. "But you have to promise me—you can't tell anyone."
"Conspiracy now, is it? You've got some magical excuse for losing your mind?"
Hermione took a deep breath.
"The man in Room Six—the Auror injured during that mission. He's not Sirius Black. His name is Harry Potter. He's my friend. Or… he was my friend, years ago at Hogwarts. He's the one who disappeared without a word about three years ago. Just… vanished. And I have no idea why."
"Harry Potter?" Matthew asked, stunned. "The legendary Boy…"
"…Who Lived," Hermione finished bitterly, letting out a humorless laugh. "Yeah, him. The man who walked out of all our lives one day and never looked back. That's why."
Matthew was silent for a long moment, processing what she'd just told him.
"Does anyone else know?"
"Here? Shacklebolt knows. Hall knows, though he's pretending he doesn't. That's why Shacklebolt keeps visiting. That's why he's checking in every other day."
"And you?"
"I've asked, but no one will tell me anything. They act like it's none of my business. But I've known him my whole life. I knew the second I saw him, Matthew. Please. Please help him. He needs it."
She held out the vial again. This time, Matthew hesitated. After a moment, he finally took it.
Hermione let out a shaky breath of relief.

At home, the silence was oppressive. Hermione sat at the kitchen table, staring at the teacup in front of her. The house felt foreign, cold, and unfamiliar—like a stranger's home rather than her own.
She hadn't gone back to see Harry before leaving St. Mungo's. She didn't know what she would've said. That she'd almost lost her job because she'd defied every rule in the book to help him? That her actions had been reckless, unethical, and entirely foolish? Or that deep down, she had a gnawing suspicion that this entire situation—the injuries, the Ministry's secrecy, the lingering mysteries—was much bigger than anyone was letting on?
The file Jennifer had given her sat on the table, taunting her with its lack of answers. Hermione picked it up, intending to throw it into the flames of the fireplace. But she hesitated at the last second. "That would be truly stupid," she chastised herself silently.
When she heard footsteps and familiar voices coming from the hallway, she hastily shoved the file under a newspaper.
Ginny and James entered the kitchen first, followed by Olivier Brown.
"I didn't know you were home already," Ginny said brightly.
"I got back a bit earlier today," Hermione replied, forcing a smile.
James held out his arms toward her, and she scooped him up, holding him close.
"Is Ron here?" Ginny asked cheerfully.
"No…" Hermione said.
"Oh, that's a shame," Ginny replied, glancing at Olivier with a glowing smile. "We wanted to tell you both together. Olivier and I have decided to move in together."
Hermione froze, her grip tightening on James.
"That's… wonderful," she managed to say, as James gave her hair an enthusiastic tug.
"Ron will be more excited," Ginny teased. "You'll have the house all to yourselves."
"Oh, stop it…" Hermione muttered, shaking her head.
In the next room, the sound of a fire crackling and a heavy step announced someone had just arrived via the Floo Network. Moments later, Ron appeared in the doorway.
"Ron!" Ginny exclaimed, delighted. "I've got news!"
Ron glanced at Hermione, his expression unreadable, before turning to Ginny and breaking into a wide smile. He congratulated her and Olivier warmly, even playfully warning Olivier about Ginny's many older brothers.
"You'd better watch your step," he joked, wagging a finger. "We're a protective brothers."
Ginny rolled her eyes and shoved him playfully. Moments later, Ron was declaring that this news called for opening Molly's cherry liqueur.
Hermione stayed behind in the kitchen, James still on her lap, while the others disappeared into the living room. She stared blankly at the table, the newspaper hiding Jennifer's file staring back at her like a damning secret.

When Matthew entered Room Six, Harry Potter was once again sitting on the edge of the bed.
"In your case, overexertion could be dangerous…" Matthew began from the doorway.
"I've already heard that ten times today," Harry said coldly. "I asked for Healer Weasley."
"Hermione isn't here."
Harry planted both feet firmly on the floor and slowly shifted his weight onto them.
"The muscles might have forgotten… It's been over a month…"
"I know," Harry growled.
He wavered, gripping the side of the bed for balance. Matthew stepped forward quickly to steady him if needed, but Harry swatted him away. Raising his hands in surrender, Matthew took a step back. Dark red stains were spreading across Harry's shirt where his wounds were located, the clear sign that they had reopened. Harry glanced down at the blood soaking into the fabric, let out a long, sharp hiss of pain, and sank back onto the bed. This time, he allowed Matthew to assist him as a grimace of agony contorted his face.
"Can you… call her?" Harry managed to rasp.
"I can't, Potter," Matthew replied calmly.
He pulled a vial of frankincense elixir from his pocket and held it up for Harry to see. Harry tilted his head back, resting it against the wall, and took a deep breath.
"Where did you…?"
"Hermione's been suspended," Matthew cut him off quietly. "Technically, she's on mandatory leave. They've taken her patients away. You're a smart guy; I'm sure you can figure out why."
Harry stared at Matthew, his hands clenching tightly around the edge of the bed.
"I hope by the time she comes back, you'll already be gone," Matthew added bluntly.
Harry looked away, grinding his teeth.
"I didn't ask her for anything," he muttered.
Matthew chuckled softly.
"I figured."
He opened the small cabinet beside Harry's bed and slid the vial of frankincense elixir inside.
"For you, I'm not taking any risks. Not even if you ask me nicely," Matthew said evenly. "So let's just say I have no idea where that came from or how it got here. Maybe you stole it? And for your information, this potion is dangerously easy to overdose on. And when that happens, well… let's just say it gets rather unpleasant."