"Want to hear some good news?" Matthew asked as he walked into the Healers' office.
Hermione sat at the desk, filling out charts, her expression tired.
"That you're going to finish these for me?" She gestured toward the pile of charts that seemed to grow larger by the hour.
"Nope," Matthew replied with a grin, dropping into a nearby chair. "Christmas is in three weeks!"
Hermione wrinkled her nose slightly.
"No enthusiasm at all?"
"Not really…"
Two five-year-olds raced down the corridor outside, their loud laughter echoing. It was interrupted moments later by a nurse's stern shout of disapproval.
"And I'm getting out of London for a few days," Matthew added, peering out the open door toward the hallway.
Before Hermione could respond, five-year-old Robert burst into the room, nearly colliding with the door.
"Hide me!" he gasped, quickly ducking behind a filing cabinet as if it were the most secure fortress in the world. "Hide me, quick!"
"Right away!" Matthew exclaimed, leaping toward the boy with exaggerated urgency.
He draped his white coat over Robert, effectively concealing him, just as Michael, Robert's twin brother, appeared in the doorway.
Hermione and Matthew exchanged amused glances as Michael stopped, looking utterly baffled.
"He's not here…" Michael muttered suspiciously.
The coat quivered with suppressed giggles, and Michael's face lit up in realization.
"Boys!"the nurse from the hallway appeared in the doorway, her stern expression aimed directly at the twins. "Back to your room! I'm so sorry, they're impossible to keep track of."
"It's fine —" Hermione began, but the white coat giggled again, twitching slightly.
"You're being a nuisance," she scolded, wagging a finger at Robert's direction - or rather, the coat.
"But there's no one here…" Matthew teased, holding the coat even tighter around Robert, who erupted into a fit of giggles.
Michael's laughter was infectious. The nurse glared at Matthew.
"Mr. Madliner, please…" she said, her tone sharp.
Caught red-handed, Matthew sighed dramatically and revealed Robert.
"Off to your room!" the nurse ordered.
"Wait a moment," Hermione interrupted, kneeling down in front of the boys. "Since you're here, let me take a quick look at your scars, okay?"
The nurse sighed, clearly aware she'd been outmaneuvered, and watched as Matthew ushered the twins onto the office couch.
Hermione inspected their small, healing scars, which now peeked through patches of peeling green crust.
"Does it hurt?" she asked gently.
The boys shook their heads in unison, though Michael hesitated before murmuring, "Sometimes it stings after the ointment."
"Well," Matthew said, slipping each boy a gingerbread lizard, "don't tell anyone about these, alright?"
He gave them a conspiratorial wink.
"Maybe we can try a new ointment," Hermione suggested. "What do you think, Mr. Healer?"
"Absolutely," Matthew replied solemnly. "Something that doesn't sting."
"And if it does?" Michael asked skeptically, his gaze darting between them.
"Then we'll keep looking," Hermione assured him.
"But back to your room now!" the nurse interjected, reappearing and waving them toward the door.
"Will you come visit us?" Robert asked Hermione softly, his eyes round and hopeful.
"I will," she promised with a nod.
"Good…" he whispered before following his brother and the nurse out of the office.
As the door swung shut, Matthew leaned back in his chair, grinning.
"And you said you weren't good with kids," he teased, holding out a gingerbread lizard to her. "Cookie?"
Hermione shook her head, returning to the pile of files on her desk.

Leaving the office later than she'd planned, Hermione glanced at her watch and sighed. She was already an hour late for dinner with Ron.
As she walked down the corridor, she noticed the door to Harry's room was slightly ajar. Inside, the familiar blonde woman sat by his bed. Hermione paused, gripping the edge of the doorframe but not stepping inside.
Were they together? Were they close? she wondered. Would a distant acquaintance visit a colleague this often?
She shook her head, pushing the thought aside. It's none of your business, she reminded herself.
Lately, Hermione had been making a conscious effort to limit the time she spent in Harry's room. She had told herself it was about maintaining professional boundaries, about moving on with her life. Still, he haunted her dreams - silent, familiar, and always with that same strange smile.
Kingsley hadn't returned to the ward since his first visit, despite Hall's insistence that he notify Harry's family. Hermione had kept her silence, and Kingsley had deflected with vague excuses.
What else could he say? Hermione thought bitterly as she continued down the hallway. What else could anyone say?

"Muggles can blame traffic for being late. What's your excuse?" Ron began as Hermione walked into the kitchen.
He stood at the stove, and the table was already set for dinner.
"Sorry," Hermione sighed as she dropped her bag onto the floor and collapsed into one of the chairs.
"Traffic in the Floo Network?" he quipped over his shoulder.
"I said I'm sorry."
Ron turned to look at her, his expression sharp.
"What's wrong?" He asked.
"Nothing."
"You know, it's rather you asking me what's wrong, and me saying nothing?"
"Nothing. I'm just tired," she added, avoiding his gaze.
"I came home early. Thought we could have a nice evening," he said pointedly.
He'd made dinner, and she hadn't even noticed.
"Ron…"
"Are you hungry?" he asked, turning away from her.
She felt a wave of guilt rise, sharp and stinging. She hesitantly wrapped her arms around his back, resting her head against him. He didn't move.
"Patients?" he asked after a moment.
"Sort of… yes."
They stood in silence.
"I'm sorry," she said again, her voice barely above a whisper. "Where are Ginny and James?"
"At Mum's."
Finally, Ron turned around and kissed her.
"We've got the place to ourselves, and I thought we could make the most of it," he said softly.
Hermione kissed him back. Two months ago, she would have given anything for this - a quiet night, just the two of them. But now, her mind felt too crowded, too loud. Images flitted through her thoughts, uninvited and intrusive, making it impossible to feel truly present.
"So, are you hungry?" Ron asked with a small smile.
"A little," she admitted.
"Well, it's probably stone cold by now—"
She cut him off with another kiss and reached for his belt, undoing it with practiced ease. Ron gripped her shoulders and lifted her onto the counter. She felt his hands slide under her blouse, his touch warm against her skin.
You have to do this. You haven't had sex in weeks, she thought to herself.
A crushing wave of exhaustion swept over her. She felt foolish - trying too hard to force passion, to inject something genuine into kisses that felt hollow. She wasn't being honest. She hadn't been honest for weeks. And now, it felt cruel. It felt like a betrayal.
"Ron, wait," she said suddenly, pulling back.
He paused, his hands still on her waist, and his face shifted as he took in her expression.
"Alright, but now I really don't know what this is about."
"I…" she started slowly, searching for words.
In a split second, she saw the change in his face. He was angry now.
"We're alone, I'm trying to be nice—" he snapped. "Tell me what you want this time."
"Ron, it's not like that—"
He pulled away abruptly, but she grabbed his sleeve in an attempt to stop him.
"Go to hell," he snarled, yanking his arm free. Moments later, she heard the front door slam shut.

Hermione told herself she would do anything to fall asleep. Just sleep in her bed and stop thinking.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, she stared out the window. The streetlamp outside cast its glow over the empty road in front of their house.
"Damn you," she muttered aloud. She could hear the anger in her own voice.
"Me?" a voice said sharply in her head.
Blinking, she glanced toward the shadows near the dresser and the heavy navy curtains. She thought, for a fleeting moment, that Harry was standing there.
She buried her face in her hands.
"I'm losing my mind," she whispered.
"No, you're not," Harry replied, his voice calm and steady. "But you could start being honest about what's bothering you."
Hermione raised her head. He was still there, watching her intently.
"You're not here," she said slowly, tears welling in her eyes.
Her chest tightened as a silent sob built within her. Instead of breaking, the tears spilled down her cheeks.
"Why aren't you here?" she whispered.
Harry stepped closer and crouched beside her, looking at her with something like sympathy. He seemed healthier now, though his face was still gaunt.
"Tell him," he said softly.
"I can't."
"Tell him. You'll feel better."
"He hates you," she choked out, her voice shaking. "He—"
"It's Ron. He'll understand," Harry interrupted gently.
Hermione broke into loud, wracking sobs, curling into herself as she buried her face in her hands.
"Hermione…"
She felt a warm touch on her shoulder.
"Jesus, what's wrong?"
She opened her eyes. Ron was sitting beside her, his arms around her. She was lying on the bed, her face wet with tears.
"You were crying in your sleep," he said awkwardly, clearly concerned.
"I… I'm sorry… I…"
It was a dream. She wasn't losing her mind.
Before he could finish his hesitant reassurances, she grabbed his face and kissed him deeply, cutting him off. Ron froze in surprise but soon returned the kiss.
Hermione tugged at his shirt, pulling it off and pushing him back onto the bed. She wasn't losing her mind. This time, she gave everything she had to show him how much she wanted him—needed him.
They didn't speak.
Afterward, once she was sure Ron had fallen asleep, Hermione got out of bed quietly. She stood in the room, glancing around, a strange sense of unease prickling her skin as though someone might be watching.
In the bathroom, she splashed her face with cold water, staring at her reflection in the mirror.
She has gone mad.

Wake up. Wash up. Pass Ginny in the kitchen. On the way, smile at James, who had recently crossed the significant milestone of two and a half years of life.
His jet-black hair seemed to grow at twice the normal speed. He sat in his little highchair, two toy dragons floating serenely in front of him. His tiny hands reached out toward them, his face full of quiet concentration.
"James, stop that!" Ginny's sharp voice broke the spell.
The dragons dropped onto the table with a soft thud.
"Well, isn't it good that…" Hermione began, trying to offer a conciliatory smile, "certain abilities can't be stopped."
"There's been too much of those abilities lately," Ginny sighed, brushing her hair back in frustration. "Just the other day at Mum's, he wouldn't stop playing like this. Of course, Molly's thrilled, but… well, you know… He can't quite… control it yet."
A sharp knock at the window interrupted the conversation. Hermione opened it, letting in a tawny owl with The Daily Prophet. Taking the paper, she unfolded it to see Kingsley's face splashed across the front page.
"I heard about that," Ginny said, glancing at the headline. "Still no progress on the Edinburgh attacks. Rumors from the Auror Office say…" She hesitated. "They say it might start happening near London soon."
"I thought you didn't follow that sort of thing anymore…" Hermione began.
"I'm not," Ginny cut in quickly. "A friend wrote the piece."
Hermione reached for her steaming cup of coffee as the moka pot floated itself neatly back onto the stovetop. They sat in silence for a moment, watching as James fed pieces of apple to one of the toy dragons. The plush creature stirred and blinked, as if grateful for the offering.
"I wanted to ask your advice," Ginny said finally, breaking the quiet.
"Hm?" Hermione's heart sank a little.
She reminded herself to work harder at masking her emotions - to show interest, but only the right kind of interest. How did one achieve neutral curiosity?
"I wanted…" Ginny hesitated, dropping her gaze. "I wanted to tell you… I've been seeing someone."
No emotions. No reactions.
"That's… that's great," Hermione said, forcing a smile. "You… you didn't mention it."
"It's someone from work," Ginny said, blushing faintly. "Actually, he wrote that article."
Hermione glanced at the byline beneath Kingsley's photograph: Olivier Brown. Her blood pressure spiked.
"I was thinking…" Ginny blurted out, "I was thinking of inviting him to Christmas dinner." She rushed through the words as if trying to get them out before she lost her nerve. "I've been thinking about it a lot. We've known each other for a while, and for the last few weeks… well, you know. He knows about James, and… I like him. That's all."
"I'm glad, Ginny. That's… that's really wonderful. Of course, you should invite him," Hermione replied, her voice softer now.
"Really?" Ginny's face brightened instantly.
Hermione laughed, this time genuinely.
"Of course. Does James like him?"
"For now, their favorite activity is chasing each other around the house," Ginny said with a snort of laughter.
James glanced over at them, his expression curious.
"Mama?" he said, stretching his arms toward Ginny.
She picked him up, wiping his sticky hands with a napkin before setting him on the floor.
"I was worried it might be too soon… That it wouldn't be proper…" Ginny trailed off, glancing away.
"Ginny…" Hermione began carefully. "You deserve to be happy. There's no such thing as too soon for that."
The words felt like someone else's, spilling out of her mouth before she could even process them.
"Thanks," Ginny said quietly, brushing her fingers through James's messy hair.
The little boy toddled over to Hermione, his plush dragon clutched in one hand. He held it out to her, looking up at her with serious eyes.
"Take it," he said solemnly. "He's a friend."

During rounds, Hermione kept her distance, which drew a faint scowl from Hall and unbridled delight from a handful of overly eager interns. When Matthew arrived late, Hall muttered something under his breath, loud enough to make his irritation clear.
"What's his problem?" Matthew whispered to Hermione as they moved from one patient room to the next.
She shrugged without looking at him.
Matthew shot her a look of mock offense. "Something's bitten you too, hasn't it?"
"No," she replied, defensive.
"Well, I hope you at least covered for me before I got here."
"Mr. Madliner, pay attention, please," Hall snapped, turning his sharp gaze toward them.
Matthew made an exaggerated apologetic gesture.
"I did," Hermione hissed when they stopped by Harry's bed.
Hall flipped through the clipboard hanging beside the bed.
"Syrius Black, Auror…" began a mousey-haired intern, trying to sound informed.
"Yes, yes, I know," Hall interrupted her with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Mrs. Weasley, what day are we on?"
The interns turned to look at Hermione, who stood at the back.
"Day forty-nine," she replied. "We discontinued the sedative elixir fifteen days ago. By our estimates, the patient's body should now have enough strength to wake up, but…"
"Maintenance?" Hall asked.
"Echinacea and astragalus root," Hermione replied curtly.
"I'd add a few drops of cat's claw extract—it could help boost his immune system," Hall mused.
"We tried that last week," Hermione countered. "Cat's claw is highly addictive due to its anti-inflammatory and analgesic properties."
"True…" Hall removed his glasses and rubbed his face. "Still no clear indication of what spell hit him?"
Hermione couldn't shake the feeling that Harry was listening to every word.
"I consulted with the Auror office. They mentioned some form of ancient magic. I suspect the spell was designed to poison the blood, destroying the body from within…" Hall nodded and stepped back from the bed. A few interns scribbled furiously in their notebooks.
"Um… escin?" the mousy-haired intern ventured, looking nervously at Hall.
"It's not a matter of sealing veins, but purifying blood," Hermione cut in quickly. "My bigger concern is the slowed healing despite using elixirs based on colloidal silver. And at some point, we might run out of viable pain relief options. I've been alternating treatments to prevent the body from building resistance…"
"Then let's stop altogether," the intern interrupted, her voice bold. "It's possible excessive doses of painkillers are keeping him in this coma."
Hall raised his head sharply. "What's your name?"
"Lisa… Lisa Kramer," she answered, clearly pleased with herself.
"A good suggestion, Miss Kramer…" Hall waved his glasses in her direction and offered her a smile. "Hermione?"
"Wouldn't we be exposing the patient to unnecessary suffering?" Hermione asked sharply.
"You've said it yourself—we've tried too many approaches. You're rotating treatments to avoid resistance, but we can't even be sure he's in pain," Hall countered.
"I think…" Hermione began hesitantly.
"As Miss Kramer suggests," Hall interrupted, "let's reduce the regimen. Keep the echinacea and the silver. Add… perhaps a decoction of sarsaparilla root? Sarsaparilla might stimulate him enough to open his eyes."
"But…" Hermione tried to interject.
Hall shot her a cold look.
"Noted?" he asked curtly.
Hermione nodded silently, and the group moved toward the door.
"Oh dear," Matthew sighed quietly.

Matthew burst into the healers' office, shutting the door behind him with a theatrical sigh.
"I have to say something," he began. "First, the Old Man never second-guesses your decisions, especially not in front of the interns. And second—who the hell is Lisa Kramer?"
Hermione barely looked up from the thick tome she was reading, her brow furrowed. She shot him a less-than-friendly glare.
"Still holding onto that bad energy?" he teased.
She didn't answer.
Matthew sat down across from her, grabbed the plush dragon from the desk, and tossed it at her.
"Hey!" she snapped, catching it. "Not the dragon—it's a gift!"
"I could throw a book instead," he offered innocently.
Hermione shook her head, a reluctant twitch at the corner of her lips betraying her amusement. He had a point—Hermione was usually the department's golden child. Her decisions were rarely, if ever, questioned. Over the years, even senior healers had sought her advice.
"Speaking of decisions…" Matthew began slowly, flipping through Harry's chart. "You've been dosing him pretty heavily with those painkillers. Those are… strong doses, Hermione."
"Have you seen his chest?" she replied firmly. "It must hurt like hell. When they brought him in… that thing—it was trying to burrow into his heart…"
"We don't know if he's in pain," Matthew interrupted. "He hasn't exactly told us, has he?"
"I'm not going to torture my patient because he can't tell me," she shot back.
"Come on, Weasley, it's not torture… but you're sedating him. Sometimes, you have to shake things up. His wounds already look much better."
"You're free to treat your patients like guinea pigs," she snapped, crossing her arms.
"Jesus…" Matthew muttered, standing abruptly.
The room fell into an uncomfortable silence. Moments later, the door opened, and three interns entered, Lisa Kramer leading the way. The group fell silent as they crossed to a desk in the corner.
Hermione noticed Matthew staring at her.
"You're right, Mr. Madliner," she said loudly, her tone calm but firm enough for the interns to hear. "I hadn't considered that."
Matthew's lips twitched as if he were suppressing laughter.
"Actually," he replied, matching her volume, "I was hoping to consult with you about one of my patients."
Lisa Kramer's ears practically perked up as she strained to listen.
Hermione stood, her voice clipped. "I've got a moment. What is it?"
Matthew gestured for her to go first as they left the room. Once they were in the hallway, he smirked.
"So, who's the patient?" Hermione asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Uh, yeah… I don't have a gift for my sister yet, and it's already December 20th."
Hermione stopped in her tracks and threw her hands in mock surrender. "Ask Lisa Kramer. That's not in my job description," she said.

Later that afternoon, Hermione visited Harry's room. She reviewed his chart, noting Hall's changes to his treatment plan.
Of course, Harry wasn't just another patient to her. Every aspect of his care was meticulously analyzed; every dose of elixir, every potion, calculated and recalculated.
"You'd better wake up," she muttered, her voice filling the quiet room
The scars on his face had almost completely healed. Six weeks in the clinic had worked wonders, though the signs of his illness, his struggle, still lingered. Or perhaps she was the only one who saw them.
"I'm sorry—I didn't mean to interrupt…"
Hermione turned to see Jennifer standing in the doorway.
"It's fine," Hermione replied, stepping back and gesturing for her to come in. "I was just checking on him."
"How… how is he?" Jennifer asked hesitantly.
Jennifer didn't wear her struggles the way Harry did. She looked tired, perhaps, but healthy. She didn't carry the weight of a heavy secret.
"I wish I knew," Hermione admitted, attempting a smile. "No change."
"Right," Jennifer murmured.
They both stood by his bed in silence. Hermione took a deep breath. She knew she should leave, give Jennifer the space to be alone with him. But wasn't she the one who had known him since they were eleven?
"You visit him often," Hermione said finally.
"I'm probably the only one who does," Jennifer replied.
Lately, Jennifer had been there almost every day. Hermione couldn't decide whether to feel pity, admiration, or jealousy. Jennifer was likable, but there was something about her that unsettled Hermione. How much did Jennifer really know about who Harry was?
"Were you two close?" Hermione asked carefully.
"Were you?" Jennifer countered, her gaze sharp.
"Or… are you?"
Jennifer said nothing.
"Do you have kids?" Jennifer asked suddenly.
"What?" Hermione froze.
"The dragon in your pocket—it's winking," Jennifer said with a faint smile.
Hermione's blood ran cold. She'd forgotten about the plush dragon—a gift she'd brought for the twins a few doors down.
"No…" Hermione began slowly, adrenaline coursing through her veins. "It's… a gift from… my nephew. My… well... a two-year-old kid."
She forced a smile, though her stomach churned. You idiot, Hermione, she thought.
Harry, do you want a dragon from your son, the one you abandoned two years ago?
"It's cute," Jennifer said, her tone neutral.
"I have to go… get back to work," Hermione stammered.
"Of course," Jennifer said, nodding as she pulled up a chair. "I'll stay for a bit."
Hermione turned and left quickly, her heart pounding.

She had the unsettling sensation that the plush dragon was growing unbearably heavy in her pocket as she walked down the corridor. She struggled to steady her breathing. The dragon. Ginny. James. Harry. And Olivier Brown, The Daily Prophet editor - blissfully unaware of the tangled mess he was stepping into.
She hadn't thought of Harry as the father who abandoned his family for a long time now. Instead, she focused on saving lives, on keeping the secret from Ron that their old school friend was lying in one of the rooms at St. Mungo's. But in reality, all these threads were deeply intertwined.
She took a deep breath, but suddenly felt herself drenched in cold sweat.
Last night, she had dreamed of Harry again. This time, he had felt disturbingly real.
"Tell the truth," he had said in the dream.
At the very end, she had managed to grab his hand. She remembered its warmth.
"Aren't you supposed to have left by now?" Matthew passed her in the corridor, pausing to glance at her. "Hey, are you okay?"
"Yeah…" she muttered, brushing it off. "Just… felt a little faint."
"Do you need—want me to help you?"
"No… I'm fine now. Really."
He gave her a scrutinizing look.
"Go home," he said firmly.

There were days when she missed having a close friend. She never really had one and often imagined what it might be like to have a real girly best friend, someone who could hold all her secrets. The girls in the primary school she had attended as a child always kept their distance. She raised her hand too often in class, read books during breaks, and didn't fit in.
Her mum used to tell her that it would all change when she grew up—that things would be different.
At Hogwarts, she had missed having a close girlfriend too. But she had Harry and Ron, and later Ginny. There was always someone to share things with, someone who could offer her a kind word in the Gryffindor common room.
Now, though, a close friend would have been invaluable.

Instead of heading home, Hermione found herself on Oxford Street, right in the eye of the Christmas cyclone of madness. People bustled past with their packages and shopping bags, yelling into their phones, bumping into each other, and scrambling to hail cabs. There was a fragile kind of humanity in all of it.
If she hadn't gone to Hogwarts, would she have been one of those women sipping a vanilla latte at Starbucks, gossiping intently about office romances? Probably not. But, today she liked that thought.
Hermione sighed softly. London's humidity was beginning to turn into piercing cold. She decided it was her time and, with a dry crack, teleported home. No one even noticed she had disappeared.

The house was quiet, unusually and eerily quiet. She walked through the corridor, heading straight to the bedroom. Ron would probably come back later again, because pre-holiday times he always spent in the store.
"Hello…" she called loudly as she entered the bedroom. "There's… no one here… right?"
She flicked on the light with a few swift movements.
She was alone.