Friday, 15 April 1977 - 04:05 p.m. - Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

The familiar green flames died down behind her as Hermione stepped into her father's office at Hogwarts. It had barely changed since her last visit as a child—shelves lined high with books and trinkets, the portraits of previous headmasters resting against the stone walls.

Albus stood at his desk, pouring two cups of tea, when he looked up at her arrival. He noticed the dark circles under her eyes and the tension in her shoulders as she dusted off her robes.

"Are you sure you want to do this today, Minnie?" he asked. His voice was calm as he observed her.

Hermione exhaled slowly, taking a seat in one of the armchairs in front of his desk. "Yes, you know I need to do this," she said firmly, accepting a cup from him.

Albus sighed, leaning against the desk. He wished there was something he could do to help her. If he could take away her pain and bear it instead, he would do it in a heartbeat. Her eyes looked distanced, focused on something on the far side of his office. He knew she wasn't looking at anything, too deep in thought.

"Alastor told me that you asked Gideon and Fabian not to be present today," he said after watching her for a moment. "I thought you would have wanted Gideon to be here?"

She focused her eyes back on him, taking a slow sip of her tea. She hesitated, remembering her conversation with Gideon a few days ago. She swallowed hard, thinking about the understanding but disappointed look on his face.

He came to the manor in the evening after a long day at the office and found her fast asleep on a desk in the library. Various vials were placed around the little space between the stacks of parchment and open books. Even while she was sleeping, she had a crease on her forehead.

With Pippy's help, he managed to gently move her sleeping form to the sofa, placing her head in his lap. Pippy threw a blanket over the witch and quietly left the library. He slowly ran his fingers through her hair in a steady rhythm and picked up the book he had been reading the last time he had been there.

Hermione woke slowly, her surroundings coming back to her in little pieces. She first noticed the steady breathing of a person close to her and the rustle of turning pages in a book. Next was the warmth surrounding her, and she soon realised the fingers gently stroking her hair. She didn't need to open her eyes to know that it was him. His smell—pine and leather—engulfed her, and she noticed her head propped comfortably in his lap.

Looking back now, Hermione realised that it felt oddly normal to be this close to him. To have him stroke her hair while she slept with her head in his lap.

"How long have you been here?" she whispered with a cracked voice, startling him, and his hands stilled. She made no indication to move away from him and relaxed further against his side. His fingers resumed their task, and Hermione let out a soft sigh.

"About an hour, I think," he murmured, closing his book and putting it down on the small table next to him.

"Sorry about that." Her eyes were still closed, but one of her hands gestured to herself.

"I don't mind having a pretty bird in my lap," he chuckled, earning himself a huff from Hermione. He was pretty sure that if her eyes had been open, she would have been rolling them.

"You're incorrigible."

"Do you want to tell me what has you looking like a ghost?" He asked her after a moment of silence. If he noticed her body stiffen, he didn't comment on it. Instead, he waited for her to gather her thoughts.

Hermione hesitated. She wanted to tell him everything, but she should do so sitting up, and that meant losing his warmth and the calming motion of his fingers in her hair. With a deep sigh, she willed herself into an upright position. She was still close to him, but his arm was now lazily draped over the back of the sofa.

"I extracted the memories from the attack on me and my mother," she rushed out suddenly. He sucked in a breath, looking at her with worry. He didn't know how to respond to her at first. They never spoke about the attack in detail, and whenever she mentioned her mother, it was mostly a sweet memory or conversation they had.

"Why…" he started but took a deep breath to find the right words. "What made you do that?"

She let out a deep sigh and let her head fall against the back of the sofa, right onto his arm. "My father told me that Alastor and Kingsley had questions. They wanted to speak to me about the attack."

"I know about that part. Alastor told me and Fabian after they returned from Greece back in February," he said, confusion on his face. "So why would you extract your memories?"

"I thought it would be easier to show them," she said, trying to act unbothered by her offer.

He sat next to her for a while without speaking, thinking about what that meant for her. How difficult it was to extract memories and how the person had to live through the memories again to extract them. He hated the fact that she didn't come to him, that she didn't talk to him about it. That she hadn't asked him to be there for her. He hated it even more that it bothered him so much.

"I'm sorry, Gingersnap," she murmured, pulling him out of his thoughts. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you about it sooner."

"Don't apologise, Hermione," he said, followed by a bitter laugh. "You're under no obligation to tell me."

"That's not it!" She protested, panicked by the tone of his voice and laugh. "It's been so recent that I decided to do it. I needed time to…" She was desperate for him to understand that it had nothing to do with him. "I needed time to prepare myself, and then Easter wasn't the right moment to mention it either. And then you'd been so busy with work, and you came here so exhausted I didn't want to burden you further," she rambled on, wringing her hands nervously, not daring to look at him.

He watched her with sad eyes as the guilt settled in his stomach. She had just relived the attack that killed her mother, and here he was, making her feel bad about his insecurities. She had never made any indication that she didn't trust him. Quite the opposite, actually. He was pretty sure that of everyone in the Order, she trusted him the most.

"Sorry, Shortstuff." He was embarrassed about how he acted just moments ago. He bent his arm slightly and started stroking her hair again, and she finally turned her head a little to look at him. The worry was still present on her face, and he hated himself and his big mouth.

"Would you like me to be there when they view the memories?" He asked her after a moment. He studied her and added. "It's okay if you don't want me to be there. But if you wanted me to, I would."

Hermione knew he wasn't thrilled with her decision. She knew he wanted to be there. Not to view the memories, no. He wanted to be there for her. Her heart ached, thinking about him now, wondering if she made the right decision.

"No," she said softly, looking straight into his eyes. His fingers didn't stop moving through her hair, but the motion was slower now, more deliberate. She saw the flash of disappointment cross his eyes. "It's not because I don't want you there in general," she explained, watching him closely. "I don't want you to see. I can't…Gideon. It's not something I ever want you to go through."

His jaw tightened—just slightly.

"I understand," he said after a moment, voice quieter than before. "I truly do, Hermione. I just wish I could be there for you. I wish you would let me."

Hermione tried to push the thoughts of his face away from her mind. They had left the conversation at that, and Hermione had tried to tell herself that she made the right decision. That the ache in her chest was a burden she had to carry to protect him.

"I wish no one had to see those memories," she said suddenly to her father, who still waited for an explanation. "I wish those memories didn't exist in the first place. I didn't want him to go through that, Dad. It's bad enough that Alastor and Kingsley have to view it."

Albus had waited patiently for her to respond; he knew he had hit a nerve when her shoulders had stiffened even further and she retreated into her thoughts.

"I understand," he said. "I'm sorry I brought it up, Minnie. I just thought you would have wanted a grounding presence with you today."

"I have you for that, no?" she asked with a tired smile.

Albus' hand was warm on her shoulder, grounding her. But she couldn't shake the feeling that somewhere else, someone else had wanted to be her grounding too.

And she hadn't let him.

The sharp knock at the door pulled her back to the present. She inhaled sharply, her fingers curling slightly against the armrest.

This was it. No more delaying. No more second-guessing.

She straightened her back, pushed her loose curls over her shoulder, and exhaled one last time.

Then, without another word, she stood and followed her father to the door.

Friday, 15 April 1977 - 04:10 p.m. - Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

The heavy door to the office creaked open, revealing two figures. The first one to step inside was Alastor Moody—a wizard who looked as if he had stared war in the face and refused to flinch. His broad body was clad in a well-worn coat. Deep scars marred the side of his face and his hands. His eyes darted about the room quickly, presumably scanning for threats.

Behind him followed Kingsley Shacklebolt, a stark contrast to Alastor's restless personality. Hermione had heard little about him—less than even Alastor. She only knew that Gideon and Fabian had trained him years ago when he joined their department.

Kingsley moved with measured ease, his steps unhurried but deliberate. Where Moody was all sharp edges and tension, Kingsley was stillness and quiet strength. His dark eyes drifted calmly between Albus and Hermione, offering both a polite nod before settling beside his companion.

Moody's frown deepened as his gaze snapped to Hermione, raking over her with the scrutiny of a man trained to see weakness. His sharp eyes dragged over her face, her stance, her hands—reading her like a case file.

Hermione resisted the urge to shift under his stare. She knew better than to show discomfort in front of an Auror like Moody.

His sharp eyes lingered on her for a moment longer before he finally spoke.

"Imagine my surprise when Albus said you weren't just willing to speak to us—but that you'd let us view your memories as well," he said. His voice was rough, like gravel scraping against metal.

Hermione raised an eyebrow at his blunt statement, while Albus let out a deep sigh. Alastor was a good wizard and an even better Auror, but tact wasn't one of his better qualities.

"Forgive him," Kingsley said, offering Hermione his hand. "He doesn't have much patience for decorum." His grip was firm but not overbearing. "Kingsley Shacklebolt. It's good to meet you, Hermione."

"You as well, Mister Shaklebolt," she replied with a small smile before tilting her head towards Alastor. "Mister Moody."

"Thank you for joining us today," Albus said, gesturing for them to come further into his office.

"Too many unanswered questions for us to not follow this invitation," Moody scoffed, eyeing various objects around the office.

"I can only imagine," Hermione murmured, avoiding eye contact this time, her fingers fiddling with the sleeve of her dress. She herself had many unanswered questions, and she was present for the whole ordeal. "I hope my memories will answer some of those."

"Only one way to find out," Alastor said, glancing at the Pensieve placed near the wall of the office. "Will you be joining us, Albus?"

Albus let out a deep sigh, shaking his head with a solemn look in his eyes. "I'd rather not." He had thought it over, and while part of him was curious as to what had transpired that night, he could not stomach watching his daughter getting tortured and his wife being murdered. It was enough to have seen the aftermath back in February. There was no need to put himself through it. Alastor and Kingsley were more than competent to handle the memories themselves.

Hermione watched her father closely. He had never been one to overshare his feelings or emotions—he wasn't cold, no. He had always been a loving father. But he usually tried to sort through his feelings by himself. The only person he spoke freely to was Irene. She knew he missed her mother. Hermione always thought that their love was made for eternity, and she had always hoped to find love like theirs. She couldn't imagine what it must feel like to have it ripped away so suddenly. Hermione sometimes found him standing in the kitchen, looking out the window with a sad look in his eyes. She knew there was nothing she could do to bring her back. To bring his joy back.

"I'm sorry you'll have to see this," Hermione finally said, looking back to the two Aurors. "I wish this wasn't necessary."

Moody didn't respond, but he did eye her closely as she stepped towards the Pensieve. Her steps were firm and steady, her shoulders squared, and her eyes never left the stone basin. He wasn't sure how he expected her to act, but she didn't hold herself like a victim.No, she was a survivor. A warrior.

Alastor and Kingsley stepped closer to her, watching her quietly. Her fingers tightened around the clear vial she had produced from her robes. They could tell she willed herself to take a few deep breaths before uncorking it and pouring its contents into the Pensieve.

She hesitated a moment once it was empty, watching as her memories swirled around the cloudy, silver liquid. Her fingers traced the stone basin lightly before she cleared her throat and stepped back.

Alastor and Kingsley exchanged a glance before stepping closer to the Pensieve. The silvery liquid swirled and pulsed in slow waves. Hermione didn't realise she was holding her breath until Moody gave her a final look before he dipped his head into the liquid. Kingsley followed without hesitation.

Albus remained standing by the desk, his hands clasped loosely before him, staring at the Pensieve as if he was rethinking his denial of joining them. He forced himself to look away and studied his daughter instead. Her shoulders were tense, and her fingers were back to fiddling with her sleeve.

"I'm sorry, Ducky," he sighed after a moment. He hated himself for not being able to protect her and her mother in the first place. To watch her go through the whole ordeal twice was as if someone had ripped his heart out with bare hands.

"Whatever for, Dad?" She asked, tilting her head, confusion etched on her face. "Surely you don't think this is somehow your fault?"

She looked at him with sharp eyes, ready to argue that it wasn't, in fact, his fault. He rubbed a hand over his face, and his shoulders dropped slightly. "I know it wasn't my fault, Hermione." He locked eyes with her, and he could see the fire burning behind them, despite the anxiety that had spread through her body. "I… I just don't like seeing you like this—not being able to protect you."

Hermione let out a breath. She shouldn't have been surprised. "Some things just aren't in our control," she said, trying to ease his worries. She didn't believe those words herself, but that wasn't something she wanted to tell him. She wanted to take his worries away, just like he wants to take hers away.

"You know," a lazy, drawling voice broke through their conversation, "this is all rather dramatic, even for you, Albus."

Hermione looked up sharply to see Phineas Nigellus Black eyeing them from his frame.

"And to think," he continued, shifting in his chair, "I'd be left to my nap in peace, only to wake and find a dreadful cloud of gloom hanging in the room. A tragedy."

Hermione's brow twitched. "Would you prefer we take our trauma elsewhere, Phineas?"

Phineas smirked at her. "Oh, I wouldn't go that far. It is quite compelling, in its own way. But one does wonder—" he glanced meaningfully at Albus—"was it worth it?"

Her fingers clenched painfully in her lap. "Waswhatworth it?"

"The secrecy. The hiding. The pretending." He tilted his head slightly. "It seems, despite all your father's efforts, war found you anyway. Just as it did him."

His words struck them heavier than they should have. Hermione felt her heart tighten and watched the painting with sharp eyes. She met him before, when she was a child. He and the other portraits knew of her and the circumstances of her growing up in Greece. Due to her father being headmaster, they weren't able to tell anyone else of whatever was happening in his office. However, that didn't stop them—especially Phineas—from voicing their opinions out loud.

"War finds everyone, eventually," Hermione responded, ignoring the ache in her chest.

Phineas studied her for a long moment, then smiled. "That is true, I suppose. Though it tends to favour some families more than others."

"Like your own family?" Hermione snarled at him before she could stop herself. His words, however, slid under her skin, curling around the thought that haunted her in the quietest hours of the night. That her mother died for nothing.

Phineas chuckled. "Such fire."

Albus broke their back and forth, annoyance clear on his face. "You have always enjoyed riling up my daughter, Phineas," he said. "Perhaps this time, you might let it rest."

"I suspect you have quite enough to deal with already?" Phineas asked with a raised eyebrow and a smile tugging at his lips. With that, he leaned back in his chair, seemingly uninterested once more.

Hermione exhaled, turning away from the portrait. She remembered bantering with Phineas when she was just a child, though she didn't remember him being so… cruel.

She turned slightly towards the Pensieve, her stomach twisted, knowing exactly what Alastor and Kingsley were currently experiencing.

Friday, 15 April 1977 - 04:45 p.m. - Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

Hermione and Albus sat in tense silence, save for the occasional clink of porcelain against porcelain, drinking tea that neither truly enjoyed. The Pensieve continued to swirl and shimmer, holding memories that should never have existed.

Then—a shift. The surface of the Pensieve rippled.

Alastor emerged first—stone-faced, his sharp gaze harder than before. He couldn't mask the way his jaw clenched, his breathing heavier than usual.

A sharp gasp broke from Kingsley the moment he stumbled out. His earlier calm and composed expression was now pale and drawn. He tensed as he sucked in a slow breath, eyes flickering around the room. He looked as if he might speak but hesitated and instead gripped a nearby chair, holding himself upright.

Hermione placed her teacup down with an overly calm hand, her stomach twisting as she studied them.

What did you learn?She wanted to ask, but she couldn't find the words.

Alastor exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his face before speaking. "Hell of a thing," he muttered, casting Hermione a look—not of pity, but of understanding.

Kingsley swallowed, and his voice was quieter than before. "They certainly used blood magic to breach the wards."

"We were expecting them to be using the darkest form of magic there was, but…" Alastor ran a hand over his scarred face. "The wards came down so fast. There was no time."

He had seen a lot in his time as an Auror, especially in the past few years. The attacks of the Death Eaters increased with every month gone by. This, however, was different. He had never before seen memories of a home invasion—there were never any witnesses. The memories Hermione had provided started just before the wards were broken.

She sat at the wooden dining table, laughter in her voice as she spoke to Irene, who was finishing dinner in the kitchen. The home was modest, with limestone walls and old wooden beams. The windows were open, offering a perfect view of the sea and the sinking sun. Hermione was animated, gesturing as she recounted her day, her mother's soft chuckles threading through the love-filled home.

Within seconds, everything Hermione loved shattered to pieces.

Irene let out a soft gasp, her hand flying to her chest.

Before Hermione could ask her mother what was wrong—before either of them could make sense of it—the door flew off its hinges.

A gust of air, thick with magic, slammed into the room, sending parchment flying and knocking over the oil lamp on the table. Shadows moved swiftly through the doorway, dark figures stepping over the splintered wood.

The first spell struck Irene before she could even raise her wand.

Hermione barely had time to scream before she was hit too.

"I know," Hermione murmured, bringing Alastor back to the present. "My mother was keyed into the wards. She could feel a shift, a break, or a disturbance. It never," she faltered, taking a deep breath to collect her thoughts. "Normally, it would be a slight pull on her magic. This time, she actually looked in pain. They must have destroyed all the wards at the same time. They didn't have to dismantle them one by one."

Alastor had expected brutality, but this was something else entirely. Not just the violence of the attack, but the sheer, methodical nature of it. The speed. The precision. They hadn't hesitated.

Albus, who had been quietly observing up until now, turned his gaze towards the two Aurors. "Is there anyone we know among the Death Eaters that would have the skills for that?" He asked, his face scrunched in concentration. "Even when using blood magic, warding is highly complex magic. I don't think just anyone would be able to do that."

"Not many would be capable of that," Alastor muttered. His sharp eyes flicked to Albus. "Dolohov, maybe. Possibly Bellatrix. But it wasn't them in that room."

Hermione couldn't stop her eyes from looking up at the portrait of Phineas, thinking back to their previous conversation. He pretended to be asleep, but Hermione could see the frown on the former headmaster's face.

"They weren't masked," Kingsley explained. "I recognised Avery and Mulciber."

"That means that they aren't part of his inner circle," Alastor added. "They were expendable."

"But…" Albus stopped himself. Anger and relief clouding his mind. "Then they didn't know exactly who they were attacking."

Kingsley exhaled sharply, nodding. "We caught snippets of their conversation while you were—" He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "While you were unconscious. You wouldn't have heard most of it."

Hermione's body tensed. She didn't remember much between the curses that they hit her with. She had faded in and out of consciousness.

"From what we understand, they were young and organised, but a little reckless. They were instructed to kill anyone there and only mentioned a connection to Albus," Alastor stated. "If they knew who you were, they would have sent more experienced Death Eaters, and they would have been ordered to capture you. You'd be of more value to them alive."

Hermione shuddered at the mere implication of what that could mean. She didn't even want to ask him but couldn't stop herself. "You think it would have saved my mother's life if the Death Eaters knew who we were?"

"Honestly?" Kingsley's voice was gentle. "It wouldn't have made a difference. From what we've seen, your mother would have never let them have you without putting up a fight." He looked at her closely, watching the emotions flitter across her face. "If anything, it would have made her death more gruesome."

Hermione didn't know what to think. Her mind was spinning. She could believe his words, but if they were instructed to capture them, maybe she would have had more time. Maybe she could have saved her.

"Stop thinking that way, lass," Alastor huffs, watching her intensely. He can see the wheels turning in her head, and if she was anything like her father, he knew she was thinking about the what-ifs. "Tell me, Hermione, how did you feel after they knocked you over?"

Albus and Hermione looked at him curiously. Alastor wasn't known to bother with feelings and emotions, so his question had a different purpose.

"What do you mean?" She asked him, head tilting to the side, trying to think back to the moment. "I was knocked over the head from somewhere behind, and before I could react, I…" She halted. She remembered that feeling. She hadn't fallen unconscious; she was fully awake. The hit over her head had hurt, like a throbbing spreading from her head down over her body. There was something else—"I remember feeling a weight pressing against my chest. Like something was—was forcing me down. I wanted to use my magic, but I…" She trailed off, the realisation sinking in. "I couldn't."

Albus sat up straighter, his eyes sharpening. "Are you saying—"

Kingsley inhaled deeply. "That's what we were afraid of."

Hermione's pulse quickened. "What are you talking about?"

Kingsley and Alastor exchanged a brief look before Kingsley spoke. "When we reviewed the memory, something didn't add up. You were awake, fully conscious, but you didn't fight back—not even instinctively."

"We think they developed a device of sorts to render someone incapable of using magic," Alastor supplied before Hermione felt insulted by the implications of Kingsley's words.

"What?" Albus said sharply, sitting up. "That's not possible. Only the ministry should be able to bind someone's magic!"

Moody let out a sharp, humourless laugh. "And when have they ever followed the rules?"

"Before they left the house, they questioned one of the younger wizards on why he didn't kill you instantly, and he said he had orders to test something and wanted to enjoy torturing you before finishing you off," Kingsley explained.

Albus' fingers clenched around his chair's armrest. Hermione sat frozen, the weight of the revelation pressing down on her like a physical force.

She wasn't just a target.

She was an experiment.

"That can't be how it works," Hermione said suddenly.

"Why not?" Moody challenged, watching her closely.

Hermione's breathing was shallow, but her mind was racing. "Because I was able to cast magic on myself," she whispered.

Albus turned to her fully. "What do you mean?"

She swallowed hard. "During the torture—when my mind was trying to protect itself—I used magic to protect my mind and body." She exhaled sharply, forcing the words out. "I willed my body to mimic death."

Kingsley blinked. "You… what?"

"They thought I died during the torture," Hermione murmured. "It's why they left me. They didn't kill me outright because they thought they already had."

Alastor let out a low, impressed grunt. "Bloody hell." His gaze sharpened, and he sized Hermione up and down.

Albus, who recognised the look on his friend's face, straightened. "That is a conversation for another day," Albus said simply. "I will not have her endure more today."

Alastor frowned. "Albus—"

"Not today," Albus interrupted, his voice firm. "I think that was enough for the day. This conversation can wait."

Kingsley looked like he had a thousand questions, exhaled sharply, and nodded. "Understood."

Alastor huffed, but surprisingly, he didn't push further. Instead, he looked at Hermione with an appraising gaze. "You're a survivor, lass."

Hermione's throat tightened. "I didn't have a choice."

"You did," Alastor corrected, his voice uncharacteristically measured. "You chose to live."

Albus cleared his throat. "Thank you both for coming. You've given us much to think about."

Kingsley nodded. "We'll continue this soon."

"Next time, lass, you and I are going to have a chat about everything you know about that magic of yours." Alastor gave one last glance at Hermione before turning toward the door. "In return I'll train you."

Hermione simply nodded, unable to find her voice.

Kingsley gave her a gentler look before following him out.

As the door clicked shut, silence settled between Hermione and Albus. For a long moment, neither spoke.

Then, Albus let out a slow breath. "Are you all right?"

Hermione let her head fall back against the chair, closing her eyes.

"I'm not sure."

Friday, 15 April 1977 - 07:00 p.m. - Glenmoore Manor

It was slowly growing dark outside when Hermione stepped out of the Floo and into the quiet kitchen at the manor. After Alastor and Kingsley had left Hogwarts, she had stayed with her father for a while.

Instead of facing the emotional weight of the afternoon, they had spoken quietly about the school. Albus had told her about his busy schedule for the coming weeks, informing her that he wouldn't be home as much, but he would try his best to get away some weekends.

Albus had lingered near the fireplace after dinner, hesitant to let her leave, unable to come with her as the students would return from Easter break the following day.

"Are you sure you'll be all right?" His voice had been calm, but she could hear the doubt and guilt.

"I'll be fine, Dad." She had tried to reassure him. "I think today—even though it was difficult—helped answer some of my own questions."

He had studied her for a long moment, looking as if he wanted to say more.

"If you need me—" he had said instead, but Hermione had cut him off with a gentle wave of her hand.

"I know." Neither of them had been in a rush to discuss that afternoon. Hermione was glad she would have some time to sort through her thoughts.

Now she stood in her eerily quiet home, and she wasn't quite sure what to do with herself. The weight of this afternoon's revelations slowly seeped into her bones, her body aching all over. She could go straight to bed, curl up under the covers, and hope that the sleep would take away all of her pain.

Instead, without realising at first where she was going, her feet carried her outside.

The path to the little pond was one she could walk in her sleep. The sinking sun was dancing through the leaves of the elm tree, casting a golden glow over the water of the pond as her feet carried her to the headstone. Not even two months ago they had buried her, just the two of them.

Hermione wrapped her arms around herself, trying to hold herself together. The brave face she had put on for her father crumbled with each breath.

"Mum," she whispered, the word catching in her throat, and tears welled in her eyes.

She wasn't sure what she had come here to say.

That she had some answers? That it wasn't personal? That they were merely collateral damage? That it wasn't because they failed to hide her identity? That knowing the truth hadn't changed a thing?

She clenched her jaw, the tears now spilling freely over her cheeks, her fingers clenching tightly into her upper arms. She slowly sank to her knees, too tired to hold herself up any longer.

Hermione wasn't sure how long she had spent sitting in front of her mother's grave crying her heart out. She didn't feel the cold crawling into her body, and she didn't notice the sun dropping behind the trees.

She felt his presence before she heard him. She didn't turn around when his footsteps drew closer. She didn't look up when she felt the warmth of his body close to hers.

Her body tensed for a moment when she felt him crouch down to her level. She could feel his eyes burning into her body, checking her over to see if she was alright. Would she ever be?

He didn't say anything, and he didn't expect her to say anything either. Instead he let out a deep sigh and slowly brought his arm around her shoulders, pulling her to his side. She didn't stop him, and once the warmth of his body spread through her own, her body started to relax and her breathing calmed down.

Once her tears were dry and her mind less foggy, she acknowledged his presence. "Were you waiting for me?" She whispered, her voice rough from crying.

Gideon's grip on her tightened, pulling her even closer to his chest. "Of course I was."

They don't speak for a while after that. Hermione let herself feel his presence, grounding her and pulling her out of her thoughts. He didn't push her, and he didn't complain about their uncomfortable position in front of her mother's grave. He simply held her. Let her be her.

A shiver ran down her spine when her body caught up to the cold outside, despite Gideon's warm body pressed to hers. "Come inside," he said, noticing her shivering, pulling her gently up with him.

Instead of his arm around her shoulder, he took her small hand into his. Hermione didn't protest when he quietly led her back to the house. But for a moment, Hermione squeezed his hand tightly, and without missing a beat, he just squeezed back, pulling her a little closer.