No Matter what, you will always be Ours

by BlackSwan130702

When she gets her letter to attend Hogwarts a year earlier than most Hermione feels hopeful for her future, excited to gain knowledge and skill and most importantly take her chance at true happiness. But is she all she appears to be on the surface, an orphaned muggle-born book-worm? And is her life nothing but a smoke screen for a sinister plot that wrecked the lives of many?

15. Chapter 13 - Adharia Apolline Delacour

Hey all you gorgeous individuals,

I can't even lie, my usual seven day process that I'd been nailing the past couple month's was slightly side tracked this week for a couple of reasons. Firstly I am still quite un well, the doctors are a little stumped on what is happening to me and as such have begun the process of playing around with my medications. (Process of elimination and all that jazz). but though necessary, it has been wholly unpleasant.

Secondly, this chapter was an absolute pleasure to write but was an absolute emotional rollercoaster and I have quite literally sobbed writing some of this so please, have tissues ready. I am also a big believer that the story writes the chapter not the author and as such each chapter has a very natural end. I always aim to keep writing until I reach that end and this chapter? well the end didn't come before 13875 word. I think that might be my longest chapter yet?

Thank you all for the comments, the feedback, the guesses and the love this week. I genuinely don't know how I got so lucky in gaining your light in my life, but I will eternally be grateful that little nineteen year old me stumbled upon this community all those years ago. You guy's keep me motivated and I hope you absolutely know how much of a blessing you all are to the world.

This chapter is pure emotion. But I promise you the ending of this chapter, I am besotted with and my wife- who has graciously been Beta reading for me say's this is the best chapter yet (High praise for my usually game addicted better half). So please enjoy!

As always, feedback, comments, queries are always welcome.

All my love - Nell xoxo

~Hermione's POV~

~Hogwarts Infirmary~

~Thursday 7th of September 1995~

When Hermione came to, it was a slow and disorienting affair. The remnants of potions she couldn't remember swallowing dulled her senses, leaving her mind sluggish and heavy. The room was quiet, save for the faint rustle of fabric and the distant clink of metal. The air smelled oddly of cinnamon and honey—comforting, yet unfamiliar. When she forced her eyes open, the light hit her iris like shards of glass, painful in its insistence as she squeezed them shut again. The bed beneath her was stiff, the sterile sheets scratchy against her skin and the pillow under her head felt too thin and uncomfortable. She should have known she'd end up back here. It was practically an annual occurrence at this point. But she'd expected her inevitable infirmary visit to come much later in the school year—not barely three days in.

Her mind waded through a thick fog, struggling to recall how she had gotten here. The soreness under her eyes and the raw ache in her chest whispered of something not right, something different. A shift in her very foundation that was pulling at her subconscious.

How did she get here?

Hermione hated not knowing what was happening around her—she hated the blank spaces in her mind where her usual sharp awareness should be. Whole pockets of information foggy and unclear. But the memories came only in fractured, incoherent flashes, tangled and blurred, as though viewed through frosted glass. The bitter aftertaste of a Sleeping Draught lingered on her tongue, muddling her thoughts further. And Hermione strained her mind, forcing the sluggish memories into some semblance of order.

Red robes. The Astronomy Tower. Cold then warmth, a presence—comforting but unknown.

Serious-faced Slytherins.

Dumbledore's ever-so-gentle, ever-so-false sympathy.

Ragnok, solemn and severe, holding a ceremonial dagger.

The blood tests!

Hermione flinched. And suddenly, it all came crashing back. The truth that had shattered everything she thought she knew. Her temporary respite shattered in an instant as her mind sprung to life, filling in the gaps that she had briefly overlooked. Reminding her that her life would never again be the same as it had. She could never unlearn the information she had garnered.

Their headmasters' words coming flooding back in as she lay on the hospital wing bed.

They didn't want you…. A disgrace to their lineage….

Her breath hitched, fingers curling into the sheets as those words echoed in her mind. Cold. Final. Unforgiving.

"Hush, I've got you." That same soothing voice from the tower cut through the fog before Hermione had a chance to spiral again. The words wrapped around her like a tether, grounding her before she even realized she needed it. Instinctively, her head turned toward the speaker, her movements slow and heavy, like wading through treacle.

The girl from before, the one that had found her in the Astronomy Tower.

Only—she looked different now. A little brighter. More relaxed. Hadn't the Auror's hair been brown not its current pale pink?

"Hi?" Hermione croaked, her voice raw and unsteady, her throat scraped from too many tears. She blinked hard, eyes scanning the stranger—except she didn't feel like a stranger at all. Her presence was natural, familiar in a way Hermione couldn't explain, as if she had always been meant to be here. There was no wrongness to her being at Hermione's bedside, no unease. Just warmth. Safety. A connection that hummed beneath her skin, deep and inexplicable.

The Auror's lips curled into something that was almost a smirk, though concern lingered in her sharp features. "Hi," she echoed, before wrinkling her nose at their surroundings. "I'm sorry you woke up in this wretched place. You were a little…" She paused, as if searching for the right word, her expression shifting into a delicate frown. "A little upset." Her lips pressed together like she was swallowing something bitter, something she didn't quite know how to say. Her voice was light, teasing even, but there was something else beneath it—something more concerned than the playful tone the witch was obviously trying to go for.

"Upset?" Hermione repeated, her tone dry and humorous. "I'm sure my throat feeling like sandpaper and my eyes-as if they have been stuck with needles was just me being a little upset." She rolled her eyes, but she found that her retort lacked its usual bite, sounding more like a quip than the self-depreciating jibe it had been intended as.

Dora chuckled, a warm rich sound that made something deep in Hermione's chest relax, making her feel as if she could breathe easy once more after years of restriction. The witch's hair shifted as she laughed-brightening, softening, changing – until it was no longer the muted colours she had worn up in the Tower but was now a vivid, playful pink. Hermione found that she much preferred the bright pink. The brown had been all wrong though Hermione couldn't understand why exactly she felt confident in that conclusion. Yet oddly enough she did. The pop of colour seemed to fit the witch much better, the effortless almost unconscious transformation felt right for this witch, as if she was never meant for dull or boring.

"Fair, love. I can't argue with that," Dora conceded, a teasing lilt in her voice. But then her expression shifted, softening, growing more serious. "But… on a more serious note we need to talk about your blood results…." Hermione stiffened. The momentary relief she'd felt, the fleeting sense of normalcy, evaporating in an instant.

"I… I don't know what happens now," she whispered before Dora could continue speaking, turning away, as if avoiding her gaze could somehow shield her from the painful truth of it all.

Dora sighed, but it wasn't frustrated or impatient—it was understanding, filled with a sympathy that only served to confuse the little brunette more. "I'd love to tell you that nothing has to change if you don't want it to, love," she murmured, voice gentler now. "But that'd be a lie." Hermione squeezed her eyes shut. "Your biological family has been searching for you for fourteen years," Dora continued, carefully measured, watching Hermione for any sign that she was pushing too hard.

"It'd be naive to think they aren't impatiently waiting for the first opportunity they can get to see you."

A heavy sigh escaped Hermione, and she rubbed clammy hands down her face, desperately searching for something—anything—that would make this feel less like a nightmare she couldn't wake from.

But instead of answering the Auror, something in her shifted. A creeping sense of unease prickled at the back of her mind, her thoughts catching up to what her instincts had so easily accepted. She didn't know this witch. She didn't know who she was, why she had been in the tower, why she had stayed. It didn't matter that Dora's presence felt natural, like a missing piece Hermione had never realized was missing. It didn't matter that, instinctively, she felt safer with her near than she had with anyone in a long time.

Because the truth was—she couldn't… no, shouldn't trust her.

Her expression hardened, eyes narrowing. "What are you doing here?" she asked, voice sharp with suspicion. "Why didn't you just leave me in the tower? Or leave me here with the Medi-witch after you brought me in?"

She watched Dora's every move, noting the subtle flinch at her accusatory tone. Hermione shouldn't care that she had hurt her. But she did.

"I…" Dora started, then hesitated. Her features flickered with something unreadable before she shook her head. "I don't know, honestly, Hermione. It's all a bit of a muddle." Her hair darkened to deep red as she waved a dismissive hand. "Maybe it's best we don't focus on that and just focus on your family."

No.

No, she was not doing this again.

Hermione had spent her entire life being lied to. Being orphaned, abandoned, manipulated. Forced to accept whatever half-truths the so-called adults deemed appropriate to share with her, feeding her meagre scraps of truths that never quite added up. She was done being kept in the dark, being told what she should focus on while the truth was dangled just out of reach.

"No," she snapped, her voice cold and sharp as glass.

Dora blinked, startled.

"I will not just focus on my family," Hermione sneered, her temper flaring hot, curling around her exhausted mind like a storm. "I deserve an explanation as to why you—an Auror I have never met—sat by my bedside for hours and think you have the right to speak about my family like you know what's going on with me." Her hands clenched at her sides, her body taut with frustration.

She refused to look away, refused to back down. Confrontation might not have been her default preferring to hide in the background, but she was done letting people decide what she did and didn't need to know from now on. And she was damn sure not letting this witch—who felt too much like something important—be another person who kept secrets from her.

The witch in question stared back, eyes flickering with something unreadable—conflicted, uncertain. But beneath it, Hermione saw the same reluctance, the same challenge she knew was reflected in her own gaze echoed back at her. For a long moment, neither of them moved, locked in a silent battle, neither willing to be the first to yield. Then, at last, Dora shut her eyes and tipped her head back with a long, measured breath. When she looked at Hermione again, something in her had softened—or maybe broken. The storm in her eyes was raw, unguarded in a way that made Hermione's stomach twist, wholly unprepared for the storm of emotion she could see in the older witch's gaze.

"Okay, love," she murmured, and for the first time, she sounded tired—far more so than seamed natural for the witch. "But at the very least, let me ask my mum to help explain things. She understands the magic at play here far better than I do." Hermione knew—knew—that Dora had only relented to placate her, but that didn't stop the wave of gratitude that swelled in her chest. Not that she had any intention of letting the Auror see it.

She nodded stiffly, watching as Dora lifted her wand to cast her patronus. A moment later, a beautiful, shimmering, ethereal wolf burst forth, light and magic given form. Hermione inhaled sharply, her irritation momentarily forgotten as the magnificent creature bounded across the infirmary in a graceful arc, its presence powerful in a way she could barely begin to describe. It completed a circuit of the room before padding back to Dora's side, pressing its head gently against her in greeting. Hermione had never seen a Patronus behave quite like that, with such affection. And then—it turned to her. For a second, she could only stare, frozen in place as the wolf approached, its luminous gaze meeting hers. Then, to her utter shock, it nudged her—softly, deliberately—rubbing its face against her shoulder as though she were familiar. As though it knew her. Something caught in her throat, too complex to name.

Dora sent it on its way after that, asking for her mother to come at her earliest convenience. There was something about the way she said it, formal yet playful, that made something clench in Hermione's heart. How wonderful must it feel to be so at ease with your mother? To know that a simple 'please come' would have your mother beside you without question. Would she be able to do the same? Would her mother's come to her whenever she called? Would they want her to call on them? And what of her sisters? Her Grandparent? Would they want her? Would she belong with them the way her peers did their families?

She barely had time to get lost in the thoughts buzzing around her mind before the Floo in Madame Pomfrey's office roared to life redirecting her attention, green flames spilling light through the glass window that separated the infirmary from the healer's office. A moment later, a figure stepped gracefully into the infirmary, moving with the kind of effortless grace and a presence that Hermione would recognize anywhere—because she had spent years trying to avoid the woman.

"You called, my girl?" The voice was rich, warm, affectionate and refined. Hermione's breath caught. Her gaze snapped to Dora, her mind stumbling over itself as realization crashed down on her like a landslide.

Dora was a Lestrange?

Lady Andromeda Lestrange came to stand beside the Auror—her daughter—placing a gentle hand on her forearm before pressing a tender kiss to Dora's left cheek in greeting. The gesture was simple, unremarkable even, yet it sent a sharp burst of longing through Hermione's chest. She watched as the tension bled from Dora's shoulders, her deep red hair shifting back to vivid pink as she instinctively leaned into her mother's touch. Hermione looked away, feeling out of place in a way she hadn't before. It was such a normal display of affection—comfort given; comfort received. And yet, for Hermione, it felt utterly foreign.

"Hermione, you know my mother, right?" Dora quipped, her teasing tone breaking the silence. Hermione's eyes snapped back to her, rolling slightly before she fixed the Auror with an unimpressed glare. Of course, the woman would find her humour again in the presence of her mother.

"Of course we know each other, don't we, little witch?" Andromeda answered smoothly, as though sensing Hermione's reluctance to respond. The older woman's voice carried an easy warmth, offering Hermione a moment's reprieve—a moment to collect herself after the whirlwind of revelations that had just been thrown her way.

"Though as lovely as it is to see you awake," Andromeda continued, tilting her head slightly, "why, exactly, have I been summoned?" Her sharp gaze flicked between Dora and Hermione. The younger witch hesitated, then turned to the Auror beside her. Dora, for her part, looked distinctly uncomfortable. She offered Hermione a sheepish smile before shifting her focus back to her mother.

"I was hoping you could explain to Hermione what is happening better than I could, Mum." She rubbed the back of her neck nervously, her ears tinging red and her cheeks flushing. "I… didn't want to get it wrong." She murmured and Hermione couldn't help but look at her curiously, wondering why she appeared so uneasy.

"Ahh," Andromeda exhaled knowingly, conjuring a chair and settling beside her daughter. Hermione watched as both Lestrange women sat with the same effortless poise, mirroring each other in a way that made it glaringly obvious that this wasn't some distant, estranged connection—this was family. Andromeda's expression softened as she turned her attention back to Hermione as if she could sense the direction her thoughts had gone.

"Being a Pureblood," she began, "is not, as many believe, simply about the 'purity' of one's blood. It is a choice—a way of life. A series of traditions and practices meant to strengthen bonds, deepen magic, and preserve what we call Family Magiks. It is through these traditions that Lady Magic herself bestows her blessings upon those willing to honour them. That is why many of us hold our heritage with such pride."

She paused, her lips pressing together briefly. "Of course, there are those who twist that ideology to fit their own agendas, but that is not what we will discuss today." Despite herself, Hermione found she couldn't look away. The woman spoke like a professor—light, informative, yet intriguing. Captivating her inner book worm wholeheartedly, keen to learn, to devour this bit of information.

"You," Andromeda continued, meeting Hermione's gaze directly, "are a Pureblood Veela. And with that comes gifts—gifts bestowed upon you by Lady Magic herself. I cannot explain everything to you, as the Veela are notoriously secretive about their nature, but what we must discuss today is what we refer to as the Veela bond." Hermione felt her stomach twist. "The concept of a soulmate exists for witches and wizards, but for a Veela, it is… different. Deeper. More absolute." Andromeda's voice was calm, measured, but Hermione could see the slight furrow in her brow, as if she were carefully choosing her words. "For ordinary witches and wizards, love can be found in many places, at different times. A person may fall in love with more than one person throughout their lifetime, and that love may shift or fade."

"A Veela, however, has only one true match. The other half of their soul. This bond is not bound by time—it can form at any point in a Veela's life. Some find their match early, others much later. You, my dear, fall into the former category." Hermione's mind reeled, struggling to keep up, dread forming in the pit of her stomach. Andromeda studied her closely. "I have suspected for some time that there was a link between you and my family," she admitted. "We discussed this years ago, did we not?" Hermione's breath caught even as she nodded at the older woman in confirmation. Her mind flitted back to her first year—recalling the strange conversation she'd had with this very woman in this very place. How could she have ever of forgotten that moment. Andromeda had spoken of protection, of feeling a need to watch over her, nurture her. Of not understanding why she felt so strongly for the muggle born. It was the night she had promised to be there for her.

She had dismissed it then. Not believing the witch or her false promises. She wanted to dismiss it now.

But she somehow knew she couldn't. Because as much as she resented being in this woman's presence… Andromeda had not been wrong about the pull between them. Some small, deeply buried part of Hermione had always felt a draw toward her. A quiet sense of safety that she couldn't ever explain and certainly resented herself for.

"Despite our tumultuous relationship, little witch," Andromeda said lightly, meaningfully, "the urge to protect you has never faded for me—no matter how many times you ignored or dismissed my attempts to know you." Hermione stiffened. There it was. Her tone was light and factual, but she could hear the quiet accusation and hurt hidden beneath the older woman's words. A pang of guilt settled in her stomach, simmering uncomfortably but she quickly shook her head, shoving the unwanted feeling down. She was not the one who had failed here. Andromeda Lestrange had promised to be there for her. And yet, during second year—when Hermione had been lying, quite literally petrified on a bed in the infirmary for months—the woman had not come. Not even once. Merely sending her baseless apologies through the schools resident Medi-witch. Hermione turned away from her, still listening, but acutely aware that her own magic was beginning to pulse within her veins, echoing the erratic rhythm of her heartbeat as she sat listening to the woman's words.

"When I was here earlier today.." Hermione snapped her head around to look at Andromeda once more, unable to hide the disbelief as it flashed across her face.

"I called her when I brought you to the infirmary," Dora admitted hesitantly, rubbing the back of her neck once more. "I remember Mum telling me about you before, and I figured… you'd want someone sort of familiar here while we figured out what had happened." She looked both hopeful and apologetic, her expression oddly reminiscent of a guilty pup trying to worm its way out of trouble. Her eyes were sheepish, sad and repentant all at once in a way that had the younger brunette deflating. Hermione sighed, some of her irritation unconsciously fading, the auror's look effective in dispelling the ire she had initially felt.

Hermione nodded at her hesitantly, before turning back to Andromeda. Though already her mind had begun to piece together the information the woman was giving her. She wasn't certain she wanted to know, but that part of her who had been lied to and kept in the dark for far too long, refused to back away from the truth.

Whatever it was, Hermione would survive it. She always did.

"When I arrived," Andromeda continued, "I saw the way my Nymphadora reacted to you—the way she protected you. And more importantly, the way you, even in sleep, sought out her hand. Clung to her." Hermione felt a strange sort of dread settle in her stomach. "I cannot confirm anything," Andromeda admitted, "not until you come into your inheritance, or I have spoken to your mothers. But if my suspicions are correct—and I am never wrong—" Hermione snorted before she could stop herself. Lady Lestrange sounded horribly like her nephew – Draco Malfoy as she spoke, her tone haughty and almost arrogant.

Draco often sounded as arrogant and self-assured as the older brunette did in that moment.

Surprisingly Lady Lestrange smiled warmly at her outburst. "Do tell what is so amusing to you young one?" She asked, raising an immaculate eyebrow at her and Hermione couldn't help but actively giggle this time.

Hermione clamped a hand over her mouth, stifling a laugh. A mixture between nervousness and true humour threatening to send her into hysteria. "You just… you sounded like Draco for a moment." Dora let out a snort of laughter joining the younger brunette in her amusement, her hair flashing through a series of bright colours before settling back into vivid pink.

Andromeda, to Hermione's surprise, smirked. "I shall try to curb that. I would hate to sound like my dear nephew—especially when he insists on acting so much like his tepid father." She quipped back and Hermione let out an actual laugh then, something warm and unexpected unfurling in her chest. All three witches momentarily lost in their own mirth. It had been a long time since Hermione had truly let herself laugh with anyone that wasn't Cho, and quietly it felt a little freeing. Something she would have to analyse later when she got a moment alone.

But all too soon, Andromeda's expression sobered. "Back on topic," she said, drawing their attention back to their previous discussion. All traces of humour bleeding from their faces. "If I am right… when the time comes for you to inherit your Veela nature, my Nymphadora is likely to be your true match." Hermione froze. Her heart beating loudly in her ears. She could tell the woman was waiting for her to respond, to react in some way to the revelation.

Truthfully Hermione didn't know how to react. She was only fourteen, Nymphadora was a fully fledged Auror, an adult. Let alone she had never even thought of dating or been attracted to anyone. Nor did she want to be. Not yet at least.

"I.." Hermione began, feeling a little bewildered, unsure how to respond.

"It's not like that," Dora interrupted, her voice firm, stopping Hermione's panic in its tracks. "I think Mum's right. I feel the bond between us. It's there for me. But it's not like that, not romantic at least." She repeated her tone decisive.

"And I should hope it isn't—at least, not yet," Andromeda said, her voice measured, but carrying the unmistakable weight of certainty. "Your mothers will be able to explain it in far greater detail than I, but understand this, little witch—Nymphadora being your true soulmate does not mean your fate has already been sealed into something you cannot control. Soulmates are not bound by the simplistic notions of romance that so many assume. Rather, it is much more than that, what this connection signifies is that your magic and Nymphadora's recognize one another, that you are tethered by forces beyond mere coincidence. Lady Magic, in her infinite wisdom, has deemed that you are meant to walk this path together, that you need each other. Your magic and Nymphadora's magic are the perfect balance to one another, as is your hearts. What that truly means, how it manifests with one another, is something that only the two of you can dictate."

She paused, allowing Hermione the space to absorb her words before continuing, her voice now tinged with a quiet reverence. "My educated guess however would be that any depth of romantic inclination, if it is meant to be, will not come into play until you are of age, until your magic fully awakens, and until you are both ready. Lady Magic would not twist or tarnish that which is meant to be pure. She would never allow something sacred to be corrupted by ill timing."

Despite herself, Hermione exhaled, some of the tightness in her chest loosening, though her mind remained a whirlwind of thoughts. The sheer enormity of it all—being Veela, having a soulmate, and the implications of what that meant—coupled with the monstrousness of finding out who her biological family are, that she may have been stolen was almost too much to take in at once. But at the very least, she had been given one certainty: the bond she supposedly shared with the auror would be what they made it, despite it being something she did not yet understand fully.

Even so, her innate hunger for knowledge refused to let the matter rest. Already, she was mentally cataloguing everything she would need to research—Lady Magic, soulmates, the Veela connection, the elusive and seemingly impenetrable principles of Family Magiks. There was too much she did not yet know, too many pieces still missing, and Hermione had never been one to settle for half-answers.

"Now, about your parents," Andromeda spoke again, changing topics to the one she considered most pressing, her voice uncharacteristically hesitant—a stark contrast to the usual impenetrable air she carried. It was rare to hear uncertainty from Lady Lestrange, and the shift in her tone only made Hermione's stomach twist tighter.

Hermione swallowed, her fingers curling into the blanket draped over her lap as she stared at her hands. She blinked repeatedly, as if trying to will herself into composure, but the words slipped out before she could stop them, raw and aching.

"I don't even know what to say to them," she whispered. "I mean... do they even want me?" Had she looked up, she would have seen the way both Lestrange women flinched, the quiet devastation that flickered across their faces. But she didn't. She kept her eyes trained on her hands, as if they might hold the answer she so desperately needed.

"Of course they want to see you," Andromeda said at once, her voice firm, though not unkind. "They have been outside this wing from the moment I informed them you were here. They would be in this room if not for Madame Pomfrey's strict orders and Nymphadora's insistence that them all being in here when you woke would be far too much for you after everything you have endured." Her tone one of absolute certainty.

Hermione exhaled sharply, pressing her lips together, something between relief and fear battling in her chest.

They were here. Right outside the door.

"You can't hide from them, Hermione," Dora murmured, her voice thick with understanding.

Hermione wanted to argue. Wanted to insist that she could, in fact, hide from them. That she would, if given the chance. If she still had the time-turner from last year, she might have used it—might have spun it back, seconds, minutes, hours, days—until she found a way to undo everything. To erase the inheritance test, to wipe this revelation from existence before it had the chance to crush her beneath its weight.

But she didn't have that luxury.

Her parents were waiting. And she wasn't sure she was ready.

How could she be? How did you prepare to meet the people who had given you life, only to lose you? The ones who had been waiting for years, searching, longing, hoping—while you had grown up believing they had never wanted you, that you had been discarded? Abandoned and forgotten about like a dirty little secret?

She clenched her hands in her lap, fingers curled so tightly into the fabric of her robes that her knuckles ached.

She didn't know what to say to them. Didn't know if she even could say anything. What if they were disappointed? What if she wasn't what they had imagined? What if they looked at her and saw nothing of the daughter they had lost—only a stranger wearing her name? What if they realised that she wasn't worth the heartache they had supposedly felt all these years?

A warm hand covered her own, steady and grounding. Hermione startled, glancing up through the tangled curtain of frizz that had fallen into her face. Andromeda Lestrange was watching her, gaze softer than Hermione had ever seen it.

"I can stay with you," the older witch offered, her voice quiet, careful. "Or Nymphadora can, while you meet them for the first time."

Hermione swallowed, her throat tight. She should say no. After all, hadn't this woman already proven that Hermione couldn't rely on her. She should tell them she could handle it by herself. Just like she had handled everything by herself. But the truth was, she wasn't sure she could. Not this time. Not when the weight of what was to come felt like it was crushing her from the inside out.

Andromeda's fingers tightened slightly around her own, an anchor. "I know this feels overwhelming," she murmured. "And I know you're afraid. But I promise you, little witch, you are wanted. You always have been." She hesitated, as though choosing her next words with care. "It is not my place to tell you your history, but I need you to understand this—you were so loved. Your family never stopped looking for you. Never stopped hoping to bring you home."

The words landed somewhere deep inside her, in a place she had kept locked away for years, where all the quiet longing and unspoken wishes of her childhood had been buried.

Wanted. Loved. It was all she had ever wanted to be.

Andromeda's words echoed Ragnok's from earlier, and despite the fear still clawing at her insides, despite the wariness she had always felt towards the older woman, Hermione found herself looking up, searching her face for any sign of dishonesty.

There was none.

Her breath shuddered as she exhaled, her fingers twitching slightly against Andromeda's. A moment later, she made her choice.

"Can you and Dora both stay?" The question was barely more than a whisper, fragile and uncertain, but it carried more weight than Hermione could comprehend. Because despite her hesitance towards this woman, despite her lack of knowledge regarding Dora and their bond, Hermione didn't have it in her to brave this one alone.

Andromeda's lips curled into a small, knowing smile, and something in her expression softened even further.

Dora, who had been quiet up until now, reached out, her grip firm and reassuring as she took Hermione's other hand. "I'll stay with you for an eternity, love," she promised, and her voice was warm, teasing—but beneath the jest, there was something unshakable. A vow. A promise, unspoken but no less weighted.

Hermione swallowed past the lump in her throat.

For the first time in longer than she could remember, despite the fear still thrumming beneath her skin, despite the uncertainty looming ahead—she didn't feel quite so alone. Maybe—just maybe—this wouldn't be as terrible as she feared.

"When you're ready, young one," Andromeda said gently, settling back in her chair, her presence a quiet reassurance, "I will bring them in." smiling gently as she settled back into her chair, content to watch over her family as the youngest among them took a moment to gather herself.

Hermione took a slow, steadying breath. Before nodding.

She could do this.

She had to.

~Narcissa Delacour's POV~

~Beauxbatons Carriage, Hogwarts Courtyard~

~Thursday 7th of September 1995~

Narcissa Delacour had once considered herself invincible, untouchable in her power, her wealth and her infallibility. She was the heiress of the House of Malfoy, after all. She and her twin brother – Lucius - had never known reason to fear those considered beneath them, nor had they ever had reason to question their superiority over others. Their father was a cruel man, but their mother—oh, their mother—had been the epitome of grace and light. A vision of perfection that, even now, Narcissa strove to emulate. Her mother had been the buffer needed between their father's cold cruelty and the children who had adored him. Shielding them from the worst of his torment. Yes, he had on occasion shown them care but her father like many Pure – Blood men had been swept up in the 'epidemic' that had been the influx of squib births and muggle – born children entering the wizarding world. Belvina Malfoy had been everything to Narcissa as a girl and she had hung off her mother's every word in lessons.

From the moment she could lift her head, her mother had taught her exactly what was expected of a scion of the Malfoy name. How to carry herself, how to command a room with a mere glance, how to wield power with a whisper rather than a shout. How to bring a Wizard down with magic and elegance that were passed from mother to daughter.

But all the training in the world had not prepared her for having her daughter so cruelly ripped from her. Nor had it prepared her for the loathing she couldn't help but feel towards herself for letting it happen. She had been the one at home, tending to their daughters while her wife was out working, providing for their family while working to better the international relationship's their ministry held. She had been the one entrusted with their safety. And yet, it was she who had failed them.

It was she that had failed to protect them from the monster that lingered in the night, failed to keep them safe.

It was she that had allowed Albus Dumbledore—though she hadn't known it was him at the time—to slip into her home, invade the sanctuary where her children had been born, and steal her youngest right from beneath her. He had murdered a loyal house-elf in cold blood, leaving behind nothing but an empty crib and devastation. The harm he had inflicted upon her family was irreparable, a wound that no amount of time could mend.

Her family had never once blamed her for Adharia's abduction. They never would. But Narcissa would forever carry the weight of her failure deep in her soul, the unbearable guilt of knowing she had not been there when her innocent little girl had needed her most drowned her most days. Scarring her heart with a wound so deep it had never healed. Nor would it.

They had exhausted every resource, again and again since the day their daughter had been stolen, chasing hope only to be met with dead ends and the painfully devastated looks on their other two daughters faces each time they had failed to find their sister. And with each disappointment, each tear her family shed, another piece of Narcissa's heart had shattered. What remained of it, she poured into the daughters still within her grasp—showering Fleur and Gabrielle with all the love, strength, and guidance she had left to give.

For fourteen years, she and her wife had done the only thing they could—survive- as best they could. Haunted by the memory of beautiful blue eyes they had never gotten the chance to truly know. Milestones and memories stolen from them. Each birthday, each Christmas that passed was another reminder of absence, another day spent mourning a loss they had never been able to escape.

Then her mother in law had called them to Hogwarts, an urgency in her tone that both witches had identified immediately.

She had spoken of a bond rekindled, of a certainty that their lost daughter was close—within the very walls of the castle where Narcissa herself had spent some of her happiest youthful days. And from the moment they arrived, neither she nor Apolline had been able to bring themselves to leave.

Olympe had graciously extended them sanctuary, offering the privacy of their daughter's wing within Beauxbatons' enchanted carriage. It was a small mercy, but an immense relief to know they would not be torn away from their girls. A greater relief still to know that, at long last, they would never again have to leave Britain without all of their children by their side—as it should have been from the very beginning.

Yet, even as hope flickered back to life, guilt followed swiftly in its wake.

Adharia was here. Alive. So close. And with that knowledge came a crushing fear that had lingered, unspoken, in the depths of Narcissa's heart for years.

What if their baby did not want to know them?

What if she blamed Narcissa for failing her?

What if she chose to remain apart from the family that had spent fourteen years shattered in her absence?

It was too much.

The moment she and Apolline were safely ensconced within the walls of their temporary bedroom within the carriage, the door closed tight behind them, Narcissa had crumbled. The elegant, impenetrable mask she had worn for decades—one sculpted from marble and honed by years of expectation—shattered beneath the weight of emotion she could no longer contain. Her mother would have been appalled, rolling in her grave at such an unseemly display, but for the first time in her life, Narcissa found she cared very little for her mother's ideas regarding propriety of an heiress' conduct.

Not now. Not here.

Here, within these walls, surrounded by the only person who had carried this unbearable grief alongside her, she was safe to break. Safe to grieve. Safe to feel.

Apolline said nothing—she didn't have to. She simply pulled her into her arms, holding her as she had so many times before, as if she could keep the pieces of her together through sheer force of will. And Narcissa let her.

They clung to one another in silence, their sobs muffled against silk and lace, their bodies trembling with the weight of years lost, of nights spent staring into the abyss of what-ifs, of aching, unanswered prayers. Fear gripped them still, but hope burned alongside it—an ember reignited after so many years of suffocating in the dark.

By morning, there was no time left for tears. Their carefully laid plans had been set into motion, and all they could do now was wait.

The waiting was agony.

While their daughters went off to class, the adults remained behind, pacing the carriage in restless silence. Every minute felt like an eternity, every breath laced with anticipation and dread.

Then evening came, and with it, the news they had all longed for and feared would never come in equal measure. Fleur and Gabrielle had returned, their eyes alight with certainty—they had found her. Their sister. Their Adharia. Narcissa's breath had caught in her throat, her heart slamming against her ribs as she took in the sheer conviction in her daughters' voices. They had known instantly. Had felt it in their bones, in their very magic. An insistent connection that had snapped out to meet hers the minute they had lain eyes on one another.

But joy was a fleeting thing.

Because as Fleur and Gabrielle recounted their encounter, the elation in the room gave way to something heavier, something far more fragile.

"She was terrified," Fleur whispered, her voice barely holding together. "Ari, She ran from us." Fleur's voice sounded so broken, so young in the moment that Narcissa was unwillingly taken back to that awful night when their daughter had been taken, and the broken whispered words of her darling eldest crying out for her little sister.

Gabrielle's lip trembled as she nodded, eyes glassy. "She looked at us as if we were strangers. As if we meant her harm."

Narcissa felt her heart crack, the sound of it deafening in her ears. Oh, darling what did they do to you, she thought brokenly.

Her baby. Her stolen child. The daughter she had dreamed of holding again—had longed to shower with love and protection—had looked upon her own sisters with fear. Had fled from them.

The image seared itself into Narcissa's mind, unrelenting in its cruelty.

This was her fault. No matter how many times Apolline whispered otherwise, no matter how many reassurances were offered—deep down, she knew.

She should have protected her. She should have found her sooner. Now, after years of searching, of waiting, of aching for this moment—her daughter was finally within reach and Narcissa had no idea how she could ever repay failing her.

However, Narcissa didn't have the luxury of wallowing in her own regrets, nor could she afford to be consumed by the storm of emotions threatening to pull her under. Not now. Not when, just beyond the door they stood behind, was her baby girl.

The daughter she had spent years searching for.

The daughter she had mourned, even as she clung to hope.

The daughter who had been stolen from her arms and had grown up a stranger to them all.

They had received word from an old friend—an unexpected ally. How Andromeda had gotten herself entangled in all of this, Narcissa neither knew nor particularly cared. None of it mattered. Not right now. Not when the only thing standing between her and her child was a single set of doors and the torturous passage of time.

So here they were. Waiting.

Apolline and Amilie paced the narrow stone corridor outside the infirmary, their movements restless, frantic. The tension in their shoulders, the tightness in their jaws, the sheer fire in their eyes—it was clear their inner Veela's were wide awake, prowling just beneath the surface, impatient and unwilling to be denied any longer.

Fleur and Gabrielle sat huddled together, fingers laced so tightly their knuckles had gone white. Neither had spoken in some time, each staring at separate, meaningless spots on the wall, their lips trembling as they fought to keep their emotions in check. It was an admirable attempt, but Narcissa saw the truth in their eyes. The fear. The hope. The agony of waiting and she longed to erase the heartache she knew they were feeling.

And Adharia—her mother-in-law—stood beside them all, an unmovable pillar of quiet strength. Her sharp gaze swept over the corridor in steady, watchful arcs, as though expecting some unseen threat to appear at any moment. Ever the warrior, ever the protector.

They had been here for hours.

Denied entry by Madame Pomfrey. Blocked by Andromeda's child—Nymphadora, the young Auror who had proven surprisingly steadfast in the face of Narcissa's icy glares.

"She needs time," the girl had said firmly, unwavering despite the sheer force of Narcissa's displeasure. "Waking up surrounded by strangers—family or not—isn't in Adharia's best interests."

Strangers.

The word had settled over them all like a curse, cutting deeper than Narcissa would ever admit aloud.

It had perturbed her greatly, the thought of anyone—anyone—denying her access to her own daughter after all this time. After years of aching for her, of wondering, of fearing the worst.

And yet…

Begrudgingly, she had accepted the Auror's words.

Because as much as it pained her, as much as it went against every instinct screaming at her to push past that door and reclaim her child—Narcissa knew that if she forced this, if she demanded what she had every right to—she might just drive her daughter further away.

And after everything, that was a risk she could not afford to take. No matter how painful it was.

Just as Narcissa could see the last threads of Apolline's patience fraying, the doors to the infirmary finally swung open with a quiet creak. The movement was small, almost hesitant, but it was enough to make all six women in the corridor freeze, their breath catching in collective anticipation.

And then, Andromeda stepped out.

For a brief, jarring moment, Narcissa felt as though she had been transported back in time—because standing before her, in the dim candlelight of the castle corridors, was Bellatrix.

The resemblance had always been there, of course. They were sisters, after all. But now, after all these years apart, it struck Narcissa in a way it never had before. The sharp lines of her face, the unmistakable Black features, the way her dark curls framed her face in a manner eerily similar to the way Bellatrix's once had. It was enough to send a phantom pain through her chest.

Memories stirred unbidden. Hogwarts, when they were young—when it had been the three of them: Bellatrix, and Narcissa, with a younger Andromeda in tow. Andromeda, ever the mischievous one, trailing after them, laughing too loudly, never quite as composed as she and Bellatrix were.

Narcissa had been overjoyed when Bellatrix's engagement to her twin had been announced. Thrilled that they would always remain close, bound by more than just friendship. They would be family. Even when it was clear that Bellatrix cared little for her fiancé, Narcissa had consoled herself with the thought that, at the very least, they would always have each other.

And they had.

For a time.

Until they didn't.

Bellatrix's imprisonment had been a wound Narcissa hadn't been prepared for, and Andromeda's marriage into the Lestrange family had only complicated matters further. The younger witch had drifted slightly from their once-tight-knit group, and after Bellatrix's incarceration, the distance between them had only grown. But even then, Andromeda had always been one of Narcissa's favourite people when they were young.

And now here she was—standing between Narcissa and her daughter.

"Adharia is awake," Andromeda began, her voice gentle but firm, her dark eyes sweeping over them all, "and she has agreed to meet you."

A sharp, collective inhale echoed through the corridor. Fleur and Gabrielle clutched each other's hands even tighter, Amilie and Apolline straightened with barely restrained urgency, and Narcissa—Narcissa felt her entire body go rigid, her heart hammering against her ribs.

They moved as one, the six of them surging forward without hesitation—only to be halted in their tracks by Andromeda's raised hand.

"She is terrified and exhausted and has been through entirely too much for one so young" she continued, her voice laced with an unmistakable edge of protectiveness. A protectiveness that did not go unnoticed. Narcissa's eyes flickered to Apolline instinctively, searching for confirmation that she wasn't imagining things. Her wife met her gaze, subtle but knowing, a silent message exchanged between them. She noticed it too.

"She has asked that Nymphadora, and I remain with her." Andromeda's tone left no room for argument, though there was a quiet sympathy in her expression.

Apolline nodded, her grip on Narcissa's hand tightening just slightly—silent reassurance, silent understanding. No words were needed between them; they had always been each other's anchor. Behind them, their daughters and Apolline's parents fell into step, moving as one. A family united, even in their uncertainty.

"Thank you, Andromeda, for being there for her," Apolline murmured, her voice gentle yet tinged with something deeper—something raw.

Gratitude, yes. But also, pain.

Because Andromeda had been there for their daughter when they hadn't.

Narcissa could feel it in her wife's posture, in the way her thumb absently traced patterns against her palm. She felt it in herself, too—a bitter mix of appreciation and resentment, not directed at Andromeda, but at the circumstances that had led them here.

It should have been them.

They should have been the ones to comfort her, to guide her, to protect her from the nightmares she had surely faced. Instead, they were strangers to her, and that knowledge settled like lead in Narcissa's stomach.

As they stepped into the room, Narcissa braced herself, though for what, she wasn't entirely sure.

She had envisioned this moment countless times over the years. Imagined a million different scenarios, each one playing out in her mind like a desperate plea to the universe. Would Adharia run to them? Would she cry? Would she recognize them on some instinctual level, the way a child always knew its mother?

But nothing—nothing—could have prepared her for what she saw.

A fragile-looking girl perched on the edge of the infirmary bed, her small frame rigid with tension, her fingers twisted into the fabric of the blanket draped over her lap. Wide, honey-brown eyes darted between them, shimmering with unshed tears, her breathing uneven—each inhale sharp, each exhale unsteady.

She was afraid.

No, terrified.

The fear clung to her like a second skin, so palpable that it sent a sharp ache through Narcissa's chest.

This wasn't how it was supposed to be.

Her baby girl—her Adharia—was supposed to feel safe with them, not look as though she were moments away from bolting.

And yet…

Even through the overwhelming wave of sorrow that threatened to consume her, Narcissa couldn't help but take in every detail of the girl before her. She was nothing like what Narcissa had imagined.

No Veela ice-blue eyes. No long, silken blonde hair.

Instead, warm brown irises stared back at her, framed by thick lashes, her wild chocolate curls cascading over her shoulders.

Glamour, her mind supplied.

Dumbledore had hidden her. Of course, he had. Veela genetics were unmistakable, a glaring beacon of identity. Unglamoured, even as an infant, Adharia would have stood out in a crowd. It made sense—too much sense—but that didn't ease the sharp, burning sense of betrayal curling in Narcissa's gut.

Her daughter had been stolen from her.

Hidden.

Raised without them.

And now, here she was—so close Narcissa could reach out and touch her yet feeling impossibly far away.

~Hermione's POV ~

~Hogwarts Infirmary~

~Thursday 7th September 1995~

As Andromeda left the room to bring in her long-lost family, Hermione's mind raced, a frantic drumbeat of fear and desperation pounding through her skull. Her eyes flickered toward the Floo, calculating the distance, assessing the likelihood of making it past the pure-blooded sentry stationed beside her. If she were fast enough—if she could just get there before the door opened—maybe she could disappear, just for a little while. Long enough to breathe. Long enough to pretend none of this was happening.

But then there was Dora.

Seated beside her, the older witch was unnervingly perceptive, her sharp gaze pinned to Hermione with quiet understanding. It was the look of someone who knew—who felt—the storm raging beneath Hermione's carefully constructed walls. Sympathy, yes, but also a kind of wary attentiveness, as if she were bracing for an explosion she couldn't stop but would be damned if she let Hermione face alone.

And maybe she was right to watch her so closely.

Because Hermione wasn't sure how much longer she could hold herself together.

Her fingers clenched into the blanket draped over her lap, knuckles white with the force of her grip. Her breath came shallow and uneven, a battle between control and panic. Every nerve in her body was on edge, every instinct screaming at her to run, to hide, to make herself small, unseen—just as she had done for so many years. Just as she had learned to do to survive.

But there was no hiding from this.

The sound of approaching footsteps echoed through the infirmary corridor, sharp and deliberate. Each click of a heel against the stone floor sent another jolt of terror racing through her, tightening around her throat like an invisible noose.

They were coming.

Her family was coming.

A family she had once convinced herself had never wanted her. A family she had resented in the quiet, lonely corners of her heart. And yet… something deep within her stirred at their approach. An invisible pull, a whisper of something ancient and inescapable. A bond.

It terrified her.

She didn't understand it, didn't trust it. It should have felt more, should have overwhelmed her senses like the warmth of a home she had never known. But instead, it was muted, distant—like reaching for something she wasn't entirely sure existed.

What if it wasn't real?

What if they weren't real?

What if they saw her and regretted ever searching for her?

What if they looked at her—this broken, battle-worn girl who had spent her life fighting for a place that never truly welcomed her—and decided she wasn't worth it after all?

She swallowed hard, forcing herself to meet Dora's gaze.

The other witch squeezed her hand, steady and unwavering, grounding her.

Whatever happened next, she wouldn't face it alone.

The only question was, when the door opened, would those who entered condemn her?

Or finally—finally—save her?

Just then, Andromeda stepped back into sight, her elegant features once more composed behind a carefully practiced mask. The only sign of emotion was the way her hands remained tightly clasped in front of her, as if restraining herself from reaching out.

But Hermione's gaze didn't linger on Andromeda.

Her breath hitched as her eyes locked on the figures behind her.

Two women led the way, hands intertwined in an unbreakable grip. One possessed eyes of an impossible ice blue, the other a stormy grey, both gazes fixed on her as if she were a miracle—a long-lost oasis in a desert of sorrow. Tears traced silent paths down their cheeks, yet they made no move to wipe them away.

They were breathtaking. Ethereal.

Were these her mothers'?

The thought struck her like lightning, sharp and searing. Magic surged in the air between them, reaching, grasping, desperate to bridge the gap. Hermione felt it—felt them—but the moment her own magic responded, something twisted, something recoiled. The bond, once straining toward them, dulled, receding into uncertainty. Like a frightened animal unsure whether to trust an outstretched hand.

Something was wrong.

An insistent voice screamed at the back of her mind, clawing for attention, warning her. But of what? Why did it feel as if something inside her was…misaligned? Fractured?

A shrill buzzing overtook her senses, drowning out everything else. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears, frantic and uneven. The walls of the infirmary—sterile, clinical, suffocating—began to close in, pressing against her chest, tightening like iron bands.

She couldn't breathe.

The air was too thick, too sharp, every inhale like swallowing glass. Her vision blurred at the edges.

She was going to die.

She was going to die right here, in front of them. Her long-lost family would have to watch as she suffocated under the weight of their reunion, under the ghosts of a life stolen from her.

Why couldn't she breathe?

Why couldn't she breathe?

Her vision swam, the entire room moving - tilting and twisting as if the world itself had been thrown off its axis. She had no control—no sense of safety—just the unbearable weight of panic crushing her chest with each desperate breath. Her hands, unsteady and desperate, clawed at her throat, fumbling with the stupid blue tie that felt like a noose tightening with every gasping, failing attempt to draw breath into her burning lungs. Her mouth opened and closed, a vain attempt to call for help. She was soundless, voiceless, drowning in the emptiness between each shallow inhale.

Help.

She tried to call out—to plead, to beg—but no words came. Her mind screamed, terror clawing through her skull. Her lungs screamed louder, raw with their demand for air.

And then—suddenly—hands. Firm, steady hands on her shoulders, anchoring her, their grip firm. Safe. A scent—warm, familiar, overwhelming in its comfort—wrapped around her senses, seeping into the cracks of her crumbling composure. It was home and safety and something else, something deeper, something she couldn't name. Her starved lungs spasmed, as she inhaled instinctively, the scent pulling her from the void like a rope tied around her soul. Her lungs greedy and desperate.

Cool fingers found her own, intertwining with her shaking, clammy hand, pressing her palm flat against a steady, unwavering heartbeat. "Breathe." The voice was low, gentle. A sanctuary in the storm. A command wrapped in kindness. Hermione's spinning mind latched onto it, desperate for something—anything—to ground her.

"That's it, baby, breathe." The voice - So sure. So warm. So certain. A shuddering gasp wrenched itself from her lips. Her lungs, finally remembering their purpose, fought their way back to a rhythm that no longer burned, one more practical and necessary. No longer suffocating.

And with each slow, measured breath, the world gradually stopped spinning, beginning to settle around her. The crushing weight on her chest began to lift, but the tears still flowed freely, warm streaks fell against her chilled skin. With great effort, Hermione forced herself to look up at the one who had pulled her back from the brink – her saviour. Sea-blue eyes, deep and endless, met hers—filled with something vast and real. Steady. Unshakable.

Golden hair cascaded over the soft green of the woman's dress robes, strands catching the light as if spun from the very sun itself. The cool fingers that had steadied her now traced feather-light over her cheek, that same hand guiding her forward, until their foreheads touched.

Hermione dared not move. Her chest still rose and fell unevenly, her body trembling with the aftershocks of panic, but she was held firm in that gaze, in the silent reassurance it carried.

"Well done, my girl. Just keep breathing with me." The words, a whisper against her cool skin, sent a strange, foreign sense of pride curling up her spine. She couldn't remember having ever felt any amount of pride directed at her. Let alone directed at her so softly, so genuinely. So, she complied. A breath in. A breath out. Her rhythm fell in sync with the woman in front of her, their hands still clasped over the steady, unyielding beat of her heart—thump, thump, thump—a quiet anchor in the storm.

Her magic, which had felt so very wild and frantic, pulsing with fear and confusion, now curled around her like a blanket on a crisp autumn night. For a moment, Hermione allowed herself to simply be. Nothing more. Her steadfast focus on her breathing. On the warmth emanating from the woman in front of her. On the soft, steady heartbeat beneath her palm,

As if sensing the way Hermione's breathing had evened out, the woman in front of her smiled—proud and warm, though something else lingered in her gaze. A sadness Hermione didn't understand, a grief that didn't belong to her yet settled deep in her bones all the same.

"I'm going to move out of your space now, my darling." The words were spoken with the same tenderness as before, but their meaning hit like a physical blow. Hermione blinked, sluggish in her comprehension.

Move away?

She nodded, though she wasn't sure she meant it. Her hands snapped back to her lap, pale fingers twisting into the soft fabric of the blanket draped over her legs, grasping at it as though it could anchor her. As though it could replace the steady heartbeat she had clung to only moments before.

With each step the woman took away from her, the warmth faded, replaced by a creeping, familiar uncertainty. The same gut-wrenching loneliness that had kept her company all her life slithered back in, curling around her ribs like iron chains.

Silence settled thick and heavy over the room. Nine people—nine strangers, though the word felt wrong—watched one another with unreadable expressions, the air between them charged with all that had been lost, all that had been stolen. A thousand agonized screams, a thousand tainted memories hovered between them, unspoken, unheard—unanswered.

Hermione swallowed hard, forcing herself to look at them, to truly see the family that had spent years searching for her. And Merlin, they were beautiful.

Unreal, almost. Ethereal in a way that made her feel small, out of place, wrong. Their fair hair and luminous skin seemed to glow in the dim lighting of the infirmary, a stark contrast to the wild, unruly curls that framed Hermione's face.

She looked down at her hands—freckled, pale but not nearly as fair as theirs.

She looked nothing like them.

The thought lodged itself in her chest, twisting cruelly, sharp as broken glass.

Her magic curled inward, retreating, cautious.

This was her family.

And yet, she had never felt more like an outsider in her entire life. It was as if the very air in the room were laced with a sense of otherness, a subtle but undeniable dissonance between her and them. Her magic, her features—they felt wrong, out of sync with the world she had always known. Their elegance, their grace, their effortless beauty—it was as though she didn't belong in their presence, as if she had stumbled into a world that wasn't meant for someone like her.

But despite the overwhelming certainty that something was amiss, Hermione's mind refused to make sense of it. The sharp clarity that had always been her greatest strength—her intellect, her ability to see through the fog of confusion—now spiralled into a whirlpool of half-formed thoughts. She grasped for answers, but they slipped away like water through her fingers, leaving her drowning in her own questions.

Then came the words—soft, barely above a whisper, but they sliced through the thick air around her, landing with a finality that made her heart skip a beat.

"We believe you have been deliberately Glamoured, your magic caged."

In the silence that followed, those words echoed in Hermione's mind like an explosion. They were so quiet, so gentle, yet they might as well have been shouted across the Quidditch pitch by Dean Thomas with one of his ridiculously loud magically-enhanced megaphones. Every syllable rang with a clarity so intense it nearly stunned her.

Glamoured. Caged.

She hadn't realized it until now, but the weight of it hit her like a physical blow. All this time, the magic that should have been hers, that should have felt like an extension of herself, had been locked away, smothered beneath layers of an illusion she hadn't even known existed.

And if her magic had been caged...

What else had they done to her? What else had she been denied?

It made sense in an obvious, instinctual sort of way—like a puzzle piece clicking into place, yet leaving behind a hollow sort of ache. Her magic, though calmer now, still stretched outward, reaching for something it knew should be there, only to recoil, confused and rejected. It was like grasping at the edges of a memory just out of reach, a truth hidden in plain sight that everyone else could see but her. The magic surrounding her family whispered of recognition, of belonging, yet hers remained muted, restrained—caged.

"When you're ready, we would like to remove the magic that has been used on you, little one." The voice was new, smooth and elegant, carrying with it an undeniable authority wrapped in warmth. Hermione's eyes flickered toward the speaker—an older woman, her beauty almost otherworldly in the stark sterility of the infirmary. Her long, silken blonde hair was carefully pinned back, accentuating the regal curve of her cheekbones and the sharp, delicate structure of her features. But it was her magic, the sheer presence of it, that sent a shiver down Hermione's spine. It was powerful. All-consuming. Intoxicating. It wrapped around the room, pressing against Hermione's own like a gentle but insistent whisper, coaxing, calling for something long denied.

Hermione swallowed, throat raw and unsteady. "Who are you?" she whispered, her voice barely more than a breath. The question felt almost ridiculous—surely, she should know—but her mind, exhausted, anxious, fractured, refused to make the connections it should.

The older woman chuckled softly, the sound like the flicker of warm candlelight in a dimly lit room. The tension in the air eased at once, her mere presence a balm to the unease thick in the space between them. "How silly of us, little one. Of course, with your magic caged, I can imagine the connections feel quite confusing for you, no?" Her voice, rich with understanding, held no judgment. Only patience. Her piercing ice-blue eyes searched Hermione's own, as if seeking to understand rather than assume.

"What do you feel, Hermione?"

It was Andromeda who spoke this time, her voice careful but purposeful. A prompt, a nudge toward something deeper. But the little brunette did not miss the wince—small, fleeting, but unmistakable—that passed through her birth family at the sound of the name she had known her entire life.

"I can feel everyone's magic." The words left her lips slowly, deliberately, as if speaking them aloud would make them easier to understand. Her eyes remained fixed on the stray thread protruding from the coarse blanket draped over her lap, fingers instinctively twisting the frayed edge between them. "But mine—it feels disconnected from everyone else's. Like it's reaching for something but… coming back confused. Like it knows something I don't."

The confession sat heavy in the air, unspoken emotions pressing in from all sides. But when she finally forced herself to look up, her gaze found Andromeda's steady brown eyes, warm and unwavering. And against all reason, Hermione sought something there—comfort, reassurance—something she wasn't sure she was allowed to feel.

Andromeda smiled. Small, genuine. A silent I've got you that settled some of the chaos within her. But then, with a barely perceptible nod, she gestured toward the rest of the room. A silent redirection.

Right.

Hermione blinked, hesitant, her pulse thrumming as she turned her attention back to the older woman who had first spoken. Who are you? she wanted to ask again, but the answer was already forming somewhere deep in her gut.

Ice-blue eyes met hers, filled with something that sent a shiver down Hermione's spine—understanding, sadness, an emotion too complex to name. "We thought as much, little one," the woman murmured, her voice soft but weighted with certainty. "But don't worry. We can fix that. If you allow it, for I fear we have a lot to discuss before you will allow us such a trust."

The words weren't meant to frighten her, nor were they an accusation, and yet, Hermione felt her breath hitch. If you allow it. Guilt twisted within her heart. Because despite agreeing to meet these people—despite knowing, in some distant, logical part of her mind, that they were her family—her body still screamed to run. Fear slithered through her ribs, coiling tight around her heart, whispering for her to keep her distance, to protect herself.

And the worst part? She knew why. Because trust meant lowering her defences.

Trust meant leaving herself open to the possibility of hurt.

And she had built her walls—impenetrable, unyielding—long ago. The day she had first found that Merlin-awful letter. The one that had convinced her, long before she was old enough to truly understand the implications of it, that she had meant nothing to her birth family. That they had discarded her. Forgotten her.

The letter that had taught her that she meant very little to the world. She was small. Insignificant. Forgettable.

"Why don't we all come and sit?" Andromeda's voice cut through the thick silence, a gentle but firm suggestion. She gestured toward a sitting area that had seemingly materialized within the infirmary at some point—unnoticed by all present, including Hermione.

"A wonderful idea, Andromeda," the woman who had calmed her earlier murmured, her voice carrying a lightness that felt ever so slightly forced. "Come now, little one, sit by us."

Hermione barely had a moment to react before the woman's cool hand found hers, grasping it with a gentle surety that sent a fresh wave of panic through her. Don't flinch. Don't pull away. But her fingers curled instinctively, fitting into the grasp offered to her, and despite the alarm bells screaming in her mind, the touch felt… safe. Steady. And so, against all logic, she allowed herself to be guided forward.

She was directed to a singular grey armchair, positioned close to a matching sofa. The two blondes, one of which had been her saviour—her mother's—settled onto the sofa closest to her, their hands still entwined, their movements hesitant yet purposeful. Fleur and Gabrielle—her sisters—sat beside them, their gazes heavy with an emotion Hermione couldn't yet face.

Their pain, their longing—it was too much. Too raw. Too overwhelming.

So, she dropped her gaze, fixing it on the armrest of her chair, fingers gripping the fabric there instead of meeting their eyes. Because she couldn't—not yet.

Not while she was still struggling to make sense of the chaos storming inside her own heart.

"Firstly, little one," the older woman spoke again, her voice warm yet carrying an undeniable command, drawing the attention of everyone in the room. "I am Amilie Delacour. Your Grandmama."

Hermione swallowed thickly, the word curling around her like something fragile and unfamiliar. Grandmama. A title that should have meant comfort, history, love—yet it felt foreign on her skin, a garment she hadn't yet decided if she could wear.

"To my left," Amilie continued, gesturing gracefully, "is your grandmother, Adharia."

Hermione's gaze shifted toward the woman now identified as her other grandmother. She was blonde as well, though her hair was darker than Amilie's, and her sharp, aristocratic features carried a presence that was undeniably commanding. She wore elegant ruby-red robes, a striking contrast against the more muted tones of the others. Her eyes—an unusual grey-green—were piercing, assessing Hermione with quiet intensity.

She was beautiful, but in a way that made Hermione's skin prickle. Something about her posture, the way she held herself like a queen prepared for war, sent an instinctive warning through Hermione's veins. It wasn't fear, exactly. More a knowing. A quiet understanding that this woman had fought for the things she held dear. That she would not hesitate to fight again.

Hermione tore her gaze away, pushing the thought aside. She had already humiliated herself in front of them once today—another panic attack, another moment of weakness, and she feared she might shatter completely.

Amilie continued. "Beside you is your Mother, Apolline. Our daughter."

Hermione blinked, her chest tightening as she traced the features of the woman sitting closest to her. Mother. The resemblance was undeniable—Apolline had the same striking sea-blue eyes as her Grandmama, the same elegant facial structure. Yet, the way she carried herself, the quiet strength in her poised shoulders, was eerily reminiscent of her other grandmother.

Her mother smiled at her—gently, steadily—and Hermione's breath caught in her throat. That was the same smile that had guided her back from the brink of panic. The same unwavering, quiet assurance that had anchored her when she was drowning.

Her mother.

A new wave of dizziness threatened to overtake her, but Hermione fought it down, gripping the armrests of her chair as if they were the only solid things in the world.

"And beside your mother," Amilie continued, softer now, "is your Mama, Narcissa."

Hermione exhaled shakily, turning her gaze to the woman who had been so silent, so still. The sharp, elegant angles of her cheekbones, the soft blonde hair, the way she sat—prim, contained, as if holding herself together by sheer will alone. Her dark blue robes were perfectly tailored, her pale hands clasped tightly in her lap, her entire being coiled as if she were bracing for something monumental.

And her eyes.

Hermione's breath hitched.

Her Mama's eyes were stormy grey, filled with a longing so raw, so desperate, that it carved itself into Hermione's very bones. Something inside her ached at the sight. It was a longing she recognized all too well—one she had spent years burying beneath books and logic and an unyielding determination to survive. It made her want to reach out, to grasp those pale hands, to offer something, anything—

But she didn't.

Her fingers only curled tighter around the fabric of her chair, nails pressing into the upholstery in a desperate attempt to anchor herself.

She turned back to Amilie, needing a reprieve, needing to look anywhere else before she did something irreversible.

"And I've been told you've already met your sisters," her Grandmama finished, her voice impossibly gentle. "Fleur and Gabrielle." The weight of guilt crashed over Hermione like a tidal wave.

Her sisters. Her sisters. The words reverberated in her head. The image of Gabrielle's heartbroken gaze as she had fled the classroom the day before, Fleur's pleading eyes as she had hesitantly asked for the bouillabaisse at yesterday's dinner and her sheer grief when Hermione once more fled from them.

She hesitated before allowing herself to meet their eyes again—Fleur's, shimmering with emotion, and Gabrielle's, wide and uncertain. Both so soft and hopeful in a way that made her want to run—because what if she couldn't be what they wanted? What if she couldn't be a sister, a daughter, a Delacour—? Hermione flinched, guilt twisting in her chest, coiling tight.

Her magic pulsed again—restless, relentless—coiling deep within her like a creature readying for war. It searched, yearned, seeking something just beyond reach. Her heart pounded in tandem with it, a wild, erratic rhythm, her very soul crying out—a desperate, aching kind of fear, a loneliness that had festered for far too long.

These were her sisters!

This was her family.

These were the people she had spent her entire life missing. Loving. Loathing. Believing they had abandoned her.

Yet here they sat—six figures, each impossibly beautiful, impossibly familiar—watching her with emotions that twisted like a blade in her chest. Hope. Longing. Pain. Each one a mirror of her own.

And still, her magic rebelled.

Despite the cage around it, despite the foreign weight pressing down on it, it fought—desperate to bridge the aching chasm that separated her from the people who should have been hers all along.

The magic in the room responded—reaching, brushing against her own in the smallest, gentlest of touches. Fleur and Gabrielle's magic curled playfully, tentatively, like sisters reaching out with cautious hands. The sheer, all-consuming presence of her grandparents' magic pressed around her, protective and vast. And her mothers'—warm and steady—wrapping around her like something safe. Something known.

But Hermione was muted—her magic caught in something unnatural, something wrong. The connection should have been seamless. Should have felt right. And yet, the barrier remained, dulling every touch, every brush, turning something that should have felt whole into something broken.

Her heart pounded harder, her mind spinning, racing toward a decision she needed to make, one she had to make— Because she could not exist like this.

She could not bear the muted, hollow ache in her chest. Could not stand the way the magic around her tried so valiantly to reach her—only to be denied.

She swallowed past the lump in her throat, fingers trembling as she clenched the armrest of her chair.

"Reverse the concealments," she whispered. "Please!" A plea. A prayer.

Tears welled in Hermione's eyes as she sought out her Grandmama's gaze, her entire being aching, pleading for the truth. For freedom. For something to finally make sense.

Amilie Delacour held her stare for an intense moment, something ancient and unyielding glimmering in her sea-blue eyes as she searched her youngest grandchild's gaze. Then, with a solemn nod, she rose to her feet, a wand appearing in her hand as though conjured from thin air. Her movements were deliberate—poised, confident—yet tinged with an almost imperceptible hesitance, as if she feared both the enormity of what she was about to do and the fragility of the girl before her.

"Inverse le tort, défais ce qui a été fait. Dame Magie, je t'invoque, aide notre sang à voir."

The words fell from her lips in a whisper, reverent and poised, a spell and a prayer intertwined. Hermione barely had a second to register the warmth in her voice before another joined her—Adharia, her other grandmother, her presence commanding yet equally tender. Their voices wove together like a harmony, their magic surging, growing, until it crackled like a brewing storm.

The effect was instantaneous.

Hermione gasped, her magical core—dormant, chained, muffled for so long—wrenched open with a force that stole her breath. A dam breaking, a tether snapping. Magic, she had never known she possessed uncoiled like a living thing, stretching and surging through her veins with an almost dizzying intensity. It was warmth and power and the undeniable, aching familiarity of home—a sensation she had never known but somehow recognized in her very bones.

Her skin rippled, a thousand invisible needles pricking her from head to toe, relentless and unyielding. A static hum filled her ears, rising to a fever pitch as the air around her shifted, warped—her hair lifting, whipping about as raw magic crackled through the room.

It was breathtaking. It was unbearable.

Hermione curled into herself, arms clutched tight around her body as she clung to the storm of magic wrapping around her, invading her, soothing and overwhelming all at once.

And then—

Nothing.

Silence.

The very air seemed to still, holding its breath alongside the room's occupants. All eyes were locked on the girl at the centre of it all, the girl who sat trembling in the infirmary bed, her chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven gasps.

The magic quieted. The spell settled. The room exhaled. Hermione stilled. Slowly, painstakingly slowly for the rest of the room's occupants she relaxed, uncoiling from her previous position.

Lady Magic had heard them and answered. And Hermione Granger—the girl she had been forced to be, the role she had been forced to play—was no more.

In her place sat someone new. Someone old. Someone whole.

Her breath came in sharp, unsteady gasps as she fought to comprehend the overwhelming reality of her transformation. The weight of centuries-old magic settled into her bones, as if every piece of her that had been severed had finally stitched itself back together. She lifted trembling hands, fingers brushing against unfamiliar softness—her hair, no longer a mess of curls, but cascading waves of spun gold, a perfect mirror of her mother's.

Her skin, once kissed by the sun, was now pale, luminous. Her features—delicate, refined—no longer the ones she had known. They were a perfect fusion of the two women who had given her life. And when she dared to lift her gaze, her tear-filled ice-blue eyes locked onto the identical pair that watched her with unguarded love and awe.

Amilie Delacour.

Her Grandmama.

The woman who had stood sentinel over her as the spell unravelled. The woman who had kept herself between Hermione and the rest of the room, as if shielding a treasure long-lost and newly found.

Hermione struggled to breathe, to exist, as magic swirled around her, alive and singing. She had spent her life feeling untethered, an anomaly in her own skin. But now? Now she could feel everything. Every thread of magic that bound her to the people before her. Each connection thrummed, familiar yet foreign, an aching reminder of all she had been denied.

Her gaze flickered back to Amilie—Our leader, our protector.

The silent voice, the ever-present whisper in the depths of her mind, had always been there. She had never understood it. Until now.

And when Amilie took a single step back, as if giving her space, Hermione had to fight the instinct to reach for her. To cling to the warmth, the safety, the love that had been absent for so long. Her chest tightened, aching with the unbearable urge to belong.

"Ari?"

The name—her name—was spoken like a prayer.

Fleur's voice was raw, hesitant, thick with emotion. Gabrielle was already on her feet beside her, wide-eyed and trembling.

"Ari, please."

It was enough.

Enough to break through the fear, the uncertainty, the walls Hermione had spent years constructing to keep the world at bay. Her breath hitched. Her magic surged. Her gaze snapped to Fleur's, then Gabrielle's—uncertain, desperate, searching.

Fleur moved first, her hand reaching forward, tentative, as if afraid the illusion might shatter. And Hermione—Ari—stopped resisting. She launched herself forward.

Fleur and Gabrielle met her halfway, and the space that had once divided them ceased to exist.

The collision was bone-crushing, fierce, desperate. They clung to one another, sobs wracking their bodies, fingers grasping at fabric, at skin, at proof that this was real. That they were together. That they had found their way back to each other. Their magic—long-suppressed, once-muted—burst to life around them. It danced, leaped, wove between them with wild, unrestrained joy, singing a melody only they could hear. A song of reunion. Of love. Of sisters.

And the adults in the room—the ones who had waited, hoped, suffered—could do nothing but watch. Their hearts ignited at the sight before them, an image they had longed for, prayed for, begged for, yet feared would never come to pass.

Tears slipped silently down their faces as they bore witness to a moment so profound, so impossibly fragile, that none dared to move, lest it shatter. Apolline and Amilie clung to their mates, their fingers gripping tightly as if holding themselves together. Their Veela's magic stirred in quiet harmony, wrapping around them, around all of them, adding to the unspoken vigil they had taken up.

By the door, standing apart yet ever-watchful, Nymphadora remained silent. She had not spoken throughout the entire ordeal, had barely breathed, unwilling to interrupt something so sacred. But her wand was drawn, steady, her stance firm and unyielding. She was a sentry, a shield between the fragile reunion unfolding before her and the cruel, unrelenting world outside. Her eyes, usually so mischievous, were bright with a happiness she had never before known.

Andromeda, too, smiled through damp lashes, her chest tightening as she bore witness to the daughter of her once-best friend finding her way home. The ancient magics that had been severed, betrayed, stolen, now reknit themselves between them, bridging the chasm that time and treachery had carved.

A family, once broken, was slowly but surely stitching itself back together.

And for the first time in over a decade, hope did not feel so impossible.