In Two Minds

Hermione opened her eyes as the lift doors slid open with a quiet chime. She stepped forward, the world shifting around her in a way that felt seamless yet disjointed—like waking from a dream she couldn’t quite remember.

Waiting just outside was Mr. Vance, the same man who had greeted her that morning when she first arrived for her first day as a severed employee. The same man who had stood there every time her innie had tried to leave, meeting her again and again. 

He smiled politely, his posture as composed as ever. “One day down,” he said, his tone neither congratulatory nor dismissive, simply a statement of fact.

In his hands, he held a small bouquet of flowers—simple, elegant, nothing too extravagant. Along with them, a book, bound in deep green leather. Hermione hesitated before accepting them, her fingers brushing against the cool surface of the cover.

“From the Department,” Vance clarified, though she wasn’t sure if he meant the flowers, the book, or both.

She offered him a small, grateful smile. It was routine, she supposed. A gesture of goodwill. A way to smooth over the jarring transition, though it did little to settle the unease stirring in the back of her mind.

“Thank you,” she murmured, before bidding him goodbye and stepping away.

As she moved through the Ministry’s grand halls, the familiar hustle of departures surrounded her—heels clicking against polished floors, hushed conversations between colleagues, the occasional burst of laughter. It all felt normal, ordinary.

And yet, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was missing. Something just beyond her grasp.

She reached the designated Floo station, stepping into the emerald flames with practiced ease. The world blurred around her in a rush of green light and swirling heat, the sensation over in the blink of an eye.

When she stepped out, she was home.

Grimmauld Place.

The dimly lit hallway stretched before her, the scent of old parchment and polished wood wrapping around her like a worn-in cloak. The house exuded a certain heaviness, steeped in history, in whispered memories that clung to the walls. It was familiar. Comforting, in some ways.

And yet, as Hermione stood there, clutching the bouquet and book to her chest, she couldn’t shake the gnawing uncertainty in the pit of her stomach.

Had she made the right choice?

Before she could linger on the thought for too long, Ron’s voice cut through the quiet.

“So, how was it then?”

She looked up to see him standing in the doorway to the kitchen, arms crossed, a skeptical expression tugging at his freckled features. The warm glow of the fire behind him cast flickering shadows along the dark-paneled walls.

“Oh, don’t start,” she muttered, kicking off her heels with a sharp thud and moving toward the staircase. The plush carpet felt cool against her aching feet, but even that small relief did little to ease the tightness in her chest.

“I only asked how it was,” Ron called after her, throwing his hands up in mock surrender. His voice held a forced lightness, but she could hear the edge of concern beneath it.

“Oh, Ron,” another voice piped up, this time from the living room.

Ginny.

She emerged, barefoot and wearing a pair of old overalls spattered in white and pale blue paint, a roller still clutched in her hand. Her seven-month pregnancy bump stretched the fabric of her clothes to their limit, but if it bothered her, she gave no indication. Instead, she grinned and walked over, dabbing a smear of paint onto Ron’s nose before he could protest.

“Leave her alone,” she chided, her brown eyes twinkling with amusement. Then she turned, calling up the stairs after Hermione. “But seriously, how was it?”

Hermione didn’t answer.

She reached the top of the stairs, gripping the banister a little too tightly before making her way down the familiar corridor. The door to her room was slightly ajar, just as she had left it. She pushed it open and stepped inside, setting the flowers and book down on her bedside table with more force than necessary.

She let out a slow breath, willing her shoulders to relax, but it was useless. The day clung to her like an ill-fitting coat, and no matter how much she tried to shake it off, it refused to leave her.

Grimmauld Place had become home in ways she hadn’t expected. After the war, Harry had claimed ownership of the house, more out of necessity than sentimentality. When he and Ron had decided to forgo their final year at Hogwarts in favour of Auror training, they had moved in together, turning the old, creaking mansion into something livable. Ginny had followed a year after, once she had graduated, determined to rid the place of its gloom, throwing herself into renovation projects between her professional Quidditch matches.

That had been four years ago and she had only finished the few bedrooms they all occupied .

Now, with maternity leave keeping her grounded, Ginny had doubled down on her efforts, attacking the house with an arsenal of paintbrushes and colour swatches. And yet, despite her best attempts, Grimmauld Place still carried an air of somberness, a shadow of what it had once been.

Hermione had resisted moving in for as long as she could.

She had bounced from job to job, searching for something that fit—something that made her feel right again. She had tried potion mastery, healing, even teaching. But nothing had stuck. Nothing had felt like hers.

Eventually, her luck had run out. The rent notices had piled up, the ink growing bolder and more insistent with each letter, until there was no more room for excuses. She had clung to her independence for as long as she could, convinced that if she just tried harder, she would find something that felt right—a career, a home, a purpose. But after months of bouncing between jobs, of sleepless nights staring at her ceiling, of feeling like she was always one step behind where she was meant to be, she had finally caved to Ginny’s insistent offers.

Moving into Grimmauld Place had been a last resort.

It wasn’t that she didn’t love her friends—she did. They were family in every way that mattered. But living under the same roof as Ron? That had been harder to stomach.

They had given their relationship an honest shot after the war, both of them desperate to hold onto something steady after everything they had lost. At first, it had been… nice. Safe. She had done her best to get him interested in the things she loved—books, debates, the thrill of learning something new—and he had tried, really tried, to be the loving, attentive boyfriend he thought she needed. He brought her flowers, made her tea when she was stressed, sat through her long-winded explanations of magical theory with a patience that she knew didn’t come naturally to him.

But it hadn’t been enough.

As his Auror training intensified, as she flitted from one failed job to another, the distance between them had grown. Conversations became stilted, filled with awkward silences where easy laughter used to be. He had struggled to understand why she wasn’t happy, why she couldn’t just pick something and stick with it. And to be frank, she had begun to find him boring.

She hated herself for thinking it—Ron was kind, brave, loyal to a fault. But he didn’t challenge her, didn’t push her, and she found herself craving something more.

So, six months in, they had called it quits.

For the sake of Harry. For the sake of Ginny. For the sake of the friendship they had spent years building.

And now, years later, they lived under the same roof, orbiting around each other like old stars caught in the same gravitational pull—familiar, steady, and just a little bit tired. They had moved past the heartbreak, the awkward post-breakup hesitations, and the small, cutting arguments over things that no longer mattered. But there were still moments—small, fleeting moments—where the weight of what they had once tried to be lingered in the air between them.

Sometimes it was in the way he looked at her, like he was remembering something they had both let go of. Sometimes it was in the way she avoided his gaze when conversations turned too personal. Most of the time, though, it was just… unspoken. A quiet understanding that they had loved each other once, and that it hadn’t been enough.

Hermione sighed, turning toward the desk by her bedroom window. Stacked in uneven piles were copies of every major wizarding newspaper, their pages folded and creased from hours of study. Headlines about Severance were circled, scribbled on, dissected in the margins of her notebooks.

This was where she had found her purpose.

Investigative journalism had been an accident—one of Luna’s wild ideas that had somehow changed everything. She had only meant to help out with a few articles for The Quibbler, a favour for an old friend. But once she had started, she hadn’t been able to stop.

Article after article, stories pulled from whispers in Diagon Alley, tips from witches and wizards too afraid to speak publicly. Some had been picked up, others had never made it past the pages of her notebook.

Then came the breakthrough.

An exposé on the mistreatment of house-elves in one of the oldest and most powerful wizarding households. She had worked tirelessly, gathering statements, cross-referencing historical records, uncovering centuries of abuse hidden beneath layers of wealth and power. When The Daily Prophet picked up her story, she thought—finally. This was it. The moment her career would take off.

But one short meeting had dashed that hope.

“We’re not hiring full-time.”

The words had settled like lead in her stomach.

Oh, they had liked the article well enough—had even praised it for being “insightful” and “well-researched.” But it wasn’t front-page news. If she could bring them something groundbreaking, then they could have a serious conversation about giving her a proper journalism job.

She had left that meeting feeling as lost as ever.

And then, sitting in a quiet café with a lukewarm cup of tea, she had glanced at the newspaper left open on the table beside her. A single word in bold print had caught her eye.

Severance.

Harry had always been skeptical. He had warned her, more than once, that there was something darker at play—that this wasn’t just some bureaucratic experiment, but something far more insidious.

Hermione had brushed off his concerns at first. She had told herself it was just Harry’s post-war paranoia creeping in again. Ever since Voldemort’s fall, he had never stopped looking for the next enemy, the next hidden threat. He had always been like that, even before the war—suspicious of strangers, wary of things that didn’t quite add up. It was what made him a great Auror. But it also meant he struggled to trust that things could just be. That not every change was a conspiracy waiting to be unraveled.

So, for a long time, she hadn’t thought much of Severance.

Not until her name appeared.

Dolores Umbridge.

It had been a scandal when news broke of her release from Azkaban after only four years. They had all been furious. After everything she had done—the Muggle-born persecution, the blood quill punishments, her gleeful complicity in the horrors of the Ministry’s reign under Voldemort—four years had felt like a mockery of justice.

The official statement claimed that new evidence had emerged—evidence that suggested she hadn’t been entirely in control of her actions. That she had been compelled by forces beyond her power, manipulated like so many others. And so, just like that, she had been granted a full pardon.

Harry had spent hours in Shacklebolt’s office, arguing, pleading, demanding to know how they could let her walk free. But Shacklebolt had been firm—the decision was out of their hands. They would have to accept it, no matter how bitter it tasted.

And then, weeks later, came the real shock.

Dolores Umbridge had been appointed as the new Head of the Department of Mysteries.

That was when Hermione’s unease began.

The Department of Mysteries had been severed for nearly three years at that point. The official reasoning had been that the nature of their work was too sensitive, too high-risk. That severance would protect research from outside influence, prevent classified information from slipping through the cracks. And yet, now they were saying it needed stronger direction? That expansion was already in the works?

Why would a department that functioned in complete secrecy, cut off from the rest of the Ministry, need expansion? Why would it need someone like Umbridge in charge?

That was the moment Hermione had decided to dig deeper.

At first, it had been nothing more than a curiosity. A side project. She had told herself she wasn’t investigating for an article—this was just for her own peace of mind. But the deeper she went, the more the threads began to unravel.

Rumours.

Conspiracies.

Missing witches and wizards whose families swore they had never come home after undergoing severance. No records of them resigning, no letters, no explanations. Just… gone. Disappeared into the Ministry and never seen again.

Of course, there was no proof.

The identities of severed employees were kept highly confidential to prevent discrimination or external influence. The Ministry had safeguards, or so they claimed. But if these rumours were true—if people were disappearing and no one was asking questions—then this was bigger than just an internal restructuring.

This was a story.

A story that the Prophet wouldn’t be able to ignore.

And then, almost two years later, the job posting appeared.

Severed roles had been opening up across various departments, each of them as vague and tightly controlled as the last. But there was only one listing that mattered to her.

Junior Unspeakable - Department of Mysteries.

It was perfect.

She had known, from the moment she read it, that this was her way in.

The application process had been grueling. Lengthy exams, multiple rounds of interviews, psychological assessments designed to test her resilience, physical evaluations that pushed her to her limits.

But she had never doubted, not for a second, that she would succeed.

Her grades had been flawless. Her intellect, unmatched. There had never been any question that she would be the ideal candidate. And when the letter of acceptance finally arrived, she had stared at it, knowing exactly what it meant.

The long game had begun.

And there was no turning back now.

“So, remind me again,” Harry said, leaning casually against her doorway, arms crossed over his chest, “how exactly do you plan to bring down the Department of Mysteries’ evil plans when you won’t remember a single thing about them the moment you leave?”

Hermione rolled her eyes.

Harry looked older now—though only in the way responsibility ages a person, not time. At twenty-four, he was the youngest Senior Auror in Ministry history. The war had forced them all to grow up too fast, but Harry had never really stopped growing up too fast. His black hair was just as wild as ever, his glasses slightly smudged from the day’s work, and the faintest shadow of stubble darkened his jaw—an almost-beard he never seemed to fully commit to.

“You’re home early,” Hermione said, ignoring his question as she carefully placed the book and flowers on her desk.

“Yeah, well,” he sighed, pushing off the doorframe and stepping into the room, “my wife says I need to stop working until midnight every night now that the baby’s nearly here.” His voice softened slightly on the word wife, like he still wasn’t used to it. Like the idea of being married—of being this close to fatherhood—was something he still marveled at.

Hermione smiled despite herself. “She’s right, you know.”

Harry let out a small chuckle and sat on the edge of her bed, running a hand through his hair before fixing her with a more serious look. “Really though, Hermione… how was it?”

She exhaled, sitting down next to him, letting herself sink into the mattress. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “But I suppose that’s the point.”

Harry frowned.

“I remember arriving,” she continued, thinking back. “We went through the usual formalities—start times, finish times, pay. Basic stuff. Then they had me read a statement from a card. They said they’d show me the memory…” she hesitated, choosing her words carefully. “They’d show her. The other me. When I woke up down there.”

Harry’s jaw tightened, but he stayed quiet, letting her speak.

“And then they took me to do the ritual,” she finished, glancing at him.

Harry’s expression was unreadable at first, his lips pressing into a thin line as he rubbed a hand over his face. Eventually, he sighed. “And how was it?” he asked, his voice quieter now, measured.

Hermione hesitated, searching for the right words.

“It was… simple,” she said finally, though even as she said it, she wasn’t sure if that was true. “I mean… I don’t really remember. I suppose the split must have started straight away because the next thing I do remember, I was already in the lifts.”

Harry’s brows furrowed. “That was it? You blinked, and suddenly it was the end of the day?”

“Not exactly,” she admitted, shifting slightly on the bed. “One of the managers there—Mr. Vance—he told me that sometimes the innies have a hard time coming to terms with their reality. That they get… disoriented. They ask to leave. And this was their way of explaining that they…” She hesitated. “That we—the innies—can’t leave.”

Harry’s frown deepened. “So what does that mean? You were confused? You asked to leave?”

Hermione gave a small, humorless laugh. “Apparently, I did it three or four times.”

Harry let out a short chuckle, shaking his head. “Nice to know your innie is just as stubborn as you.”

“Oh, shut up,” she said, shoving him lightly.

He grinned, but it faded quickly. “And then what?”

“And then I blinked again,” Hermione said, “and it was the end of the day.”

Silence settled between them. Harry studied her carefully, his sharp green eyes assessing, searching for something beneath the surface.

“And you’re still sure about this?” he asked at last.

“Yes,” she said immediately.

He didn’t look convinced.

“Hermione…” He shifted, turning to face her more fully. “I know you don’t trust me on this. But you do trust your own instincts. And something about this has to feel wrong to you.”

She exhaled slowly. “I had to do it, Harry.”

“Did you?”

“Yes,” she said firmly. “It’s the only way I’ll ever find out the truth.”

Harry’s jaw tightened. “And I was being serious before, Hermione. How do you intend to learn anything when you don’t remember your time down there? You’ve cut yourself in half. You’re fighting a battle with no weapons.”

She lifted her chin. “I’ll find a way.”

He let out a slow breath, dragging a hand through his hair again. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

Hermione smirked. “So I’ve been told.”

Harry shook his head, a reluctant smile tugging at the corner of his lips. But his amusement didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Just… be careful, okay?” he said, voice softer now.

“I will,” she promised.

But they both knew it was a promise neither of them could be sure she’d keep.

As soon as Harry left, Hermione exhaled slowly, running a hand through her curls before turning to her desk. The scattered newspapers, ink-stained notes, and half-filled journals stared back at her, a reminder of why she had done this in the first place. Without wasting another second, she grabbed her quill and began writing.

She documented everything—every fleeting impression, every tiny detail she could recall from her first day. The ritual, the statement, the way she had blinked and found herself at the end of the day. The strange feeling of disconnect, like something slipping through her fingers. The way her innie had refused to accept her new reality.

She wrote with urgency, knowing that the longer she waited, the more the details would blur.

More than that, she wrote because she didn’t want to think.

She didn’t want to hear Ginny calling from down the hall, eager to rope her into another discussion about baby names—conversations that inevitably led to Ginny turning the topic back to Hermione’s own lackluster love life. She didn’t want to deal with Ron’s judgmental looks at the dinner table, or his barely-contained frustration whenever the topic of her new job came up.

“You’re being reckless, Hermione.”
“You don’t even know what you’re getting yourself into.”
“What if something goes wrong? What if you don’t come back?”

She knew they meant well. But they didn’t understand.

She needed this investigation. She needed something to chase, something to matter. Because for too long, she had felt untethered, drifting from one thing to the next, never quite finding her place.

Time slipped away from her. She only noticed when she glanced at the clock and realised it was just past midnight. With a groan, she set her quill down and stretched, her muscles stiff from sitting so long. The house was quiet now—finally. It meant she could slip downstairs, grab something to eat, and head to bed without the risk of another exhausting conversation.

Pushing back her chair, she stood and padded softly toward the door, the wooden floor cool beneath her feet. The house creaked around her, settling into the stillness of the night.

And then, just as she reached the top of the stairs, she froze.

There was movement in the kitchen. A shadow passing by a dim light filtering through the hallway.

Someone was still awake.

Hermione hesitated, her fingers tightening around the wooden railing. She could still turn back, retreat to the safety of her room and avoid yet another conversation she wasn’t ready for. But then her stomach let out a low, impatient grumble, reminding her of how little she’d eaten that day. With a sigh, she pushed forward, descending the stairs as quietly as she could.

The house was wrapped in silence, save for the occasional groan of shifting wood, the kind of sounds one only noticed in the dead of night. She stepped carefully, keeping to the edges of the steps to avoid the ones that creaked. By the time she reached the kitchen, the only source of illumination came from the dim glow of the open refrigerator door.

Ginny stood in front of it, her silhouette outlined by the soft light, her rounded belly casting a shadow across the worn kitchen tiles. She was barefoot, dressed in an old Holyhead Harpies T-shirt stretched over her bump and a pair of Harry’s sweatpants rolled up at the ankles. In one hand, she held a glass bottle of juice, half-raised to her lips, while the other idly rested on her stomach.

Hermione took another step forward, and the old wooden floor betrayed her with a loud creak.

Ginny jumped violently, her fingers slipping. The bottle crashed to the floor, the sound of shattering glass slicing through the quiet.

“Merlin’s bloody beard, Hermione!” Ginny spun around, one hand pressed over her heart. “Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”

Hermione winced. “Sorry! I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Ginny exhaled sharply, muttering something under her breath before flicking her wand at the mess. The glass shards and juice cleaning themselves up in an instant.

“For someone who used to go on and on about not being built for combat back at Hogwarts, you sure have a knack for sneaking up on people like a bloody assassin,” Ginny muttered, shaking her head.

Hermione huffed out a small laugh. “Maybe I’ve just been spending too much time around Harry.”

Ginny smirked. “That’s a terrifying thought.” She turned back to the fridge, rummaging through its contents before pulling out another bottle and holding it up. “Juice?”

Hermione nodded, and Ginny tossed the bottle to her with an effortless underhand throw. She caught it with one hand, twisting off the cap and taking a sip. The cold, tart flavour of pumpkin hit her tongue, crisp and refreshing after hours spent hunched over her notes.

She swallowed and eyed Ginny skeptically. "How much of this have you been drinking?" she asked, tilting the bottle slightly in emphasis. "You know it can bring on early—"

"Please," Ginny groaned, cutting her off before she could finish. "Do not start being my Healer too. I get enough of that from Harry with his 'Ginny, you can’t have this' and 'Ginny, you can’t do that.' And then my mother is the complete opposite, telling me all the horrifically vile things I should be having because her great-aunt’s cousin’s friend swore it would stop my ankles from swelling.”

Hermione snorted, laughing at the sheer exasperation in Ginny’s voice.

“I mean, really,” Ginny went on, throwing her arms up. “The other day, she tried to get me to drink liver and nettle tea—can you imagine? Liver in tea? And then Harry nearly had a breakdown because I had half a cup of coffee yesterday, and you’d think I’d personally cursed our child. Meanwhile, Ron keeps asking me if I feel different, like I’m about to lay an egg or something. I swear, if I have to hear one more person tell me what I should or should not be eating, I might actually hex someone.”

Hermione bit down on her lip to stifle another laugh. “Well, if it helps, I think you’re entirely capable of making your own decisions.”

Ginny shot her a flat look. “Damn right, I am.” She took a dramatic sip, as if daring the universe itself to stop her. Then, setting the bottle down on the counter, she pointed at Hermione. “I am pregnant. My husband snores like a troll in a tunnel. My back hurts. I haven’t slept properly in weeks. And right now? I want pumpkin juice. So I will have pumpkin juice.”

Hermione held up her hands in surrender, still grinning. “Far be it from me to stand between a woman and her beverage of choice.”

“Good,” Ginny huffed, taking another victorious gulp.

Shaking her head, Hermione leaned back against the counter, letting the comfortable silence settle between them. Ginny’s dramatic flair was nothing new, but there was something reassuring about it, something grounding.

For the first time since she’d stepped out of the lifts earlier that evening, Hermione felt something close to normal.

Ginny leaned against the counter next to her, watching her carefully. “So… you survived your first day.”

Hermione swallowed and nodded. “Seems that way.”

Ginny arched an eyebrow. “And? How do you feel about it?”

Hermione hesitated. The truth was, she didn’t know. Or maybe she did, but she didn’t have the words for it yet. The entire experience had been… disorienting. Like stepping into a dream and waking up without knowing what had happened in between.

So instead, she settled for, “Tired.”

Ginny studied her for a long moment before sighing. “Yeah. That tracks.” She reached for a plate of leftover biscuits on the counter and nudged them toward Hermione. “Eat something. You look like you haven’t had a proper meal all day.”

Hermione didn’t argue. She grabbed one and took a bite, chewing slowly as silence settled between them.

Finally, Ginny spoke again, her voice softer now. “You know, Ron’s just worried about you.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Ron thinks everything I do is stupid.”

Ginny snorted. “That’s not entirely true.”

Hermione shot her a look.

“Okay, mostly true,” Ginny amended with a grin. “But this is different. You know he’s not the best at saying things the way he means them. He’s not mad at you, Hermione. He’s scared. We all are.”

Ginny watched her closely, searching her face for any sign of hurt or disappointment. Hermione, however, only continued to absently crumble the edge of her biscuit between her fingers, her expression unreadable.

“I know,” Hermione admitted finally, shaking off whatever thoughts had momentarily caught hold of her. “But this is something I have to do.”

Ginny hesitated for a moment, then exhaled. “There’s… something else I wanted to talk to you about,” she said, carefully choosing her words. “Harry said to wait because of everything today, but I…” She trailed off, uncertain.

Hermione looked up, brow furrowing. “Ginny, what is it?”

Ginny bit her lip, clearly debating whether or not to say it. But she must have decided there was no point in dragging it out, because after a beat, she sighed and said simply, “It’s Ron.”

Hermione’s stomach twisted instinctively. “What about Ron?”

“He’s… been seeing someone.”

Hermione blinked. Of all the things she had expected, that wasn’t one of them. “Oh.” A pause. “Who?”

Ginny hesitated again, rubbing her thumb along the condensation of her pumpkin juice bottle before answering.

“…Luna.”

For a second, Hermione wasn’t sure she had heard her right. “Luna?” she repeated, the name sounding foreign on her tongue in this context.

Ginny nodded. “It’s been going on for about six months now.”

Six months. Hermione did a quick calculation in her head—trying to pinpoint when this would have started. Had she noticed anything? Had there been signs?

“He didn’t tell you sooner because he wasn’t sure where it was going,” Ginny added. “Ron’s not exactly had the best luck with relationships, and he didn’t want to make a big deal out of it in case it… didn’t work out.”

“...But it has,” Hermione finished for her.

Ginny nodded again.

Hermione sat with that information for a moment, her fingers brushing away the biscuit crumbs from the table. She wasn’t sure what she was supposed to feel. Shock? Jealousy? Hurt? But, to her own surprise, she mostly just felt… nothing.

She exhaled, finally meeting Ginny’s gaze. “Good,” she said, and to her own ears, she sounded sincere. “I’m happy for him.” A small, dry smile tugged at her lips. “No reason we should both be miserable.”

Ginny searched her face again, as if trying to detect even the smallest crack in her composure. But Hermione only picked up her pumpkin juice and took another sip.

Ginny sighed dramatically, crossing her arms over her chest, her pregnant belly making the gesture more difficult than it used to be. “Maybe this could be the end of your chapter. A chance for you to meet someone new. You need to at least try.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, pushing the biscuit crumbs into a neat little pile on the table. “Ginny, I don’t have time for that.”

“You don’t have time for what, exactly?” Ginny challenged, raising an eyebrow. “For basic human connection? For meeting someone who doesn’t share a bathroom with you?” She gestured toward the hallway where, somewhere upstairs, Ron was probably snoring.

Hermione groaned, leaning her head back. “Why is this always the conversation?”

“Because I love you, and I refuse to watch you let your entire life become your investigation,” Ginny said, her voice softening just a fraction. “You deserve more than this, Hermione. More than just… work.”

Hermione opened her mouth to argue but hesitated. For a moment, she let herself imagine it—the possibility of something beyond this house, beyond her articles and her current obsession with the Department of Mysteries. The idea of someone looking at her, really looking at her, and seeing something other than a relentless, stubborn, single-minded force of nature.

It was a nice thought.

But that was all it was.

She shook her head, offering Ginny a small, tired smile. “I appreciate the concern,” she said, “but I’m fine. Really.”

Ginny didn’t look convinced, but she let it go.

For now.

Instead, she finished off the last of her juice and stretched with a small groan. “Alright, well, I need to go back to bed before Harry wakes up and assumes I’ve fallen down the stairs and immediately gone into labour. Ever since I hit seven months, he’s been obsessed with hovering.”

Hermione smirked. “He’s just excited.”

“Oh, he’s excited?” Ginny scoffed, rubbing her belly. “I’m the one doing all the work, and somehow he’s the one getting congratulated everywhere we go.”

Hermione chuckled, shaking her head as Ginny turned to leave. But before she could disappear up the stairs, she paused in the doorway, looking back over her shoulder.

“Just promise me something?” Ginny said.

Hermione met her gaze. “What?”

“Don’t let this job swallow you whole.” Her voice was quiet but firm. “You went into it to uncover the truth, not to lose yourself in it.”

Hermione swallowed, the words settling uncomfortably in her chest.

“I won’t,” she promised.

But as Ginny’s footsteps faded upstairs, Hermione wasn’t sure if that was a promise she could keep.

With a quiet sigh, she stood, rinsed out her glass, and made her way back to her room. The papers on her desk were waiting. Her notes, her theories—everything she had so far on Severance.

She should sleep.

Instead, she picked up her quill.

And kept writing.