Let her go
The air smelled of freshly lit firewood and frozen earth. Hermione appeared right at the edge of the stone path leading to the Burrow, wrapped in her mustard coat, her hair tied up in a practical bun. In the distance, two figures stood out against the frost.
Harry was the first to speak.
“Well, the real dragon tamer has arrived,” he said with a half-smile, arms crossed, his hat tilted slightly to the side.
“I thought you weren’t coming,” Ron added, in that gruff-meets-playful tone he used when he didn’t know how to show affection without sounding soft.
“I came early to help with dinner,” Hermione replied, approaching them. “Molly asked me to check on the cranberry sauce before Charlie ruins it again.”
“As if that could be avoided,” Harry muttered.
Without warning, Ron placed a rectangular package in her hands, wrapped in black paper with shimmering metallic details.
“This is for you,” he said in a lower voice.
Hermione raised an eyebrow at him.
“Since when do you wrap gifts like cursed artifacts?”
“Since you started dating one,” Harry replied flatly.
Hermione let out a dry laugh.
“How thoughtful.”
“To match your aesthetic with Malfoy’s,” Ron added, flashing a crooked grin. “Don’t worry. He barely bites. Anymore.”
Hermione unwrapped the package carefully. Inside was a dark leather notebook, with the initials H.G. enchanted in a way that made them only visible under certain light. On the first page, a handwritten note read:
“For the things you can’t say out loud.”
Hermione blinked. For a second, the sarcasm caught in her throat.
“Guys… it’s perfect.”
“Thanks for the gloves,” Harry said quickly, changing the subject. “They’re better than the ones the team gave us. Ron wouldn’t even take his off during dinner last night.”
“I had to break them in,” Ron grumbled, but he was smiling.
Hermione hugged them both. Just a second. No more. Just enough to remember who they were, who they had been, and why they would always come back to this.
“Come on,” Harry said. “The family’s waiting. And so is the main event.”
“The main event?”
“Charlie’s in the kitchen. Making his ‘grand return,’” Ron said, air-quoting with his fingers. “Better hurry if you want to dodge the awkward moment.”
“Or not,” Hermione said, straightening up. “Maybe it’s time I stop dodging anything.”
Charlie stirred the pot with a wooden spoon as if his life depended on keeping the sauce at the right temperature. Molly bustled behind him, organizing dishes, spells, and shouts with her usual expert precision.
“For Merlin’s sake, Charlie, don’t burn it this time,” she scolded without even glancing up. “And don’t forget—the mint goes at the end, not the beginning.”
“Yes, Mum.”
But his attention wasn’t on the mint. Or the sauce. Or even the warming charm keeping the rolls fresh. It was on the sound of footsteps in the hall. That voice.
Hermione.
She entered wearing the scarf her mother had knitted for her and with her hair neater than usual. She greeted Molly with a soft smile and set her bag down by the pantry like it was any other day. Like nothing was different.
But Charlie stood frozen for a moment.
He watched her grab a spoon and approach the pot confidently. She examined the contents, wrinkled her nose, murmured something about proportions. And all of it without even looking at him. As if he were just another piece of furniture.
Since when?
Since when did she move like that, so sure of herself? Since when was it impossible to ignore the color of her mouth when she tasted the sauce?
He felt stupid. Uncomfortable.
The last time Ginny had hinted that Hermione might look at him differently, he’d laughed it off.
“I could never see her like that,” he’d told her, scraping grass off his boots. “She’s Hermione. She’s like you, Gin.”
But now...
Now Hermione moved through that kitchen like she knew exactly who she was. And she didn’t need him. She wasn’t looking for him.
And he—who had always treated her like a younger sister—was suddenly wondering why he remembered so clearly that summer afternoon when she’d looked at him nervously while he carved a broomstick in the garden. Why that look had followed him silently for months.
And why the hell am I thinking about this when Aurélie makes everything else feel like mist?
Why is it only now, when I’m finally starting to figure things out with her, that I realize I’ve seen Hermione all wrong this whole time?
Molly left the kitchen, leaving them alone.
Hermione didn’t seem to notice. She was testing the sauce with the back of the spoon. She licked her lips, thoughtful, then held the spoon out to Charlie without even glancing at him.
“Want to try?”
He took it, a bit clumsily. Tasted it. He couldn’t taste a thing.
“It’s perfect,” he said, though it wasn’t true. Though he couldn’t think straight.
Hermione nodded and started rummaging through the spice rack in silence. As if there was nothing left to say between them. As if there had never been anything at all.
And maybe, Charlie thought, that was true. Maybe everything they hadn’t said in years had already been said in silence.
Minutes passed, the rhythm of the kitchen lulling into something that felt final.
Charlie didn’t know why he did it. Maybe it was the silence, or the scent of cinnamon that always made him nostalgic. Or maybe it was just the fact that Hermione no longer seemed to need any explanations.
But still, he looked for them.
“And you… are you okay with all of this?”
Hermione turned slightly, pulling a tray of rolls out of the oven with a charm. She glanced over her shoulder.
“All of this… what?”
He wanted to ask about their non-existent relationship, the one that never was. But he deflected—toward something else that was still very much on his mind.
“With Malfoy,” he said plainly, letting the name drop between them like a stone.
She blinked, but didn’t respond right away. Charlie kept talking, as if the words had a will of their own.
“It’s just… I didn’t expect it. You two don’t seem…” He hesitated, searching for a word that wouldn’t sound cruel. “Compatible.”
Hermione tilted her head, leaning against the table.
“Compatible how?”
“He comes from a family that won’t easily accept you. You know what the Malfoys think. What they’ve always thought. And you…” Charlie clenched his jaw. “You’re brilliant, Hermione. One of the strongest, most extraordinary people I know. You deserve someone who respects you completely. Someone who doesn’t have to fight who you are just to love you.”
Hermione looked at him in silence. There was no sweetness left in her expression.
“And what makes you think Draco doesn’t respect me?”
Charlie lowered his eyes, uncomfortable.
“I just think… there are wizards out there who’d be proud to stand beside you. Without the burden… of a bloodline like his.”
Hermione crossed her arms. Her voice didn’t waver.
“You know what’s funny? That you’re the one saying this now. I’m not naïve, Charlie. I know Ginny told you what she suspected I felt about you. So I find it ridiculous that you—who never saw me as anything more than your little sister’s friend, who only noticed me once I stopped being available—are the one saying all this now.”
“It’s not that,” Charlie said, though even he didn’t sound convinced.
“Then what? Are you upset that someone like Draco Malfoy—the last person anyone would’ve expected, especially by your standards—sees me in a way no one else ever has? Why should it bother you that he sees me, when you never did?”
Charlie swallowed hard, unsure what to say.
Hermione continued, gentler now, but with the same edge in her voice.
“I don’t need someone to allow me into their world, Charlie. Least of all someone to accept me. Draco loves me as I am. And if his family doesn’t get it, that’s his battle. Not mine.”
Charlie nodded, speechless. For the first time, Hermione wasn’t speaking to him as the clever girl who used to cook beside him in silence. She was speaking as a woman. One who wasn’t asking for permission to stay.
Hermione took a deep breath, grabbed the tray of rolls, and before leaving the kitchen, said without looking back:
“Thanks for caring. But I’m no longer the girl who looked at you from the garden, Charlie. And you… you’re not who I thought you were.”
Charlie stood frozen, feeling the weight of all that hadn’t been said—and all that had been said too late.
Hermione had just crossed the threshold with the tray when his voice stopped her. Quieter. Real.
“Hermione… wait.”
She paused. Closed her eyes for a beat, then turned around.
Charlie hadn’t moved from his place by the stove. He looked larger in the small kitchen, as if the ceiling had dropped closer. But his eyes were different now—not proud, not judging. Just honest.
“I didn’t want it to end like that,” he said. “Not with you.”
Hermione clutched the tray against her chest. It wasn’t a shield, but it almost was.
“Then say it right.”
Charlie nodded slowly. Took one step toward her. And this time, his voice was stripped of bravado, stripped of weight.
“I’m sorry. Really. I was wrong to talk about him like that. I don’t know him, not like you do. And I guess… it scared me a little to see how much you’ve changed. How much you’ve grown—without me noticing.”
Hermione lowered the tray gently onto the counter. She stepped closer. Fearless.
“I’ve grown, yeah. But not alone. Draco…”—she paused, searching for the right word—“Draco’s been a sort of distorted mirror. He’s forced me to see myself differently. He’s shown me things I didn’t know I needed to see.”
Charlie listened, silent.
“He’s not perfect. He’s had his battles, like me. But he doesn’t ask me to shrink myself to fit into his world. He challenges me. He admires me. And… in his own way, he loves me.”
Charlie nodded, jaw tight. And then Hermione offered the faintest smile—one meant to close the circle gently, not wound.
“He’s a smart man,” she said. “Remember who his tutor was. A witch I know you admire quite a bit.”
Charlie let out a soft, resigned laugh. Dropped his head and shook it slowly.
“Aurélie… yeah. She’s got a mind sharp as a blade. Sometimes I think she can read me with just a look.”
“She probably can,” Hermione said.
They both laughed quietly, no tension, just mutual understanding.
“I guess that’s what exceptional people do,” Charlie said.
“Challenge you,” Hermione replied, gently.
They held each other’s gaze for one last moment. It wasn’t awkward. It didn’t hurt.
Hermione picked up the tray again and headed for the door. This time, Charlie didn’t stop her.
“Thank you,” he said, just as she crossed the threshold, “for still being you.”
“And you,” she said, without turning around, “for becoming you again.”
Charlie remained in the kitchen, alone with the mint, the steam, and a smile that wasn’t quite happy—but it was real.
The fireplace crackled softly in the reading room of the Nott Manor, casting golden shadows across the endless bookshelves. Draco removed his gloves slowly, watching as Theo poured two glasses of fig liqueur without needing to ask. That had always been something Draco both admired—and feared—about Theo: his unnerving ability to sense what others were feeling without a single word spoken.
“So you’re going,” Draco said, accepting the glass.
“Ginny insisted,” Theo replied plainly. “She wants me to meet her parents officially. Apparently, I matter.”
Draco glanced sideways at him, leaning against the mantel.
“And you feel the same?”
Theo thought for a second. He didn’t say it with arrogance or insecurity—just the quiet certainty of someone who’d been alone far too long.
“Yes. I’m with her. For real.”
Draco didn’t respond immediately. He took a sip of the liqueur, letting the strong, spiced flavor burn down his throat.
“You never said you were officially seeing her.”
“We weren’t. Not until recently,” Theo replied, settling into one of the deep green velvet armchairs. “But Ginny isn’t one to hide. She asked for clarity—and I gave it to her.”
Draco raised an eyebrow, mildly surprised.
“And the Weasleys? Haven’t said anything?”
Theo smiled, but without malice.
“I’ve been an orphan since I was fifteen, Draco. The Ministry managed my estate until I turned seventeen a few months ago. There’s no one left to dictate who I can or can’t be with. And if the Weasleys are uncomfortable with it… well, that’s their right. But I’m not going to hide because of the name I carry.”
Draco nodded in silence. He knew that line was meant for him, too.
“So, you’ll go as…?”
“I’ll go as what I am. Her boyfriend,” Theo said without drama.
Draco rolled the glass between his fingers, weighing his words.
“Hermione will be there. And so will Charlie.”
“That bothers you?”
“I trust her. But I don’t like what he represents. Familiar. Simple. Safe. Predictable.”
Theo studied him quietly.
“And you’re none of those things.”
“I am what we were taught to be, Theo. What we were taught to love—and destroy—with the same hands. I’m not easy. But I’m hers.”
Theo raised his glass in mock salute and nodded softly, then set it down.
“Then come. But not as a ghost or a shadow. Come as who you are to her.”
Draco pressed his lips together, then admitted:
“I’m not invited.”
Theo smiled with that charmingly dangerous expression he wore like armor.
“Molly Weasley is a deeply decent woman. She’d feed a murderer if he looked cold enough. She’ll serve you soup, say you look thinner than last time, and make you have seconds.”
“And Ron Weasley will kill me with his eyes,” Draco muttered.
“Yes,” Theo said, grinning slyly. “But Molly will probably smack him for being rude.”
Draco couldn’t help but let out a brief, dry laugh—the first of the day.
“All right,” he said, placing his glass back on the mantel. “Let’s go have dinner with the Weasleys.”
Theo glanced at him while adjusting his gloves.
“And how are things back at Malfoy Manor… with your charming guest?”
Draco shrugged, feigning indifference.
“I don’t care. My mother was the one who suggested I spend the day here. Said I could use some fresh air.”
“How thoughtful of her,” Theo murmured, raising an eyebrow.
“Strategic, really. She’s the only one who can manage her without losing her mind. I’d rather stay out of it.”
“I admit, I’m surprised she supports you.”
“Before she was a Malfoy or a Black, she was my mother.”
Theo didn’t reply. The silence, though uncomfortable, said enough—it echoed just how lonely he still felt, even when surrounded by family.
He walked toward the fireplace and, just before grabbing a handful of Floo powder, turned back to Draco.
“Oh, and one more thing,” he added while fastening his cloak. “Try not to look like you’re there to claim the estate. Just a bit less aristocrat than usual.”
Draco lifted his chin.
“This is my humble state.”
“We’re screwed, then,” Theo muttered.
And with that, Draco followed him into the flames.
Diagon Alley
Diagon Alley was unusually lively for Christmas. Enchanted streetlamps twinkled with golden and white lights, and a gentle magical snowfall drifted over the shops. Theo and Draco walked beneath Madame Primpernelle’s awning, carrying several bags, each marked with the unmistakable flourish of expensive, over-the-top holiday spending.
“That one for Ginny?” Draco asked, nodding toward a long, narrow box.
“No. It’s for Percy,” Theo answered without hesitation. “Ginny’s gift’s been ready for weeks.”
“And that?” Draco asked, lifting his chin toward a parcel wrapped in slate-blue paper.
“Fred and George. I got them a subscription to Forbidden Potions Quarterly. Full access to ingredients banned in Hogwarts. They’re going to love me.”
Draco raised an eyebrow.
“And Ron? A potion to increase digestive capacity?”
“No. A set of hand-carved rune chess from Norway. I hate to admit it, but he’s got decent taste—when he’s not speaking.”
“You’re an idiot. You know that, right?”
“An idiot investing in a witch who’s worth it,” Theo said, turning to him with mock solemnity. “Risking my life in the name of domestic diplomacy.”
Draco snorted, checking his pocket watch.
“At this rate, your fortune’s going to dry up before Ginny agrees to marry you.”
“Says the Malfoy heir buying rhubarb jam and rustic ladles for Molly Weasley.”
Draco lifted his bag with dignity.
“It’s symbolic. The woman cooks for an army. She deserves charmed steel and jam that won’t curse her.”
Theo chuckled as they made their way to the exit.
“Nervous?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
Draco adjusted his coat with a half-smile.
“I’m just making sure I don’t show up looking like exactly what they think I am.”
“Good luck with that,” Theo murmured. “I’m just hoping to get out alive.”
Draco glanced sideways at him, and they both laughed—one of those rare, quiet laughs shared by people who have survived too many versions of themselves.
The Portkey from Diagon Alley dropped them right at the edge of the Burrow’s front garden, where the snow seemed to melt under the warmth radiating from the chimneys. The Burrow—crooked and magical as ever—had an undeniable charm, even for someone like Draco Malfoy.
Theo brushed the frost off his coat with his usual effortless grace. Draco simply lifted his chin and took a deep breath, like a man walking into enemy territory fully confident he’d win the duel.
“Ready for the family trial?” Theo muttered, adjusting the gift box with a charm to keep it from bobbing awkwardly.
“Always.”
Theo knocked with his fist. A flurry of footsteps and laughter erupted from inside before the door swung open.
“Theodore!” Ginny exclaimed, wrapped in a dark red sweater that slipped slightly off one shoulder.
Theo greeted her with an exaggerated bow and handed her one of the packages with a smile only she could fully interpret.
“For your parents. And six more, to distribute with diplomatic precision.”
She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek and then noticed Draco, still standing in silence, his hand resting on his coat.
“Look what the holiday dragged in… Malfoy,” she said with a neutral tone, though not unfriendly.
“Weasley,” he replied with a polite nod.
“My advice—stick to using first names or you’ll have nine sets of eyes on you every time you say hello.”
Draco nodded once.
“Mum’s in the kitchen. Come in, both of you.”
The moment they stepped inside, holiday chaos engulfed them. The twins were laughing from the sitting room, Bill was reading a book, and Percy was desperately trying to organize the silverware with his wand. The air smelled of spices, pine, and a slightly off homemade charm.
Molly Weasley appeared from the kitchen, cheeks flushed and her wand holding her hair up in a messy bun.
“Theodore, dear! Finally, you’re here!” she exclaimed, walking over with open arms. “Draco! Welcome.”
Draco nodded as a gesture of thanks, but before she could say more, he handed her a small box wrapped in dark blue paper and tied with a raffia bow.
“For you, Mrs. Weasley. Rhubarb jam and enchanted steel ladles. Nothing too fancy, but… practical.”
Molly looked at the gift, then back at him—and her face lit up.
“Oh, how lovely!” she exclaimed, taking the box in both hands. “I’m always losing ladles, and you can never find this jam. That’s so thoughtful of you, dear. Arthur! Draco Malfoy brought me jam!”
Draco felt Theo shift beside him with a mischievous grin.
“Of course, of course,” Theo whispered with mock irritation. “I drop a fortune on gifts, and you win the matriarch’s heart with spoons and sugared fruit. Unbelievable.”
“My mother would be proud,” Draco murmured, smirking.
Hermione appeared from the dining room carrying a tray of glasses. When she saw him, she paused for a moment. Her eyes lit up in that way no one could fake. Draco noticed. And he smiled.
Charlie, seated at the table, saw him too. He said nothing, but his jaw tensed as he sipped in silence. Molly ushered them both into the living room and introduced them to the older Weasleys as though Draco were a distant cousin, not the son of a man who had once been a political enemy to most of the room.
Arthur approached just as Draco was removing his coat.
“Draco,” he said, his voice low but kind. “I’m glad you’re here. I know you and Hermione have had your… differences. But coming today says something about your character. Maybe your father would never say it, but if he had any sense, he’d be proud to have a son without prejudice.”
Draco held his gaze firmly. He nodded with quiet respect.
“Thank you, Mr. Weasley.”
But as Arthur walked away, Draco couldn’t help but think: What would Lucius say if he knew I was here? Sitting among laughter, the smell of soup, and more than half a dozen Weasleys?
He thought about it for a second. And then let it go.
Because at that very moment, Hermione approached him. She brushed her hand against his discreetly. And nothing else mattered.
The table had been magically extended to seat all fourteen guests. The tablecloth shimmered faintly with golden enchanted stars, and a floating candelabra cast long shadows over antique crystal goblets.
Molly had prepared a feast even by Weasley standards. Everyone had taken their seats: the twins were fighting over the last roll, Percy was reciting Ministry statistics, and Arthur was discussing imported dragon regulations with Bill. Theo and Draco sat side by side, both perfectly upright, as if the chairs understood they weren’t meant to creak under their lineage.
“So, Draco,” Arthur said, scooping mashed potatoes onto his plate, “any plans for after Hogwarts? The Ministry, perhaps?”
Draco held his glass elegantly. His tone was flawless, his smile neutral.
“Anything that lets me rewrite a few systems without having to pretend they were never broken.”
A brief silence followed. Bill raised an intrigued eyebrow. Charlie, at the far end, drank without looking up.
“I like the sound of that,” Bill said. “You could join Gringotts. We need people with good ideas—and very little patience for bureaucracy.”
“And a high tolerance for danger,” Fleur added, eyeing him carefully from across the table.
“Draco handles danger quite comfortably,” Theo murmured, not looking up from his glass. “He’s in a very demanding romantic relationship.”
Hermione nearly spat her wine. Ron snorted but didn’t comment. Molly frowned.
“Theodore, please,” she scolded gently. “A little moderation at the table.”
“Of course, Mrs. Weasley. That was a purely academic observation.”
“And you, Theo?” Charlie cut in. “Still considering the Auror path?”
“I am. There’s something almost romantic about chasing traumatized people with unstable wands.”
“You should write a book,” Ginny said with a half-smile. “How to Survive the Ministry Without Losing Your Soul—or Your Wardrobe.”
“Best-seller material,” Draco said. “Though I doubt Percy would endorse it.”
Percy straightened, scandalized.
“Not everything at the Ministry is decadence and incompetence!”
“You’re right,” Theo replied. “Sometimes there’s tea, too.”
The twins burst into laughter. Fred raised his glass in a silent toast to Theo, while George charmed his fork to dance a solo waltz on his plate.
Hermione glanced at Draco. He met her eyes with a soft, almost intimate look, and his hand brushed hers beneath the table.
Molly noticed the gesture and smiled with quiet resignation.
“It’s nice to see some people can break bread without throwing curses,” she said.
“For now,” Ron whispered to Harry, who nudged him in the ribs.
Charlie said nothing. He chewed harder than necessary, eyes fixed on his plate. But every now and then, his gaze drifted to Draco. And then, inevitably, to Hermione.
Draco noticed. Of course he noticed.
And he held Charlie’s gaze—calm, unapologetic, unafraid.
Truth.
And in the end, it was Charlie who looked away.
Dinner had left everyone either full or utterly incapacitated. Some cleared the dishes with a quick “evanesco”, while others made their way to the sitting room, now feeling smaller and cozier than ever. That’s when Molly and Arthur announced they were heading to bed.
“Behave yourselves, dears,” Molly said with a tired but content smile. “And if the garden catches fire, just clean up before I wake up.”
Arthur patted Ron on the shoulder and gave Draco a small nod.
“No sarcasm here, son. It’s good to see you.”
Once the adults were out of sight, the younger group gathered in the living room.
“Right, right,” Fred announced, rubbing his hands together as they arranged themselves in a circle. “Dinner’s done, politeness is optional. Time for Who Am I?”
“Who’s assigning this round?” Bill asked from the corner, holding a butterbeer.
“This time, we’re playing dirty,” Ron said, grinning at Charlie. “We’re picking the characters. No mercy.”
“Is that even allowed?” Harry asked.
“Everything’s allowed—as long as Mum doesn’t come down the stairs,” George replied.
Hermione rolled her eyes but smiled. She and Ginny had already written out the names for Fred and George, while the twins would assign theirs in return—cosmic balance, apparently.
One by one, enchanted slips of parchment flew up and stuck themselves to each player’s forehead, characters hidden from the wearer.
“You can’t look at your own. Only yes or no questions. If you don’t guess in five turns, it gets revealed—and so does your shame,” Charlie declared solemnly.
Hermione went first.
“Am I a magical creature?”
“No.”
“Am I a witch or wizard?”
“Yes.”
“Am I well-known?”
“Let’s say yes,” Ron replied, barely suppressing his laughter.
“Did I go to Hogwarts?”
“Yes.”
“I can’t believe you’re doing this again,” she muttered, covering her face with both hands. “Did I ever go out with myself?” she asked, slowly turning toward Charlie.
“Yes.”
“I’m Cormac McLaggen,” Hermione said, resigned, rolling her eyes.
Fred burst into laughter.
“What a glorious start.”
Next up was Draco.
“Am I a witch or wizard?”
“No,” several answered at once.
“Magical creature?”
“Yes.”
“Do I live free?”
“No.”
Draco raised an eyebrow. “Do I serve someone?”
“You used to.”
“Am I… a house-elf?”
“Yes,” Ginny answered, grinning.
“Dobby?” Draco asked, deadpan.
“No,” Ron said with a touch of malice. “One who’s already free, but still has no clue what to do with his freedom.”
Draco draped the blanket over his shoulders like an offended emperor.
“Fascinating. I’ve never felt so insulted and so accurately portrayed at the same time.”
Then came Percy’s turn.
“Am I a creature?”
“Yes.”
“Fierce?”
“Only to those who take themselves too seriously,” George murmured.
“I agree with Hermione, you really should stop assigning us the same characters just to remind us of our most humiliating moments,” Percy sighed. “Am I a venomous doxy?”
Fred doubled over with laughter.
“Percy, please, don’t even try to deny it.”
Everyone laughed as Charlie gestured that it was his turn.
“Am I a creature?”
“In a manner of speaking,” Fleur replied.
Charlie raised an eyebrow. “Witch or wizard?”
“Yes.”
“Someone well-known?”
“Since this year,” Ginny answered through clenched teeth.
“And before that, but not in magical Britain,” Percy added.
“Think hard,” Ron said.
Charlie paused, then frowned.
“Aurélie?”
The laughter died down immediately. Silence fell like a curtain.
“You should’ve asked if she was notable by her absence,” Theo said in a neutral tone.
Charlie shifted in his seat, slightly uncomfortable.
“No one was surprised she didn’t show,” George added with fake innocence.
“Even though Theo and Draco—two walking monuments to social discomfort—are both here,” Ginny finished.
Charlie shrugged with a tense smile.
“She had commitments. Not everyone gets the night off.”
Draco lowered his gaze to his glass, saying nothing. Hermione looked away.
Theo, meanwhile, murmured, “Maybe it’s not about commitments. Maybe it’s about committing.”
The comment hung in the air for a moment before Fred waved his wand and cleared the mood.
“Alright then. Last round—and then fire, mulled wine, and uncomfortable truths.”
“Let’s keep it going. Harry’s turn,” said Hermione, trying to defuse the tension.
“Am I a wizard?”
“Yes,” several said at once.
“Am I part of the Ministry?”
“No.”
“Am I famous?”
“Very. And very sexy,” Ron said, biting his lip.
“Was I famous from a young age?”
“Yes,” Hermione replied, faking seriousness while trying not to laugh.
Harry sighed.
“Am I me?”
“Yes!” everyone shouted, laughing.
“Seriously? You made me guess myself?”
“We figured it was time you worked on your self-esteem,” George said.
Ron shifted next to Harry under the blanket.
“Am I a creature?”
“No.”
“Wizard?”
“Yes.”
“Student?”
“Until a few years ago.”
“Do I play Quidditch?”
“You like to think you’re the best,” Fred said.
“Am I Viktor Krum?”
“I told you it was too predictable,” Fred scolded George.
Ron groaned and crossed his arms.
“I don’t know why I still come to these dinners.”
“Because there’s more food than usual,” Ginny replied.
Ron grunted in acknowledgment, and now it was Fleur’s turn. She beamed and spoke in perfect French:
“C’est à moi!”
“Am I a magical creature?”
“In part,” Bill replied, smiling.
“Veela?”
“Close.”
“Am I from magical fairy tales?”
“Yes,” Hermione answered, amused.
“A mermaid?”
“No.”
“The witch in the mirror?”
“Yes!” everyone replied at once.
Fleur lifted her chin proudly.
“A woman no one can look away from. Seems accurate.”
Bill nodded, clearly enamored.
George rubbed his hands together.
“Our turn.”
Fred asked first.
“Am I human?”
“Eh…” Ginny said.
“Magical creature?”
“Yes. But lean into ‘creature,’” Hermione laughed.
“Mischievous?”
“That’s an understatement,” Draco said flatly.
“Peeves?”
“Yes!” they all shouted.
Fred bowed dramatically.
“An honor to share chaotic immortality.”
Then it was George’s turn.
“Am I feared?”
“More or less,” Theo replied.
“Known for punishments?”
“Definitely.”
“Snape?”
“Correct!”
“THAT is offensive!” George cried, tearing the parchment off his forehead.
Ginny and Hermione clapped.
“You earned that one for painting ‘The Ministry Sucks’ on my bedroom window,” Ginny said.
“That was four years ago!” George protested.
“Memory runs deep, brother,” Fred said, clapping him on the back.
“Well, the best always goes last,” Theo said with dramatic flair, then started asking.
“Am I a wizard?”
“Yes,” Hermione answered.
“Did I go to Hogwarts?”
“You still do,” Draco replied.
“Am I lucky enough to be in Slytherin?”
“Do you have a bloody sixth sense or what?” Draco asked, exasperated.
“I ask the questions, Draco. Simple rules. You didn’t answer properly, so that one doesn’t count.”
“I consider myself charming, but I’m not myself?”
“I’d say so,” Ginny replied, smiling.
“Blaise Zabini.”
The fireplace was down to its last embers. One by one, people drifted away from the living room—some headed to bed, others disappeared through the Floo network.
Ginny stood by the hearth, helping Theo adjust the collar of his coat, her fingers lingering just a second longer than necessary.
“Try not to cause an international scandal,” she whispered.
“No promises,” he replied, just loud enough for her to hear.
He brushed her hand gently—so quickly it could’ve meant nothing. But Hermione saw it. So did Ron, who simply raised an eyebrow and said nothing.
Theo turned to the rest of the room, raising two fingers in a casual salute before tossing a pinch of Floo powder into the flames.
“Nott Manor.”
He vanished in a flash of green sparks.
Hermione stayed a moment longer, getting a head start on helping Molly. She gathered a couple of stray dishes, even though it was clear no one expected her to.
Charlie watched from the doorway, arms crossed. He didn’t speak, but his gaze stayed fixed on her—even as Draco approached from behind, quiet and unannounced.
Draco’s hand brushed hers—just once—as he looked at her. Hermione nodded silently. Then, without a word, he gently took her arm.
And with a sharp crack, they Disapparated.
Hermione’s room was calm, steeped in soft stillness. The moment they landed, she didn’t step away. She exhaled slowly, steadying herself.
“That went better than I expected,” she said.
“I only threatened to duel Ron... in my head. That’s growth,” Draco replied.
She turned toward him, amused, and gave him a soft kiss.
Just outside the Burrow’s window, Charlie was still standing in the doorway.
He hadn’t moved.
He had seen everything—the way Draco looked at her, the silent understanding between them, the ease.
And this time, he didn’t feel angry.
He just felt the door close.