Saturn
Winter was starting to ease, but frost still clung to the windowpanes as if refusing to leave. In the Head Students’ common room, an enchanted breeze kept the fire low and steady—just enough to warm without smothering.
Hermione was curled up on the sofa, her bare feet resting on Draco’s lap, her hair twisted into a loose bun, and wearing a sweater that clearly wasn’t hers.
“Your handwriting is illegible,” she murmured, correcting a parchment that didn’t belong to her.
“That was deliberate,” Draco replied without looking up, a quill between his fingers and a book open on his lap. “So McGonagall knows it’s not yours.”
Hermione gave him a soft nudge with her foot. He caught it quickly and placed a kiss on her ankle.
“Nice reflexes, Mr. Malfoy.”
“The reflexes of a good Seeker, Miss Granger.”
“What are you reading?” she asked, genuinely curious. It was a slim, well-kept book she’d never seen before. The cover featured a golden Snitch resting atop delicate eastern calligraphy.
“An essay on defensive flight tactics.” He closed the book briefly and glanced at her sideways. “Did you know Japanese Seekers never fly in straight lines? They always fly in gentle curves to confuse the opponent’s eye.”
She stared at him. The interest he showed in that book could only be rivaled by the way he looked at her most of the time. Hermione had never really asked herself what would become of their lives after Hogwarts. In fact, when Arthur Weasley had asked Draco during the Easter dinner about his future plans, and Bill had suggested he might be a good fit for Gringotts, she had known that Draco’s polite nod had been just that—polite. He hadn’t meant it.
But with Quidditch… it was different. It wasn’t just a sport to him. It was something else. A passion.
She remembered one of their lunchtimes at her parents’ house, when Draco had gone out of his way to explain the rules to Mr. Granger, even going into depth about tactics used to turn the tide of a seemingly lost match. She realized then: Draco loved Quidditch.
“Have you ever thought about a professional career in Quidditch?”
Draco paused, eyes lingering on the text, then turned to her.
“Right now there are too many great players in magical Britain… even across Europe. There wouldn’t be a place for me.”
“You’re an excellent player, Draco.”
He gave her a skeptical look.
“I know it sounds like flattery, but Ginny always says your style and leadership on the field are what win matches for your team—more often than not,” Hermione said, peeking over the top of her own book. “And in this case, I’d say Ginny’s judgment is more reliable than mine.”
Draco didn’t reply. He just gave that half-smile that always seemed to carry more than one meaning.
Hermione reached out and stole his quill without warning, holding it like a trophy.
“You’re awfully calm for someone who’s supposed to hand in an essay tomorrow.”
“I make up for it with natural charm,” he said, and tied the scarf lying beside them into a perfect knot around her neck. It wasn’t cold, but he liked seeing her wrapped in things that belonged to him.
“Was that an affectionate gesture or a territorial one?”
“Both.” He leaned in and kissed her forehead.
At that moment, a faint magical crackle filled the air. A small envelope floated toward them, suspended by a school enchantment.
Hermione caught it mid-air. Her name was written on the back in McGonagall’s unmistakable handwriting.
“A summons?” Draco asked.
Hermione read the paper calmly.
“Yes.” She frowned as she opened it. “She wants to see me first thing tomorrow morning.”
“Then we should head to bed. We wouldn’t want you to be late.”
“But it’s still early to go to bed…”
He looked at her with unmistakable mischief in his eyes.
“No one said you were going to sleep just yet.”
She chuckled softly. Outside, snowflakes drifted lazily against the windowsill. Inside, life was simple. And for a moment, the world was just the quiet murmur of two people who didn’t need to make promises—because they were already living them all.
Hermione sat upright, hands folded in her lap and lips pressed into a tense line. It wasn’t her first time in the Headmistress’s office, but something in the tone of the letter she’d received had unsettled her.
McGonagall stood by the window, watching the snow fall as if waiting for it to reveal something. Beside her, in the shadows, stood Snape. Impeccable. Silent. Arms crossed and wearing the expression of someone already bored before the conversation even began.
“Miss Granger,” McGonagall began without turning around. “As you may know, the Inter-School Potions Championship will be held this year at Castelobruxo. And Hogwarts has been invited to send a single representative. It wasn’t an easy decision.”
“It actually was, Minerva,” Snape interrupted.
Hermione swallowed hard.
“I understand.”
McGonagall turned then. Her gaze was stern, but there was something else—an almost imperceptible glimmer of pride.
“You have been selected.”
Hermione blinked.
“Me?”
“You have the record, the discipline, and the creativity. And, though he may not admit it openly, you also have the support of someone whose opinion I value more than I care to say.”
She gestured toward Snape.
He spoke without moving.
“This competition is not a class, Miss Granger. It’s a civilized war. And if you intend to represent us, you’ll need more than precision with ingredients. You’ll need intuition, control, and endurance. Qualities you’ve only demonstrated so far in situations that weren’t being graded.”
“Endurance?”
Snape turned slightly toward McGonagall.
“I’ll be taking over her Defense lessons. She doesn’t need to know how to defeat a boggart. She needs to stop trembling when she does. Castelobruxo is not Hogwarts. And her opponents won’t be forgiving.”
“And... you’re going to train me?”
“Of course not,” Snape replied with a sneer. “I’ll simply correct you when you think you’re smarter than logic. The rest will be up to you.”
McGonagall raised a brow with mild irony.
“Do you have any objections, Miss Granger?”
Hermione shook her head.
“None. Just... thank you.”
Snape turned toward the door, as if the conversation had ended.
“You won’t like your opponents either,” he added without looking back. “But if that bothers you, you shouldn’t be competing.”
The door closed behind him.
Hermione remained silent.
McGonagall offered her the faintest of smiles.
“That was a blessing, Miss Granger. Don’t waste it.”
The Gryffindor table was livelier than usual. Ginny was chatting with Luna about some invisible creature supposedly living in the castle kitchens, while Theo skimmed through The Daily Prophet with clear skepticism, and Hermione stirred her tea with more nervous energy than her face let on.
Draco arrived shortly after, coming straight from the Slytherin table, not bothering to ask before sitting beside her. He just did. Hermione gave him a discreet smile, the kind that seemed to hold an entire universe in the corner of her mouth.
“You look happy,” Ginny said, raising an eyebrow, “or did you just sleep better than the rest of us?”
Hermione let out a soft laugh. Then she set her cup down with a touch of theatrics.
“Not exactly. I just... have something to tell you.”
Draco looked at her with quiet attention. Theo raised an eyebrow, and Luna stopped talking about wrackspurts.
Hermione took a deep breath.
“This morning, McGonagall officially confirmed that I’ve been selected to represent Hogwarts in the International Potions Championship.”
For a moment, the background noise around them vanished.
“What?” Ginny said, a mix of astonishment and pride in her voice. “The one at Castelobruxo?!”
“The very one,” Hermione nodded.
Theo leaned forward, smirking.
“That’s insane. They only accept one student per school. How did you not tell us?”
“I wanted to be sure. And... I needed time to let it sink in.”
Draco was still watching her. Not with surprise. With something more guarded.
“When is it?”
“End of April. There are several rounds. Hogwarts already sent the confirmation. Snape will be training me.”
Theo gave a low whistle.
“You’re going to compete at Castelobruxo… do you know how many indigenous ingredients they grow exclusively on that campus? They have a network of greenhouses protected by ancient enchantments. You’re going to love it.”
Luna nodded solemnly.
“They say the cauldrons there sing when the potion is finished.”
“That’s not true,” Draco muttered under his breath.
“But it’s poetic,” Luna replied, unbothered.
Draco looked at Hermione again. This time, there was a different glint in his eyes—something that wasn’t pride or jealousy.
“You’re going to win,” he said simply.
Hermione looked down, blushing.
“You think so?”
“I’m sure of it.”
“I know I’m competitive... but I won’t be on home turf.”
“You don’t need to compete with anyone. But if you choose to do it, make sure it’s because you want to. Not because you feel like you have to prove something. You already have. We all know it.”
Hermione leaned in, resting her head on his shoulder.
And among toast, pumpkin juice, and a conversation that resumed its rhythm with ease, only the two of them understood that something had just shifted.
Something big.
And beautiful.
And possibly... too important to ignore.
Aurélie Dumont stirred a silver spoon in a porcelain teacup without looking at the tea. Her golden quill sat idle atop the parchments—an anomaly in itself.
The door opened without warning.
“Dumont.”
“Professor Snape,” she replied, with the tone of someone who would’ve preferred a fire to break out instead.
Snape didn’t sit. He closed the door with a barely audible motion and walked to the edge of her desk.
“I’m informing you that starting next week, Granger will be exempt from your Defense Against the Dark Arts classes.”
Aurélie let the spoon drop onto the saucer with a faint clink.
“Exempt?”
“Her Head of House has approved that those hours be reassigned to advanced Potions training. With me.”
Aurélie rose from her chair with that dangerous calm that always came just before the storm.
“And why, exactly, does Minerva think a student should stop learning Defense to go stir cauldrons?”
“Because that student has been selected to represent Hogwarts in the Inter-School Potions Championship. And if she has any real chance, she’ll need far more than what you can offer her between illusory charms and aesthetic lectures.”
Aurélie gave him a sharp, thin smile.
“And you believe you have the right to interfere with my lessons without even consulting me?”
“I’m not interfering,” said Snape in a flat voice. “I’m optimizing resources. What you call ‘teaching,’ in her case, is a waste of time.”
Aurélie walked around the desk and faced him, arms crossed.
“This isn’t about her talent. This is about what she represents. Another brilliant Muggle-born you all love to parade around like a trophy.”
“And what if she is?” Snape raised an eyebrow. “Most of the staff believes she’s earned it. You, however, seem to differ. Still, I wonder—what would you have done with her? Ignore her until she breaks down, as most have already observed you tend to do, Miss Dumont?”
“Maestra Dumont,” she corrected, her voice rising two octaves.
“That’s what your plaque says, yes. But I don’t always share the majority opinion.”
Aurélie burned with offense but masked it under a stoicism dressed up as resignation.
“And I suppose Granger didn’t protest.”
Snape tilted his head slightly.
“She didn’t seem to need to.”
Aurélie let out a soft, elegant, venom-laced laugh.
“Of course. She never needs to. There’s always someone ready to raise their wand for her.”
“She’s a witch far too clever for her own good,” said Snape as he walked toward the door, “but I assure you, she’s known how to raise it on her own since third year at least.”
Aurélie said nothing.
Only the quiet sound of cooling tea filled the room.
Snape turned toward the door. He had nothing else to say.
“Thank the Headmistress for not making this a formal matter,” he murmured before leaving. “I wouldn’t have been so generous.”
The door closed with a soft click.
Aurélie didn’t move.
Only her knuckles turned white around the porcelain she still held.
Later…
Aurélie stood by the closed piano in the music room, her back straight, arms crossed, her coat draped over her shoulders as though the room, warm as it was, posed a threat. She stared out the window, though it was unclear if she saw anything at all.
Charlie entered without announcing himself. He didn’t need to. She always knew when he was coming.
“I didn’t know you came here,” he said, gently closing the door behind him.
“I didn’t either,” Aurélie replied without turning. “But the castle doesn’t offer many places where you can lose your composure without witnesses.”
Charlie walked to one of the wooden benches and sat down, stretching out his legs with the ease of someone unbothered by being out of place.
“So you chose the one room where silence echoes the loudest.”
Aurélie glanced at him from the corner of her eye. He was smiling, as usual. But his eyes weren’t.
“You could tell me, if you wanted to. Sometimes, sharing the burden lightens it.”
“You’ll end up lecturing me.”
“No. You know I’m no good at sermons. But I am good at asking questions you might not like.”
Aurélie lowered her gaze, the window no longer useful. She turned toward him. There was tension in her elegance—as if her whole body was made of perfectly contained straight lines.
“Then ask it already.”
Charlie laced his fingers together, elbows resting on his knees.
“I heard from my brothers that Hermione Granger will represent Hogwarts in the Potions Championship.” He cleared his throat. “I saw Snape leaving your office, and then you storming off, throwing curses into the air—which I never thought I’d live to see.”
Aurélie blushed.
“But I must admit, seeing you flustered makes you more human, Aurélie... and therefore more interesting.”
She smiled again, with her usual poise.
“I connected the dots. And now it’s no longer a rumor but a fact: you don’t like Hermione. So I wonder—what exactly bothers you, Aurélie? That she won’t attend your classes… or that she achieved this without your approval?”
She looked at him with coldness. Not surprise. Just coldness.
“I don’t need her permission. But I do want respect.”
“And you think she doesn’t respect you?”
“I think most people don’t understand what has been sacrificed to uphold a certain structure. This school… this world. It wasn’t built on noble intentions and fairytales.”
“And yet,” Charlie interrupted gently, “you still teach here. To Muggle-borns. To half-bloods. To people who, by that same structure, would never have had a place here.”
Aurélie didn’t respond. Her jaw tightened slightly.
“What happened to you, Aurélie?” Charlie asked softly. “You don’t seem like the same bright, witty, quietly sweet witch I once met.”
She let out a dry laugh.
“Is this a therapy session now?”
“No. It’s an honest question. Because I’ve seen you do noble things. Elegant things. Even just things. But every time someone like Hermione shines... you shrink, like the sun burns you.”
Aurélie looked at him like she wanted to answer with a dagger. But she said nothing.
Charlie stood and moved closer, though he didn’t touch her.
“You don’t have to like her. But at least admit she didn’t come here to steal anything from you. What she’s earned, she’s fought for. Like you. Like me. Like everyone who’s ever been outside the mold.”
Aurélie blinked. Once. Then swallowed hard.
“I don’t understand why it matters to you,” she whispered. “You’re not even her brother.”
Charlie looked at her with a kindness that hurt.
“Because I’m learning not to move through people like they don’t feel. And because you shouldn’t have to hide behind perfection just to be seen.”
Aurélie lowered her gaze.
Charlie took a step back, as if not to press her further.
“See you around, Aurélie.”
And he left.
Aurélie didn’t move.
She didn’t cry.
But for the first time, she didn’t know what to do with the silence.
She stayed in that room—not because there was anything to correct, but because she no longer knew where else to go. The lighting was low, casting her reflection on the tall windows. For a moment, her silhouette blurred into the glass, as if she didn’t quite belong to the space she inhabited.
On her desk lay an open copy of Bloodlines and Their Magical Implications. She hadn’t touched it in days. She didn’t need it anymore. Or so she wanted to believe.
Charlie’s words still echoed in her mind. They hadn’t been an accusation. There had been no reproaches. Just truths. Simple enough to hurt.
“You shouldn’t have to hide behind perfection just to be seen.”
And he hadn’t said it cruelly. He said it with something worse: sincerity.
Aurélie had never felt invisible. Never ignored. But that night, when she chose not to attend the Easter dinner, she had wanted her absence to be noticed. She wanted Charlie to ask, to worry, to look for her. But he didn’t.
There were no letters.
No rushed footsteps in the halls.
No lingering looks from across the staff table in the Great Hall.
Only distance. Clear. Simple. Final.
And now, when they crossed paths in staff meetings or between classes, he spoke to her with courtesy. With kindness. But also with that cruel ease that only comes when someone no longer feels anything at all.
Like to a friend.
Aurélie hadn’t felt so exposed since the Christmas dinner at Malfoy Manor—when Draco had rejected her openly and unapologetically.
She walked to the window and placed her hands on the frame. The castle was still. A light snowfall began to coat the ground, as if even the earth wanted a chance to start over.
“Blood purity…” she murmured, barely moving her lips. “What purity remains when not even the heart obeys the bloodline?”
The answer was silence.
But not an empty one.
A silence that echoed like a truth pushing its way through.
Aurélie closed her eyes.
Perhaps, she thought, unlearning would be the only way to truly learn again.
Hermione carefully closed her notebook, setting aside the magical growth report of the mandrakes. Greenhouse Five smelled of damp earth, fermented nectar, and something sweeter—like the plants themselves were breathing deeper just before nightfall.
“I knew it would be you,” said Draco from the doorway, leaning against the frame with a mischievous smirk.
“Oh? And why’s that?” she asked without turning, already smiling.
“Because no one else turns in reports this late. Because it’s late. Because you can’t help wanting to do everything yourself.”
Hermione turned around. Her hands were dirty with soil, a loose braid falling apart from the humidity. Her shirt was rolled up to the elbows, unbuttoned to the base of her neck. And she looked at him in that way she always did—as if it still surprised her he always followed.
Draco walked closer. Slowly. With that calm that always masked a tremor in him.
“Did you want something else?” she whispered.
“I wanted to see you like this.”
“Like what?”
Draco’s gaze grazed her as if it could undress her by itself.
“Real. Messy. Warm. With flushed cheeks from the heat and your hair half undone. Like when you finally let me kiss you, days after our little show in the Great Hall.”
Hermione looked down, but didn’t step back. She stepped forward. Then again.
“We shouldn’t stay long,” she murmured.
“I know.”
“Sprout might come.”
“I know.”
“And yet…”
“I’m about to touch you,” he interrupted, his voice low, almost hoarse. “You know that, don’t you?”
Hermione lifted her face, her eyes already gleaming.
“Yes,” she whispered. “Please.”
And then he kissed her. Not gently. Not hurriedly. With that mix of clumsiness, certainty, and hunger only someone who’s already tasted something they can’t stop needing allows themselves.
His hands found her waist, her lower back, the loose button that gave way with a single touch. Hermione pulled him in by his shirt, pressing her chest to his, feeling the heat rise between their bodies, seeping under their skin.
The wooden bench where they worked with pots shook as she pulled it over without looking. Draco lifted her onto it and stepped between her legs, devouring her between whispers, soft bites, and breathless moans.
“I swear I’m trying to go slow,” he muttered against her neck.
“I don’t want you to go slow,” she replied, her nails digging into his back. “Not here. Not now.”
Their hands traveled beneath clothes, over skin, searching for what they already knew but now needed more urgently, more vividly.
The magical vines crept up the walls to the rhythm of their breathing.
And then... the world was that. Only that:
Earth. Heat. Skin. Name.
Hermione.
Draco.
Hermione was still seated on the bench, parted, trembling slightly, her breath tangled in the silence. Her legs were wrapped around Draco, and the heat between them still pulsed under rumpled clothes, under reddened skin, as if their bodies hadn’t quite finished touching.
Draco looked at her like every second was sacred. The tips of his fingers still roamed her thigh, tracing slow, damp lines, almost reverent. The way they slid to the edge of her underwear—that slight, upward motion, nearly imperceptible—sent a fresh wave of heat rolling through her belly, her body reacting before her mind could keep up.
She held his gaze. Unashamed. She knew what he wanted.
She wanted it too.
And when Draco leaned down to kiss her—lower, just over her hip bone, where the thin fabric no longer hid much—Hermione let out a short, stifled sound that wasn’t just pleasure. It was surrender. Absolute desire. A silent “yes.”
Her body arched toward him instinctively, seeking contact it already remembered from within.
His hands slipped under her wrinkled skirt, guided by the warmth of her skin, pausing just where her center pulsed against the thin cloth.
He said nothing.
He didn’t need to.
He simply pressed his warm, open palm there, setting a slow, steady rhythm—almost cruel in its control. Hermione let out a soft moan, biting her lip as she clung to his shoulders, each caress, each stroke reigniting a fire she’d thought already quenched. But it wasn’t. Not yet.
Draco’s breath was ragged, his voice a coarse whisper against her neck.
“I never get tired of you.”
Hermione slid her hand down his neck, fingers threading into his damp hair, pulling him closer.
“Then don’t stop.”
And he didn’t.
His fingers moved with more precision, caressing, teasing, opening her with a fierce tenderness. Every motion was a confession. Every breathless sound from her, an echo that etched itself into his skin. It became a wordless exchange between their bodies, a dance of breath, pressure, and sighs that transcended speech.
Hermione gave in again, clinging to him, thighs squeezing his waist, her forehead pressed to his, their lips brushing but not quite kissing.
And when her body tensed again—as if pleasure had knotted itself with emotion—Draco didn’t let go. He held her firmly. Looked straight into her eyes.
And stayed there.
Watching her fall.
Watching her bloom. Right there in the middle of that greenhouse.
When it all settled, when her chest finally slowed its rhythm, Hermione rested her head on his shoulder. She was sweating, smiling without realizing it. And he didn’t stop touching her—now with lazy, absentminded caresses that asked for nothing. That just wanted to linger.
“Know what I’m thinking?” she whispered, voice still rough.
“That we’re going to get in trouble,” he answered, kissing her forehead.
“That if this is the last time we have a place like this... I want to remember everything.
Your hands. Your voice. How you touched me like it would never be enough.”
Draco lowered his head. His mouth found hers with a different kind of tenderness. It wasn’t desire anymore.
It was gratitude.
“It’ll never be enough. Not with you,” he murmured.
And even though the air still smelled of wet earth and leaves stirred by magic, the world, for a few minutes, narrowed down to the heat between their bodies, the echo of skin still pulsing, and the taste of goodbye neither of them dared to name just yet.
The walk back to the castle was silent. Draco and Hermione walked close, their fingers intertwined, their clothes a little disheveled, hair damp from the greenhouse condensation. Neither spoke. Everything that needed saying had already been said with their hands.
They took a side corridor, avoiding the main hall. The laughter from the Great Hall had long faded, and only the walls remained, echoing with their own stories.
But when they turned the corner toward the North Tower, they saw him.
Charlie.
Leaning against the railing, arms crossed, still in his teaching robes, a folder tucked under one arm. Hermione felt her body tense. Draco did too.
Charlie saw them. The three locked eyes.
For a moment, no one said a word.
Until Charlie, without moving, spoke in a low voice:
“Don’t worry. I’m not here to play the overprotective older brother.”
He passed beside them as if he meant to keep walking, but stopped next to Hermione.
“Are you really happy?”
Hermione swallowed.
“I am. Truly.”
Charlie nodded. He didn’t smile. But his eyes held no anger. Only an honest kind of tiredness.
And something else: a recent peace, like someone who’d reached it after a long walk. He remembered what his father had told him when he saw the disappointment in his face during the Easter dinner—not because of Aurélie, as he thought then, but because of Hermione:
“You can live with not being chosen… but not with refusing to accept that it was never your turn.”
Draco looked at Hermione. But she didn’t let go of his hand.
Charlie watched them for a moment longer. Him. Her. Their hands, still joined.
“I suppose I learned to love you like a sister before anything else, Hermione,” he said, looking straight into her eyes. “So if you’re happy with him… then I’ll be happy for you.”
Hermione felt her chest tighten. She stepped toward Charlie. She didn’t hug him, but she placed her open hand on his arm. He didn’t pull away.
“Thank you,” she said softly.
Charlie nodded. Then looked at Draco.
And for the first time… extended a hand.
“Take care of her.”
Draco hesitated for a moment, then clasped it firmly.
“Never had a doubt, Professor Weasley.”
Charlie looked down, swallowed hard, and walked away down the corridor without another word.
Hermione watched him go. She didn’t cry.
But when Draco touched her back, she turned to him and kissed him on the cheek.
“Thank you for not saying anything.”
“Sometimes silence is the only decent answer,” he whispered.
And they kept walking, now with something new between them:
Not just passion or promises, but space.
Space to be chosen… without needing to defend it.
The Great Hall smelled of freshly baked bread, strong coffee, and orange marmalade. The first rays of sunlight streamed through the stained-glass windows, casting house colors across the still half-empty tables. It was early. Just another Friday morning.
Hermione arrived with her hair slightly damp, tied into an improvised braid that still dripped at the ends. She carried a book under her arm and the kind of brightness in her eyes that only comes from a sleepless night—one she didn’t regret.
She sat beside Ginny and Theo, who were already arguing about an experimental potion that had exploded in the classroom the day before.
“All good?” Ginny asked, flashing a sideways smile.
Hermione nodded.
“Yes. Just… a good night.”
Theo raised an eyebrow.
“That was a cryptic smile. Did someone read you poetry or what?”
“Something like that,” she murmured, pouring herself a cup of tea with no further explanation.
Draco walked in a few minutes later, the collar of his uniform slightly rumpled, his hair messier than usual, and a faint red mark at the base of his throat—only visible to someone who knew exactly where to look.
He sat at the far end of the Slytherin table. Exchanged a few words with Zabini. Took a piece of bread. And then… looked up.
Hermione was already watching him.
They didn’t smile.
But he raised a single eyebrow.
And she, only she, understood that meant “good morning.”
Between them, the Great Hall carried on in its usual buzz. Students rushing in late. Quills floating midair with to-do lists. Ron entering with toast in his mouth. McGonagall crossing the room with three cups of coffee held in magical balance.
And in the middle of it all…
Hermione and Draco.
Looking.
Remembering.
Knowing.
That what they had wasn’t a secret—not because everyone knew about their relationship, but because it meant something far greater.
It was a refuge.
And for a moment, the entire universe didn’t need explaining. It only needed presence.
Because no matter where they were—even beyond the sky, in any corner of the universe, or thousands of miles apart—they would always find a way back.
Back to that place.
To the refuge they recognized as home.
They would return to each other, again and again.
And though they never spoke of the pact again, both could feel it.
The magic no longer weighed on them like a warning. It didn’t ache the way it used to.
It was beginning to settle.
As if the original spell—born of anger, disappointment, and pride—was shifting.
Adapting.
Responding to the love they had sworn to despise, but which, little by little, without realizing it, they had begun to feel.
It was no longer a punishment.
No longer a reckless vow.
It was the way magic had found to tell them:
“This is what you asked for. This is what you feared. This is what you are.”