mon étoile

The damned universe had it out for her.

Hermione had finally found her first promising lead since taking the assignment—only to be yanked away from Azkaban for four interminable days. She hadn’t expected to spend more than a week at the prison, so she’d packed her schedule with Ministry meetings on Monday and Tuesday—none of which she could cancel without causing an uproar. At least the detour would give her time to gather the books she’d mentally cataloged during the ferry ride home at the end of the day on Friday.

Still, she silently cursed Harry James Potter to the depths of hell as she stepped into Grimmauld Place. His insufferable “no work at home” rule meant she’d have to stew for forty-eight hours before she could so much as crack a research tome—unless she got creative.

After dinner and her nightly routine, she downed a vial of Dreamless Sleep and collapsed into bed, knowing full well her thoughts wouldn’t let her rest otherwise.

Now, morning sunlight crept across the ceiling, pulling her back into consciousness. To her right, Ron snored loudly, his face half-buried in her silk pillow. The faint tickle of curls in her peripheral vision warned her of the fight she’d face taming them later.

Careful not to wake Ron, she slid out of bed, tugged her dressing gown from the chair, and padded barefoot down the stairs toward the kitchen.

With her coffee brewing in the Muggle machine, Hermione retrieved the morning’s Daily Prophet from the table, planning to savor a slow morning for once. She hadn’t had the mental bandwidth for current events during the week, and she fully intended to read every inch of the paper.

The headline stretched across the front page in bold, unmissable lettering:

THE GOLDEN TRIO GO TO AZKABAN:
HERMIONE THE HEROINE LOOKS TO CURE CONVICTED DEATH EATERS

Beneath the headline, a photograph captured their arrival at the Anchorage Café at the beginning of the week. The image flickered through the moment they stepped out of the Floo and into the blinding chaos of reporters. The pop of flashbulbs lit their faces in stark relief as the crowd surged closer.

Harry led the way, shoulders squared, green eyes scanning the sea of photographers with the sharp vigilance of a seasoned Auror. His jaw clenched tight against the barrage of shouted questions. Ron flanked Hermione’s other side, eyes sweeping for threats as his broad frame shielded her from the press closing in. And Hermione—tucked between them, her hand curled tightly around Ron’s elbow—moved with a practiced smile that barely masked the tension in her shoulders. Even through the photograph’s grainy monochrome, their old battle rhythm was unmistakable.

She took a breath before reading on.

Many reports claim that the Golden Girl, Hermione Granger, has not lost her bleeding heart—eagerly volunteering to convert convicted Death Eaters to the light side. Seizing the opportunity to worm her way into their hearts by healing their wounds—quite literally—Granger appears determined to see redemption where none exists.

Inmates' sentences at the end of The Dark Lord’s demise are reportedly claiming mysterious ailments. An anonymous source within Azkaban stated, “These so-called symptoms are just another deception. The Sacred 28 aren’t used to living like common witches and wizards, so naturally, they’re feigning illness to improve their conditions—softer sheets, better meals, and warmer cells. It’s a collective campaign, and Granger’s fallen for it- hook, line, and sinker.”

Warden Ascroft assured the public that Azkaban’s leadership remains impartial: “Rest assured, the inmates convicted after You-Know-Who’s downfall receive no special treatment. After twenty-six years of running this prison, you learn to distinguish genuine illness from dramatics.”

In the absence of Dementors—who once patrolled Azkaban’s stone corridors, siphoning hope from every soul—the Ministry has taken alternative measures to maintain order. Since the decision to banish Dementors to an isolated tundra in the far north, where their presence no longer chills the air or feeds off human despair, security within the prison has relied on human vigilance. The Dementors, corralled within an open-air prison maintained by a specialized force of Animagi—immune to the creatures’ influence—no longer haunt the wizarding world. Yet their absence has made containing Azkaban’s most dangerous inmates a greater challenge.

Perhaps this explains why none other than Harry Potter and Ron Weasley—Granger’s long-time companions—have accompanied her on this mission. Potter and Weasley, both decorated Aurors, have been seen by her side, ostensibly serving as her security detail. Still, some question whether their presence is truly necessary—or whether their fame is simply meant to shield Granger from the inevitable fallout of her latest crusade.

And make no mistake: Granger has already chosen her favorites. Sources confirm that Draco Malfoy and Theodore Nott—both former classmates of the so-called Golden Trio—have been granted extended stays in the prison’s hospital wing. Though their list of crimes rivals the trio’s list of accolades, Granger’s selective compassion ensures that her former peers receive the lion’s share of her care, while other inmates were returned back to their cells.

So what drives Hermione Granger’s latest endeavor? Is her position within the Department of Mysteries not challenging enough to satisfy the brightest witch of her age? Or is this yet another notch on her belt—a chance to play savior, to prove once again that she can succeed where others have failed?

Only time will tell.

“Oof, I know that face. Who’s earned your eternal wrath this time, Ms. Granger?”

Ginny stood at the bottom of the stairs, wand flicking toward the kettle with a casual grace. The faint hum of heating water filled the space as she shot Hermione a smirk. “Let me guess—Skeeter’s at it again?”

“No, she knows better by now. It’s her obnoxious little protégé, Lars Farson,” Hermione huffed, shoving the newspaper toward Ginny.

Ginny snatched it up, eyes scanning the front page before snorting. “Oh, right, because you’re spending your days painting nails and braiding hair with convicted Death Eaters.”

Hermione didn’t respond. She was already pacing the length of the kitchen, hands flailing as she spluttered a half-coherent rant. “Who the— What do they— What was I—” She flung her hands toward the ceiling as if appealing to some unseen deity. “I’m doing my actual job, Ginerva! Special treatment? Do they think I want to spend my days with Draco sodding Malfoy?”

“Oi! Don’t full-government-name me! I didn’t write the bloody article,” Ginny shot back. Then, her smirk turned sly as she lowered her voice, glancing toward the doorway as if expecting Harry to appear out of thin air. “But... is that bit true? You’ve actually got the two of them in the hospital wing?”

Hermione exhaled, rubbing her temples. “They’re in awful shape, Gin. They’d be dead if we hadn’t gotten there this week.”

Ginny’s expression shifted, her teasing replaced with something softer—concern, maybe, or sympathy. Hermione wasn’t sure which was worse.

Still, the damned newspaper sat between them like a taunt.

“Well, if Farson thinks I’m going to sit here quietly while he slanders my—”

“Absolutely not.”

Ginny was on her feet in an instant, planting herself squarely between Hermione and the desk in the corner—the one piled with spare parchment and quills practically begging to be used for a scathing rebuttal. Years of playing Seeker had clearly paid off because Hermione’s attempt to dodge around her was swiftly intercepted.

“You’re not writing to him,” Ginny warned, holding her ground like she was defending the Quidditch World Cup. “Sit your grumpy arse down and read about the new Bowtrickle legislation that just passed. You know as well as I do that responding will only make it worse.”

Hermione made one more half-hearted attempt to slip past her, but Ginny blocked her again with a smug tilt of her head. Defeated, Hermione dropped into the nearest chair with a dramatic huff, reclaiming her coffee with both hands.

Satisfied that the desk was no longer in danger, Ginny flicked the newspaper back onto the table. “There. Now be a good little Ministry official and get your daily dose of current events.”

Hermione scowled but didn’t argue. She picked up the paper again with a muttered string of threats under her breath—something about Farson’s quill mysteriously transfiguring into a Blast-Ended Skrewt—and continued reading in sullen silence until mid-morning.

It was still too early for the boys to wake up on their own, which meant Hermione had time to disappear into the Black Library without interruption.

The familiar scent of old parchment and aged leather calmed her the moment she stepped inside. Unlike Hogwarts' expansive library, this one felt curated—every tome was here for a reason. A legacy of power and secrecy, built by generations of Blacks who understood dark magic better than anyone.

If she wanted answers, this was the place to start.

She traced her fingers along the spines of books bound in dragonhide and cursed vellum, pulling titles that sounded promising. Magical Signatures and Residual Traces.Dark Marks: The Permanence of Unforgivable Bonds.Blood and Binding: Ancient Magic in Modern Use.

Hermione flipped to the indexes, scanning for terms that matched her suspicions: magical signature degradation, binding magic deterioration, residual dark energy. 

She was alone—without Harry’s scrutiny or Ron’s misplaced worry. Without reporters twisting her actions into something grotesque. For the first time in days, she had the space to breathe.

Still, she wasn’t supposed to be working.

With a sigh, she sank into the reading room’s armchair and pulled out her book club’s novel—The Hours, a story of three women across different time periods, their lives intertwined by Virginia Woolf’s Mrs. Dalloway. A respectable choice. A non-work choice.

She was complying. Reluctantly.

She read two chapters. Or, she tried to. Her eyes moved over the words, registering them in pieces—Clarissa arranging flowers, Laura baking a cake, Virginia pacing the length of her home—but none of it truly landed. The sentences slipped through her mind without sinking in.

Her thoughts kept drifting—Azkaban. The hospital wing. Theo’s hands shaping words she couldn’t yet decipher. Draco, silent, saying nothing at all.

She wanted answers. The books sheneeded were sitting within arm’s reach—spines gleaming with something far more pressing than the musings of fictional women.

She lasted another page and a half before snapping the novel shut.

With a flick of her wand, Secrets of the Darkest Art, The Rise and Fall of Dark Arts, and Blood Magic and Sacrifice slid from the shelf into her beaded bag.

There. Now she was really complying. No research—at least not until she left the house.

By now, the sounds of movement upstairs signaled the boys stirring. She took it as her cue to slip away.

Back in her room, she rolled her eyes at the disaster Ron had left behind—pillow on the floor, blankets kicked halfway off the bed. With a flick of her wand, the sheets smoothed, the pillows arranged themselves neatly.

Old habits.

She grabbed her favorite pair of Muggle jeans, a ribbed turtleneck, and one of Ron’s maroon jumpers, pulling them on quickly.

She didn’t have it in her to reassure Harry and Ron that she was fine. That the article wasn’t getting to her. That she wasn’t unraveling under the weight of all of this.

So she didn’t.

Instead, she slipped out the door before either of them could stop her.

When she landed in Diagon Alley, Hermione discreetly cast a revealing charm, scanning for any lingering cameras or lurking reporters. Satisfied that her early arrival had worked in her favor - shopkeepers were unlocking doors, floating out their displays, and propping up menus. The scent of coffee and fresh parchment curled through the crisp air as witches and wizards bustled through the cobblestone streets, starting their day.

Knockturn Alley, however, was still clinging to the night before.

The moment she stepped past the archway, it was like crossing an invisible threshold between two worlds. Here, the lantern light was dimmer, the alley’s winding paths still slick from the early morning damp. The lingering scent of alcohol, burnt herbs, and stale smoke laced the air, a stark contrast to the bright, buzzing energy just beyond. The crowd was different too—Diagon Alley was full of fresh faces greeting the day, while Knockturn was full of stragglers from the night before. Hooded figures loitered in doorways, haggling over dubious potions. A pair of witches were murmuring in hushed tones outside Borgin and Burkes, exchanging something wrapped in old velvet. A wizard slumped against a lamppost, eyes hazy, wand clutched loosely in his fingers.

No one looked twice at her, and she preferred it that way.

She had spent most of Thursday night putting out feelers, reaching out to old contacts who still owed her favors or, at the very least, wouldn’t turn her away outright. Her reputation in places like Knockturn Alley was complicated—half the people here probably despised her on principle, and the other half respected her just enough to listen before slamming the door in her face.

She had anticipated at least a dozen dead ends before finding a viable lead. Instead, she’d been pointed to a name she already knew.

Marcellus Greaves.

A former curse-breaker turned artifacts dealer, operating out of a nondescript, half-hidden shop at the very end of the alley.

The bell above the door barely made a sound when she pushed inside. The shop was cluttered, dark, the kind of place where dust clung to the air and everything looked vaguely cursed. Shelves lined the walls, stacked high with aged scrolls, cracked crystal orbs, and locked boxes that pulsed faintly with residual magic.

A man hunched behind the counter, thin and wiry, his long fingers lazily sorting through a pile of enchanted trinkets. His sharp, beady eyes flicked up the moment she entered, raking over her face before settling on her wand.

“Granger,” he murmured, voice like dry parchment. “Right on time.”

She pulled out a small pouch, setting it on the counter without preamble. “You have what I asked for?”

A slow smirk curled at his lips. “You don’t waste time, do you?”

“No,” she said, leveling him with a look. “And neither should you.”

Greaves reached beneath the counter, producing a small, intricately carved case. He clicked it open with a flick of his wrist, revealing a thin, circular disk no larger than a Galleon. Goblin-made silver, darkened with age, with a faintly glowing rune at its center.

“Last of its kind,” he murmured, watching her carefully. “Tricky to come by, what with the goblins keepin’ a close eye on their work these days. You’re lucky I had an old contact willing to part with it—for a price.”

Hermione barely resisted the urge to snatch it up. Instead, she took a steady breath, inspecting the delicate engravings along the edges. It wasn’t perfect—she could already see the magic within it was unstable, flickering like a guttering flame. It would need regular reinforcement, careful maintenance.

But it would work.

She closed the case with a snap. “What’s wrong with it?”

Greaves chuckled, the sound low and rasping. “Smart girl. The enchantment won’t hold indefinitely. Needs a steady charge of magic to keep it functional. And if it burns out completely?” He shrugged. “It’s dead weight.”

Hermione exhaled sharply. She had expected as much. “How often will it need to be reinforced?”

“Every few weeks, give or take. Sooner if it sees heavy use.”

It wasn’t ideal. But it was better than nothing.

She pushed the pouch of Galleons across the counter. “I’ll take it.”

Greaves chuckled, tucking the pouch away. “Pleasure doin’ business.”

Hermione stepped out of the shop, tucking the case into her beaded bag with practiced ease.

She had prepared herself for a chase, for doors slamming in her face, for names with too many conditions. She hadn’t expected Greaves to already have what she needed.

Or, more accurately, to still have it.

A piece of history, a relic from a mother who had seen the world closing in on her son and had tried, against all odds, to make it a little easier.

Theo wouldn’t know about the lengths she’d gone to get this. About the favors she’d called in, the uncomfortable steps she’d taken into a world she had spent years dismantling.

But it didn’t matter.

All that mattered was that, for the first time since he had been dragged into that cursed prison, he would finally be able to hear again.

She apparated right out of Knocturn around the corner from her favorite independent book store. A few hours were easily burned in the aisles, adding to her ever growing stack at the cash register. There was careful time spent in the language section, trying to choose the most thorough and comprehensive instruction on British Sign Language. The very basics were a refresher, she had a classmate in primary school who was hard of hearing and had an interpreter that mesmerized small Hermione. She demanded that her parents take her to the library so she could soak up as much as she could. 

Hermione balanced the weight of her bag as she stepped out of the bookstore, shifting it higher on her shoulder. It was heavier than intended—more than just the British Sign Language books she had come for.

But that was always the case.

A title would catch her eye, a subject she hadn’t mastered yet, a skill she might need one day. She couldn’t help herself.

If she could anticipate every outcome, if she could prepare for every eventuality, then maybe—just maybe—she could stop things from spiraling beyond her control.

By the time she reached the farmers’ market, she’d talked herself out of regretting the extra purchases. She could make room. She always did.

She had her heart set on a ratatouille, something that she could cook the muggle way and keep her hands busy .The kitchen was a disaster by the time she served dinner, but it was worth it. Warm food, loud conversation, the comfort of a full house. Ron groaned after his third serving, stretching out in his chair with the satisfied exhaustion of someone who’d eaten well beyond necessity.

“Alright, that’s it,” he declared, voice a little looser than it had been an hour ago, the half-empty bottle of firewhisky beside him explaining why. “We’re staying in tonight. Just the four of us. No work. No nonsense.”

Ginny smirked, propping her chin in her hand. “You mean no responsibilities?”

He clinked his glass against hers. “Exactly.”

“Fine, but I’m in charge of snacks,” Ginny said, already standing.

“No one’s surprised,” Harry muttered, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck. Hermione transfigured the couch cushions to cover the entire floor, casting a Gemino Charm on the pillows so they had enough to pile into a proper nest. Ginny returned, arms full, a little too triumphant for just a snack run.

The movie debate started before they even sat down, Ron insisting on some Muggle classic he would absolutely sleep through. Ginny only half-listened, distracted, eyes flickering toward the window as if weighing the thought of slipping out, finding trouble somewhere else.

Harry eventually settled the argument, leaning against the back of the couch like he hadn’t fully let himself relax yet.

By the time the film started, the four of them had settled into an effortless tangle of limbs, the practiced familiarity of people who had spent too many nights like this—propping each other up, holding each other together.

Ron lasted an hour before he was dead weight against Hermione’s shoulder, snoring softly.

Ginny sprawled across the pillow nest, Harry using her stomach as a pillow, his fingers tapping idly against the hem of his sleeve—like there was something restless under his skin that still hadn’t burned out.

Hermione tucked her feet beneath her, head resting back against the couch. She wasn’t tired. She never really let herself be tired.

The credits rolled, and Harry nudged her leg.

“You okay?”

She hummed a vague confirmation.

Harry wasn’t convinced. “That’s not an answer.”

She sighed, tilting her head back. “I’m fine.”

“Convincing.”

“I’m serious.”

Harry studied her for a moment. “You weren’t working today, were you?”

She rolled her eyes. “It’s just a very interesting puzzle, and I’m trying to put it on hold until Monday.”

He exhaled a slow breath, shaking his head. “You know, you spent six years keeping me alive, then another two keeping me alive while saving the world. You can take a break.”

She huffed. “And what if, in the life I choose, I like solving unsolvable puzzles?”

He smirked. “And what if you push too hard, and your brain short-circuits?”

She snorted, nudging his leg in return.

Harry let his eyes slip shut, but his breathing never made it to the point of completely leveling out.Then—the grandfather clock struck midnight.

Ginny stirred first, eyes sparking with mischief.

“Oh, Harry!” Ginny sang out.

His entire body tensed.

“No,” he said immediately, already trying to escape.

But he was trapped, pinned beneath Ginny’s knee before he could make a proper getaway.

And then—with no shame whatsoever—she began to sing.

“His eyes are as green as a fresh pickled toad,
His hair is as dark as a blackboard…”

Harry groaned, trying to shove her off, but she was relentless.

Hermione and Ron shared a look.

And then—on cue, they joined in.

“I wish he was mine, he’s really divine,
The hero who conquered the Dark Lord.”

Harry let out a strangled yell as Ginny cackled in victory.

And for the first time all week, Hermione truly laughed.

A real, unburdened laugh.

Hermione signed up for a kickboxing class the next afternoon while Ron, Ginny, and Harry headed to practice with their Quidditch team. She agreed to meet them afterward for drinks, knowing full well they’d be coming straight from practice, sweaty and buzzing with leftover adrenaline.

She skipped the effort of dressing up, opting for a freshening charm, her hair twisted into a messy bun. No wand, no fuss. It was a familiar crowd—no one to impress.

Double Double was exactly as expected: a post-match locker room in both scent and energy. Laughter and cheers echoed over the clatter of glasses, the air thick with the tang of sweat and spilled ale. The kind of place where memories the next morning were more suggestion than certainty.

Ginny found her first, already grinning as she grabbed Hermione’s wrist.

“Shot first, then we sit.”

Hermione huffed but let herself be dragged to the bar, where Ginny slammed back a firewhisky while Hermione opted for a Godric’s Gin on the rocks.

“Good practice?” she asked, raising her voice over the noise.

Ginny smirked, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Scrimmaged another team. We won, obviously, but they were good sports. Some of them tagged along—” she gestured toward the packed tables, “—hence the absolute state of this place.”

By the time they reached the back booth, Hermione was dodging wayward elbows and sidestepping Ginny, who had to be physically restrained from throwing hands at least twice.

Ron was face down on the table, surrounded by an impressive graveyard of empty glasses. Katie Bell absently patted his head while chatting with Dean Thomas.

“Rough game, Ronald?”

A muffled groan. Something about a bludger and dying.

Ginny translated lazily. “Took a bludger to the ribs at close range. He’s fine, but the noises he made convinced the other team to call it.” She shrugged. “Bit dramatic, if you ask me.”

With that, Ginny peeled off toward another booth packed with players in sweat-drenched jerseys, where Harry and George were deep in an argument over the Holyhead Harpies’ stats this season.

Hermione slid into the seat beside Ron. “Alright, let’s see how bad it really is.”

He lifted his head just enough to reveal a red imprint on his forehead from the table.

“One to ten, Ronald.”

“Forty-seven.”

“Well, that’s not helpful.”

A quick diagnostic confirmed no concussion, just the looming promise of a killer headache.

“You should go home,” she said, nudging him up. “Sitting in a bar this loud isn’t going to help.”

Ron grumbled something unintelligible, then immediately draped his full weight over her as he stood.

“Oof—okay, alright, let’s go before you collapse in the bloody fireplace.”

Getting him through the floo was a feat of strength and patience, but once she deposited him safely at Grimmauld Place, she returned to the booth where Katie, Dean, and her drink were waiting.

This time, no Quidditch talk. Thank Merlin.

Instead, they were deep in debate over the Dementors and the trouble they were causing the Ministry.

“We’ve got a few people stationed in Iceland monitoring their restlessness,” Dean said, swirling the last of his drink. “They’re starving up there. No humans, no souls to feed on. Should’ve just wiped them out while we had the chance.”

Hermione bristled. “They’re sentient beings, Dean. We don’t get to decide their extinction just because we don’t like them.”

Dean smirked, tilting his glass toward her. “Of course you’d say that, Hermione the Heroine. Is this your next passion project?”

She pointed a warning finger at him. “Don’t even start, Thomas. That Lars git is lucky I’m reformed, or I’d be dragging his sorry arse through your office to demand a retraction.”

Dean chuckled, shaking his head. “Pity. We haven’t had a proper scandal at the Prophet since Skeeter retired. Things are dull without your howlers echoing through the halls.”

“Like I said. Reformed.”

It was easy to lose herself in the chatter, the drinks, the mindless rhythm of arguments over politics and Quidditch and which Hogwarts house had the best parties.

Until some cocky player from the other team got a little too bold, hand sliding up Hermione’s thigh like he had a death wish.

Before Harry could even push back from his booth, she had her wand out—a flick of the wrist and the idiot was knocked clean off his stool.

Dean nearly choked laughing.

The mood stayed rowdy, drunken debates spilling into slurred confessions, heads tilting together in conspiratorial whispers, bodies leaning closer as the night blurred.

Hermione wasn’t drunk, but the room was. It was the perfect time to leave.

She scanned the pub for Ginny and Harry, ready to wrangle them into the Floo before the night turned into something regrettable.

Hermione’s eyes flicked toward the back of the pub, where she’d seen a flash of red hair just moments ago.

She stepped into the alley, expecting to find Ginny laughing with a cigarette between her fingers, maybe taking a last shot with one of the other players.

Instead, the space was empty.

Ginny was gone.

Hermione sighed. That was the thing about Ginny. You never quite knew whether she had vanished into the night for trouble or for company.

That just left Harry.

Harry was still at the booth, but the tone of the small crowd had shifted.

The conversation wasn’t light anymore—no more Quidditch stats, no more bets over next week’s matches. The group around him was leaning in, their tones lower, sharper, baiting.

And Harry had that look.

That dangerous, restlessness that had followed him out of the war. That itch beneath his skin that he only ever scratched in fights he didn’t plan on winning.

She didn’t wait for him to take the bait.

She looped her arm through his, effortlessly tugging him away.

“Time to go,” she said, plucking the firewhisky from his hand before he could argue.

His jaw flexed. But he didn’t fight her.

She thanked Past-Hermione for brewing her special hangover potion in bulk, shoving one in Harry’s hand before retreating to her room.

She changed quickly, braiding her hair with quick, practiced movements.

She should be tired. She should be relaxed after a weekend spent doing everything in her power not to think about work.

But it had all been a temporary illusion.

Tomorrow, she’d be back in to the Ministry.

Then forty eight hours before she was back in Azkaban.

The tension in her shoulders returned as if it had never left, her mind already sorting through the next steps, the next move, the next crisis.

She stared at the ceiling for a long time before finally giving up on sleep.

There was too much to do.