mon étoile

The owl post had arrived sometime before midnight. The message was stamped with a Ministry seal and read,

“Please indicate whether further field engagement is authorized or if handover preparation should begin immediately.”

Hermione had stared at the line for ten minutes before setting it aside and getting ready for bed. She didn’t answer that night.

If anyone had asked her two weeks ago what she would do at this point, she would’ve said hand it off—easily. She’d stabilized the patients. She’d laid the groundwork. Any capable healer could follow her notes and finish the job. That was the whole point of these placements: do the hard bit, then move on.

But as she dressed the next morning, tugging on her boots with more force than necessary, she admitted to herself—quietly, begrudgingly—that she wasn’t done. Not really.

It wasn’t about needing more data. It wasn’t even about wanting to finish the job herself.

She didn’t trust anyone else to look past their Marks.
To see Theo under the charm, or Draco beneath the scowl.
To try.

She pulled out fresh parchment, scribbled one line, and sealed it with her wand:

“Field engagement to continue. No handover necessary.”

Once Pigwidgeon held still enough for her to attach the message, he took off like a shot.

By the time she stepped into the Floo, arms full of fresh Prophet issues and Witch Weekly, Hermione already knew—if she was going to stay, she was going all in.

The hospital wing was quiet. Theo and Draco were seated across the room, heads tilted in silent conversation. Their hands moved through a series of simple signs—quick, efficient, private. It had become their preferred language in the open ward.

They were physically recovering, yes. But something about their stillness unnerved her. They were stagnant. Cooped up. Hollowed out.

Azkaban had taken too much.

She cleared her throat. "You two spend all day here recovering, bored out of your minds. It's not sustainable."

Theo perked up immediately. "Well, if you're offering to host a strip poker tournament—"

"No," she said flatly. "I'm suggesting we try something different. My office is private, spacious. Books, space to stretch your legs. Engage your brains again."

Draco looked skeptical.

"Read something that isn’t the yogurt label."

Theo deadpanned, "I’ve learned a lot about our food system since incarceration."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Suit yourself. If you want to bond with your cot forever, that's fine."

“Got any spare parchment in there? Maybe a quill?”

Hermione arched a brow. “Pen pal?”

“No, I want to do a nude sketch of Draco.”

Across the room, Draco was staring at the ceiling—just sighed.

Hermione smirked. “Charming. Let me get Mr. Muse settled first.”

Draco stood straighter than she’d seen yet. Still pale. Still trembling sometimes. But steady.

He refused her arm, of course, so she hovered nearby, ready to catch him if he faltered.

At her office threshold, she paused. “The ward only allows entry if I touch the band.”

Draco hesitated, then extended his left arm—the magical suppression band circling his forearm just below the fading Mark.

She met his eyes, steady and unhurried, mindful of how easily he flinched when caught off guard. Her fingers wrapped around the band, thumb brushing lightly across the runes. With a gentle tug at his wrist, she guided him forward.

The wards shimmered as they accepted him.

The moment he crossed the threshold, he recoiled. “Bollocks,” he hissed, hands flying to his ears.

Hermione winced, rushing to her boom box. Rebel Rebel was still blaring. She flicked the dial down. "Sorry. I need background noise to focus."

"How do you concentrate with all that racket?"

His first full sentence to her in years, and it was a complaint. She grinned.

Instead of answering, she crossed to the shelves, scanning spines with practiced fingers. Without making a show of it, she selected a well-worn volume on magical theory and a second that was more narrative than academic—something she thought might actually hold his interest. She set them on the small table beside the couch without explanation and moved to the door.

Draco glanced at the books, but didn’t touch them. His expression was unreadable, eyes trailing her like he was still waiting for the catch.

When she returned with Theo minutes later—who entered dramatically, as if the office were a stage and he was its star—she found Draco leaning back on the couch, one leg casually crossed over the other, the thinner book already open in his lap.

She didn’t comment. Just allowed herself the smallest, quietest victory.

Theo plopped beside Draco without hesitation, one leg folded up, arm resting on the back of the couch like he owned the place. Draco didn’t flinch, didn’t shift—just turned a page.

They looked like brothers.

Hermione stood frozen for a beat too long before remembering herself. She ducked into a drawer, pulled out a fresh notebook and a decent quill, and handed them to Theo.

When she glanced back, they were already shoulder to shoulder—Theo’s knee pressed casually against Draco’s thigh as he scribbled on the parchment, tongue poking out in concentration. Draco sat beside him, half-scowling, fully focused. She hadn’t seen either of them engaged like this since their days in Hogwarts’ library.

The music played low in the background now. Not quite loud enough to distract, but just enough to hum beneath the moment for her to get to work.

An hour passed.

Her notes now spanned half the parchment in front of her, scribbled lines crossing each other, spells crossed out, arrows and corrections everywhere. She hadn’t realized she was muttering until she looked up and found two sets of eyes watching her.

Theo raised his brows dramatically. “Did you just call yourself a ‘short-sighted twat?’”

Hermione blinked. “No—”

“You did,” Draco said, not looking up from his page. “Then you argued with yourself about it.”

Theo leaned forward. “We weren’t going to say anything, but the hand-gesturing’s gotten a little violent.”

Hermione groaned, pressing her hands over her face. “I’m used to working alone, alright?”

“Don’t stop on our account. It’s the most exciting thing that’s happened to us all year,” Theo said brightly.

She huffed but smiled into her palm.

The Bowie album ended at some point and noticed the silence filled the room, Hermione stood and stretched. She moved to the small workspace in the corner she’d converted into a potion station and checked on the vial of conductive solution she was tinkering with.

Behind her, Theo had migrated to flipping through Witch Weekly, Draco still nose-deep in his book.

“Get out!” Theo suddenly exclaimed, elbowing Draco to get his attention. “Parks writes for Witch Weekly! Listen to this riveting journalism—‘This Season’s Lip Liner: Tasteful or Trashy?’ I don’t know, personally I’m an arse guy. I couldn’t care less what a bint’s lips are painted with. What do you think, Granger?”

Hermione smirked but ignored the question. “Are you both still close with Pansy?” she asked instead. “Well… before…” She trailed off, realizing she might have put her foot in her mouth the second Theo’s face fell.

His gaze flickered to Draco, something unspoken passing between them. His usual easy expression tightened before he dipped his chin slightly, eyes lowering to the magazine in his lap. “She, uh… it’s been a while since Parks wanted anything to do with us.”

Hermione hesitated. She had been curious but wouldn’t push. If they didn’t want to talk about it—

“She was right to, honestly,” Theo continued on his own, voice quieter now. “We… worked with her father in the fall of seventh year.”

Draco turned a page in his book, but he wasn’t reading. His knuckles had gone white where they rested against the paper.

“We were still too green to be assigned anything alone, so we were sent with someone more experienced. It was a raid,” Theo said, tone clinical. Detached. “Some Muggle sanctuary. There was a girl—looked barely Hogwarts age. Scared the shit out of me, and I… I couldn’t hex her.”

He exhaled through his nose, jaw tightening. “Then the Muggle weapons started going off. Loud. Close. She bolted. I bolted. I ran to find Drake.”

Theo’s fingers traced absent patterns on the magazine cover. He wasn’t looking at her anymore.

“He was hit,” he murmured, still staring down. “He’d been distracted. Looking for me.”

Hermione flicked her gaze to Draco, but he was still staring at the page in his book like he could will himself somewhere else.

“I tried to stop the bleeding, but while I was at it… no one had Mr. Parkinson’s back.”

Silence.

“The Dark Lord doesn’t accept excuses,” Theo finally said, voice hollow. “Doesn’t care if you’re bleeding out.”

Hermione’s stomach twisted.

For once, she didn’t know what to say.

Theo was still staring at some distant point, expression haunted. “I couldn’t…” He swallowed. “There was just… so much blood. I—”

“What happened?” Hermione asked before she could think better of it.

To her surprise, it wasn’t Theo who answered.

“I killed them all.”

Draco’s voice was calm. Too calm for the words he’d just spoken.

Hermione’s breath caught.

He didn’t look at her. Didn’t move. Just turned a page in the book on his lap, like he hadn’t just confessed to mass murder.

Theo didn’t speak at first, then quietly—almost reverently—said, “We got out of there. Barely. He punished us anyway.”

Draco still didn’t look up.

And that’s when it hit her—he wasn’t telling her to unburden himself. He was resigning himself to what came next. He’d handed her the worst part of himself and was waiting for her to flinch.

Finally, he lifted his head, his gray eyes unreadable. “So. Still going to be nice to me after that, or are we done pretending?”

But instead of the revulsion Draco expected, her heart ached.

Not because of what he’d done, but because she understood why.

He had done it to protect Theo.
To limit the punishment.
To survive.

Draco scoffed at her silence and looked away, head shaking slightly.

Theo cleared his throat, like he needed to fill the silence. “Pansy hasn’t spoken to us since.”

Hermione exhaled slowly. “So… Pansy doesn’t have the Mark?”

“No.” Theo’s voice was quieter now. “Only male heirs were invited.”

Hermione’s mind was already spinning, but she pressed on.

“One of my theories,” she said carefully, “is that something in the ceremony changed. A variable that could explain the long-term effects. Can you walk me through how you received the Mark?”

Draco didn’t look up. His eyes stayed glued to the book in his lap, unmoving.

Theo, after a pause, gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Just a lot of theatrics—dark robes, Latin chanting, an oath of loyalty, some light torture.” He tapped his forearm.

“A ritual, then,” Hermione murmured, more to herself than anyone else. “Not just a branding.”

Theo nodded. “Oh, definitely. You swear your vow, drink something foul from a goblet, and then they Mark you. It’s all very... dramatic. Classic Death Eater pageantry.”

Hermione stilled. “Wait. You drank something?”

Draco signed something quick and sharp without lifting his head.

Theo translated, voice dry: “‘To toast our eternal servitude.’ That’s what He called it. Very poetic.”

Her quill hovered over the parchment. “And this was part of the Marking ceremony?”

“It was for the ones we were at,” Theo said, then added, “And the night of the comet. He called it a ‘divine sign.’ I’m shite at Latin, but the vows that night were a bit different—something about purpose and loyalty.”

Draco tapped a finger to his lips, then splayed his hand across his palm.

Theo gave a low whistle. “Ah, yes. And a little blood sacrifice. He Who Has No Nose loved his theatrics.”

The rhythm of Hermione’s thoughts picked up speed.
Vows. Blood. A shared vessel. A celestial event.
That was ritual bonding.

She stared at the two wizards across from her—both sitting on her makeshift couch, pretending to read. But neither of their eyes moved across the page.

The slivers of information she’d gathered from them over the past three weeks—casual remarks, flinched reactions, reluctant details to her questions—had started as disjointed clues.

Now, they were forming a picture.

Not of loyal Death Eaters.

But of two boys born into this. Trained for it. Branded and bound by oaths before they were old enough to truly understand them. Dragged into the darkness by fathers who called it duty, by a world that expected compliance, not choice.

They had been Marked, yes.

But not willingly. Not in the ways that mattered.

Hermione’s fingers curled tightly around her quill.

She wasn’t supposed to feel this way.
She was supposed to hate them, they are Death Eaters.
Just as they have been taught to hate her, she’s a Mudblood.

They had done terrible things. Things that couldn’t be undone.
But did that mean they were terrible?

They weren’t innocent.

But they also weren’t monsters.

And for the first time since this assignment began, she let herself wonder—not just how to fix them, but whether they deserved to be saved.

Not because they were her patients.
But because they were human.