Cold Water

The next morning found the burrow bathed in soft amber glow as Harry stepped out of Ron's room and made his way downstairs for breakfast—the same time as Ginny emerged from her room.

She paused mid-step, her red hair slightly mussed from sleep as she looked at him. 

Her brown eyes met his, shining with a muted knowing glint as a smile tugged at her lips.

Harry felt his own mouth curve in response. 

Without a word, they both reached for each other’s hands, her fingers slipping easily into his. 

He squeezed them gently as together, they descended the stairs, the quiet hush of morning filling the comfortable silence between them.

When they reached the kitchen, the familiar scent of freshly baked bread and sizzling bacon greeted them. 

Ron and Hermione were already there seated at the table, speaking in hushed tones. 

Judging from the faint pink dusting Hermione’s cheeks and the unmistakable red creeping up Ron’s ears told Harry enough that he doesn't want to know whatever it is they're talking about.

Percy is also already there, a copy of The Daily Prophet in his hands as a floral tea pot floats up magically in the air and pours him a cup. The pages of the newspaper rustling as he turns them with sharp efficiency. 

Meanwhile, Mrs. Weasley moved around the kitchen with practiced ease, guiding floating cutlery through the air and charming slices of ham to cut themselves before frying them merrily on a hot pan as she hummed under her breath. 

But despite the usual morning activity, George is nowhere to be found.  

Harry felt Ginny falter beside him for a moment but she continued on, her grip on his hand steady as they both took their seats at the table next to each other.

Ron, who is sitting across from them, looked up. 

His blue eyes flickered to Harry and Ginny’s joined hands for a brief moment but—to Harry’s relief—chose to not comment.  

“Morning,” he mumbled before turning back to his breakfast.  

Hermione, however, exchanged a knowing look with Ginny, her lips twitching slightly as if suppressing a smile.

Ginny grinned, then quickly sobered as Mrs. Weasley bustled over, fussing over her and Harry. 

Plates floated in front of them, already piled with strips of bacon and eggs.  

“Good morning, Mrs. Weasley,” Harry greeted softly, his voice warm but cautious, as if trying not to disturb the peaceful hush of the kitchen.  

Mrs. Weasley smiled at him, patting his shoulder lightly before returning to the stove.  

Ginny picked up her utensils and began eating, and Harry followed suit. 

The quiet comfort of the Burrow settled over them again—the occasional clink of cutlery, the soft rustle of the Daily Prophet in Percy’s hands, and the faint murmur of Ron and Hermione's conversation blending into the background.  

A few moments later, Percy tossed a glance at the Weasley grandfather clock, his brow furrowing. 

“Dad’s still not back.”  

The words hung in the air for a beat too long.  

Harry’s hand froze briefly over his plate. 

Across from him, Ron’s chewing slowed, and Hermione’s gaze flickered up for just a heartbeat—a quick and silent exchange passing between the three of them.

Then, just as quickly, they all resumed eating.  

Mrs. Weasley, seemingly unbothered, wiped her hands on her apron then grabbed the skillet toasting merrily at the stove.

“Your father sent an owl last night—said he’s been held back at the Ministry. Something with Kingsley.” She replied as she distributed the thin cuts of sizzling ham into their plates.  

However, the trio’s reaction didn’t go unnoticed.

Ginny’s brow furrowed slightly as her gaze darted between them, her brown eyes narrowing at the too-casual way Harry returned to his breakfast, the way Ron suddenly seemed very focused on his bacon, and the way Hermione toyed with the edge of her napkin.

Suspicion flickered in her gaze, but after a moment, she said nothing and returned to her meal, the quiet rhythm of the morning settling once more.  

However, it did not last long as Percy’s eyes drifted from the newspaper, landing squarely on the quiet trio—perhaps a fraction too long on Harry.

“How did the Malfoys’ trial go yesterday?” He asked, his voice as measured as ever though there was a slight edge of curiosity beneath the casual tone.  

Harry's jaw tightened, but before he could answer, Ron beat him to it.  

“’S okay, I suppose,” Ron muttered, echoing the same vague response he’d given his mother the night before. 

He punctuated the statement by stabbing a piece of ham with his fork and shoving it into his mouth, chewing a little bit too deliberately.  

Percy gave a slow, thoughtful nod, though his brow furrowed. His gaze flickered back to the Daily Prophet in his hands, the pages rustling softly as he scanned the headlines.

“For a trial that went well,” he said, his voice carefully neutral, “the Prophet seems awfully quiet about it. There’s nothing here—not a word.”

Harry's jaw tensed as he forced a nonchalant shrug, his eyes fixed firmly on his plate.

“Hm… odd,” he said softly, offering nothing more.  

Across him, Ron and Hermione mirrored his silence, both suddenly finding their breakfasts far more interesting than the conversation.  

And though Percy didn’t press the matter, his sharp gaze lingered on the three of them for a moment longer before he finally returned his full attention to his paper, the rustle of its pages once again filling the uneasy quiet.  

After a moment, Percy then cleared his throat as he set the paper aside with precise care.  

“Do any of you have prior engagements at the Ministry today?” He asked, his horn-rimmed glasses slipping slightly down the bridge of his nose and he adjusted them as he picked up his tea.  

“I’m heading there after breakfast, perhaps I could accompany you,” he added casually, taking a slow sip from the steaming liquid.

Harry cleared his throat softly. 

“Er—no,” he said, keeping his voice light. “I’m sure they’ll send an owl if they need any of us.”  

Ron gave a wordless nod, chewing on a bit of ham, while Hermione mirrored him, though her fingers tapped lightly against the handle of her fork.

Percy regarded them for a moment, his expression unreadable, then gave a small shrug as he picked up his teacup once more. 

“Alright,” he said simply, finishing the last of his tea in a single, unhurried sip.

Setting the cup down with a soft clink, he rose from his seat, smoothing down the front of his coat with a quick, practiced motion.

“I’m heading off now,” he announced before reaching for the briefcase resting beside his chair, its metal buckles shining.  

With a measured stride, he crossed the kitchen to Mrs. Weasley, bending slightly to place a brief kiss on her cheek.  

Mrs. Weasley offered her son a soft smile, patting his arm lightly, before following him toward the living room where the fireplace lay waiting for his departure, Percy’s perfectly pressed travel cloak hanging on her arm.

Ginny, however, said nothing.  

Her gaze followed Percy, but the quiet glare in her eyes spoke volumes. It wasn’t the fiery, open defiance she used to wield against him when she would gladly throw bowls of perfectly mashed parsnips on his face like on sixth-year’s Christmas eve—not anymore.  

Not since Fred. 

And not when they had only just gotten him back. 

Now, the silence between them felt heavier as she bit the inside of her cheek, swallowing whatever words threatening to rise, knowing fully well that it would only carve another crack into her mother’s already broken heart.  

Left alone, they continued eating through their breakfast that Mrs. Weasley had graciously prepared for them.

The only sounds in the kitchen were the soft clink of silverware against plates and the faint sound of chewing—until Percy’s alarmed shout from the living room echoed through the Burrow.  

The four of them froze.

In an instant, Harry, Ginny, Ron, and Hermione jumped to their feet. Their chairs scraping harshly against the wooden floor and toppling over in their haste.

In a flash, their wands were already drawn, fingers tight around in a familiar secure grip and spells ready at the tip of their tongues as they burst into the other room, hearts pounding.

The scene that greeted them was both jarring and surreal.  

Percy was pressed against the wall, shielding Mrs. Weasley behind him—his arm creating a protective barrier around his mother as his other hand clutched his wand while his briefcase lay forgotten on the ground, its organized contents scattered haphazardly in a chaotic mess as if it had been flung aside.

But it wasn’t an intruder.  

It was the fireplace.  

From its heart roared a large, wild blue flame—dancing violently. Its tendrils licking at the air as though it was alive, bright and crackling with an unnatural ferocity.  

"Percy, what did you do?!" Ron demanded, his voice sharp.  

“I didn’t do anything!” Percy shot back, his own wand shaking slightly at the flame’s unpredictable dance. Though his grip on their mother remained firm while Mrs. Weasley fought against him, her eyes wild as it frantically darted on him, Ron, Harry, Ginny and Hermione—her own wand at the ready.

But before anyone could react further, the fire surged again—this time flashing an intense, blinding white.  

Everyone flinched, shielding their eyes from the sudden flare of light.  

It was a fierce, unnatural blaze. Wild and untamed yet the room remained its usual temperature.

Not even a whisper of warmth came from the flames.  

“What’s going on?!”  

A voice bellowed from behind them.  

Harry spun sharply around toward the wooden staircase.  

And there, standing at the foot of the stairs was George.  

His face was a mask of cold fury, his jaw tight and his elbow lifted to shield his eyes from the blaze.

But it was the expression on his eyes that sent a shiver down Harry’s spine.  

There was nothing mischievous in George’s gaze—no spark of humor or wit that always dances in them.  

Only a simmering, silent rage.  

But just as George arrived, the wild flames flickered and extinguished itself, the violent white flames leaving the fireplace looking perfectly ordinary as if nothing had happened at all.  

But no one moved.  

Nor lowered their wands.  

Their eyes remained fixed warily on the  now-innocent fireplace, its quiet burning embers utterly unremarkable—except for the fact that they had been anything but moments ago.

But it did not end there as suddenly, a ripple of some sort of invisible magic spread in the air like a growing barrier—unseen yet undeniably felt in their cores like a strange current of warmth and cold.

Mrs. Weasley gasped softly, her hand flying to her chest as Percy’s brow furrowed in confusion as he looked around, startled.  

Ginny stiffened, her arms crossing as if to ward off the feeling though her expression remained hard, an uneasy wariness simmering beneath the surface.  

“What the bloody hell was that?” George’s voice cut through the silence, sharp and cold.  

But Harry didn’t answer.

Neither did Ron.

Or Hermione.

Because the moment the now-familiar magic rippled through the room, the trio went deathly pale.

And as if by some unspoken instinct, the trio’s eyes meet—each of their minds racing with the exact same thought.  

But they didn’t say anything.  

And then— 

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!  

The sound of multiple Apparitions echoed from outside the Burrow.  

Every muscle in the room tensed at once.  

Wands snapped up in unison, their tips trained on the front door.  

Save for the faint rise and fall of their chests and the pounding of their own heartbeats, no one said a word.

The air remained taut with tension, each pair of eyes locked on the wooden door, wands unwavering.

Beyond the thick wooden frame, the distant murmur of voices broke the silence—muffled but growing louder with each passing second.

Despite having an inkling of who the voices might belong to—and a dawning suspicion of what had just happened, Harry, Ron, and Hermione remained rigid, their grips on their wands unyielding, their very instincts honed by war keeping them on edge.

And then, there was an unmistakable sound of footsteps crunching against the uneven carpet of grass in front of the Weasley home. Slow and deliberate, and drawing closer to the Burrow’s entrance.

And then, there was a knock at the door—polite yet firm.

No one answered it.

The door then swung open.

Because of the tensed atmosphere, no one noticed Arthur Weasley’s name on the enchanted Weasley family clock moved from ‘ Ministry of Magic’ to ‘ Home’ .

A flash of light shot across the room as a hex flew from Mrs. Weasley’s wand—swift and precise–only to be met with a startled and familiar voice as the spell narrowly missed them.

“Merlin’s beard, Molly!”

Arthur Weasley’s yelp echoed as he ducked, the spell missing his head by a hair's breadth and fizzing out against the wall by the door behind him.

Mrs. Weasley gasped, her wand hand trembling as her other hand flew to her mouth.

“Oh, Arthur! Are you alright?” she cried, hurrying over to him, her earlier alarm replaced by frantic concern.

Arthur straightened, brushing off his coat with a light chuckle, clearly trying to soothe his wife.

“I’m alright, Molly, really, not a scratch. ” His voice was calm, placating, as though this wasn’t the first time he’d narrowly avoided a spell meant for someone—or something—else. 

Though his cheeks were a bit pink—whether from the near miss or the sudden fuss, no one could tell. 

“Really, see? All in one piece.”

Mrs. Weasley wasn’t convinced, her hands fussing over him, checking for any hidden injuries.

It took a few more rounds of “ I’m fine, Molly ” and “ Let me see, Arthur ” before she finally seemed satisfied that her husband was indeed unscathed.

And then, she lightly smacked Arthur’s arm.

“You’ve got everyone completely on edge!” she scolded, her voice a mixture of exasperation and lingering worry. “The fireplace was burning blue not moments ago— blue, Arthur—and then there was that magic—”

But as the words left her mouth, her gaze shifted sharply to Percy, who had quietly crouched down to gather the scattered contents of his briefcase.

Her worry reignited.

“Oh, Percy! You’re going to be late!”

Mrs. Weasley immediately moved to help her son, but Percy, ever the composed one, gently waved her away.

“It’s alright, Mum,” he said, his voice tight with forced calm as he hastily gathered the scattered papers from the floor. 

The once-meticulous stack that had no doubt been arranged in alphabetical order now resembled a crumpled mess—some sheets of parchment are bent at odd angles, others are shoved unceremoniously back into his briefcase as though they were nothing more than scraps.

With a sharp snap, he shut the case—no longer concerned with the chaotic state of its contents—and straightened, brushing a hand over the front of his travel cloak which now bore the distinct marks of rumples and creases, a far cry from its perfectly pressed state earlier and its once-neat and orderly appearance. 

He adjusted his glasses up to the bridge of his nose, his jaw tight.

“I’ll just explain it to Advisor Jenkins when I get there,” he added stiffly, though there was a tinge of discomfort in his tone. “I’m sure they’ll understand.”

Mrs. Weasley’s lips parted—caught somewhere between concern and the ever-present urge to smooth the front of his cloak again—but after a moment’s hesitation, she simply gave a small, conflicted nod.

“Of course, dear,” she murmured softly, her fingers twitching at her sides before finally reaching out to fix the crooked collar of his cloak.

Ginny, still standing by the doorway that leads to the kitchen, exhaled sharply through her nose as she finally lowered her wand to her side. 

She didn’t say a word, though her fingers flexed against the wooden handle, her knuckles still pale from how tightly she’d been gripping it.

Instead, she watched as their mother continued to fuss over Percy.

Meanwhile, Harry, Ron, and Hermione hadn’t moved an inch.

Because while Mrs. Weasley currently has her full attention on her other son, the trio's focus had shifted.

Now, three pairs of eyes—green, blue, and brown—were now fixed firmly on Mr. Weasley with expectant looks.

They were waiting.

Not for reassurance.

Not for comfort.

But for confirmation.

Confirmation of the one thing all three of them already suspected.

But Arthur Weasley didn’t say anything.

Instead, he simply dusted off the ends of his cloak as he watched his wife fuss over their third eldest.

George, who had remained silent through the exchange, shot a lingering look over the group and without a word, turned sharply and began to retreat back up to the stairs, his foot landing heavily on the first step.

But before he could take another, Mr. Weasley’s voice broke the silence.

“I need to talk with all of you,” Arthur said, his tone gentle but firm. His own tired blue eyes—which clearly Ron inherited—landing on the now lone twin. “Including you, George.”

George stilled.

His hand, gripping the banister, flexed once before retreating back to his side.

He then slowly turned around, his face remained impassive.

His only response was a small, stiff nod but his gaze never left his father’s, cold and calculating in a way that made the room feel even smaller than it already was.

Then, from the far side of the room, Percy’s lips pressed into a thin line, his fingers tightening around the handle of his now-disheveled briefcase. 

His free hand rose to adjust his glasses once more, a nervous tic that seemed more pronounced in the tense silence.

“If this can wait, Dad,” he began, his voice carefully neutral, though the clipped tone was unmistakably Percy. “I really must be going. I can’t be late—not with Advisor Jenkins expecting me at the Ministry.”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to stay for the day, Percy,” Mr. Weasley said tiredly, easily cutting his son off. “This is really important.”

“And even if you wanted to leave,” Arthur added gently before Percy could open his mouth to protest, “I’m afraid you can't.”

His son blinked.

So did his wife and daughter.

But before any of them could speak, Arthur continued.

“The Floo Network has been enchanted by the Department of Mysteries,” he told them, his voice steady and serious. “As well as the wards around the Burrow. If you leave now without hearing what I’m going to say, you won’t be able to return here until this problem is resolved.”

He then paused, his gaze flickering toward the window for a brief moment.

“There are Aurors stationed outside,” the male patriarch of the Weasley family continued. “And a few Unspeakables arrived with me—they’re already reinforcing the wards.”

Percy’s mouth then opened and closed multiple times, almost resembling a gaping goldfish as he weighed his father’s words carefully, his hand tightening around the handle of his briefcase.

He looks like he's about to push the matter further but then Mrs. Weasley turned sharply to her husband, her voice breaking through the rising tension.

“Our Floo network?” she repeated, her face a mixture of alarm and confusion. “Is that what the blue flame was all about, Arthur?”

Her voice, though not raised, carried the unmistakable worry of a mother—and a wife—who had been given far too few answers in far too little time.

“What’s going on?” she continued to question, a thread of panic creeping into her tone as her gaze darted from her husband to the now-innocent fireplace and back again. “Why would the Department of Mysteries be tampering with our wards? Arthur—what aren’t you telling us?”

Mr. Weasley’s shoulders seemed to sag just a little—as though the weight of whatever news he carried was already pressing down on him.

Ron, who had been unusually quiet throughout his father’s explanation, kept his gaze fixed on Mr. Weasley, his jaw tight and his fingers flexing at his sides.  

When he finally spoke, his voice was lower than usual—less brash, more calculating.  

“They agreed, didn’t they?”  

Harry’s and Hermione’s heads snapped toward Ron, but neither said a word.

Arthur met his son’s stare then gave a small, tired nod.

“They agreed.”

Ron stared at his father for a long moment, his expression unreadable.

Behind him, Harry and Hermione exchanged a tense glance, a silent conversation flickering between them until Ron exhaled sharply through his nose and gave a short nod.

“Thought we’d at least get a warning before they went and reworked every bloody ward,” he muttered, running a hand roughly through his hair.

Arthur’s expression softened, though the weariness in his eyes remained.

“Unspeakable Vane said it was better this way,” he replied evenly. “Simultaneous, without notice—so nothing slips out before the secrecy enchantments are in place.”

A muscle in Ron’s jaw twitched, but he didn’t argue.

“Right,” was all he said.

Mrs. Weasley’s gaze darted back and forth between her husband and Ron, her lips pursed. 

In the end, she only managed to get a single word out as she stared down at her husband.

“Arthur?”

Mr. Weasley met his wife’s gaze, his own steady but grim.

“I’ll explain everything.” He promised softly. “But let's all take a seat first. Kitchen?”

No one argued.

The group then moved silently to the other room, the tension still thick in the air. 

The upturned chairs—a result of Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny’s earlier rush to the living room—were quickly righted without a word. 

The scrape of wood against the floor seemed louder than it should have been in the otherwise quiet space.  

They all took their seats—except for Mrs. Weasley, who didn’t waste any time as soon as George settled into his chair and placed a heaping plate of breakfast in front of him. 

He didn’t protest, but his fork hovered uncertainly over the food and when he finally took a bite, it was small and he chewed slow—his efforts clearly more out of obligation than hunger.  

Mrs. Weasley’s lips pressed into thin line as she watched him, but didn't say anything and instead, took out her wand and charmed the flowery teapot to float over Mr. Weasley’s cup and fill it to the brim.  

Arthur gave her a soft smile.

“Thank you, Molly,” he said quietly before taking a brief sip, letting the warmth settle him. 

He didn’t speak again, simply waiting for his wife to take her place at the table.  

When she finally did, the room seemed to hold its breath.  

Mrs. Weasley’s gaze remained fixed on her husband, steady yet full of unspoken worry. 

Beside George, Ginny sat, her expression unreadable. 

Percy, still clutching his briefcase, stared expectantly at Mr. Weasley, though the way he clenched his jaw hinted of his discomfort of not reporting to the ministry that day.  

Hermione and Harry kept their eyes down, neither daring to look at anyone directly. 

Ron, who is sitting in between them, mirrored his brother’s disinterest in food. 

His fingers toyed with the edge of his plate, and though his posture was relaxed, it was clear to anyone that he's anything but calm.  

And then, as the silence pressed on, Arthur finally spoke.

He set his cup down as his gaze swept over each face at the table—his family, and the two young people who had long become a part of it.

“There’s something you all need to know,” Arthur began softly. “We’re… we're going to have guests staying here with us at the Burrow for a while.”

For a moment, the words didn’t seem to register.

“Guests?” Percy repeated slowly, his confusion evident as Mrs. Weasley blinked, her worry deepening. 

“Arthur, what guests?” She asked Mr. Weasley. “From the Department of Mysteries? Surely they aren’t—”

“No,” Arthur interrupted gently. “Not the Department. They’re here to secure the Burrow. The guests are not Ministry officials.”

Their confusion thickened like fog.

Ginny tilted her head, brows knitting together. 

“Then who—?”

“Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger.” 

Silence.

Heavy, unyielding silence.

It seemed to grip the kitchen, clinging to every corner of the room, thick and suffocating.

Ginny's mouth fell open, but no sound came out. 

Her hand, which had been resting lightly on the table, curled into a loose fist as she, along with everyone—save Harry, Ron and Mr. Weasley—turned their heads to Hermione, who's cheeks brightened.

She frantically shook her head at their questioning looks.

Percy blinked rapidly, as though certain he'd misheard. 

“I’m sorry… Did you just say—?”

“Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger,” Arthur repeated, his voice calm but firm. “Not our Hermione,”—his gaze briefly flickered to the young woman whose head is now bowed once more—“but the other one.”

Mrs. Weasley looked at her husband with a frown.

“The other—other one? Arthur, what are you talking about?”

Mr. Weasley’s jaw tightened for a brief moment before he continued, carefully choosing his words.

“There was an incident at the Ministry yesterday—during the Malfoy trial,” he explained. “An unexpected arrival. Another Hermione.”

The confusion at the table only grew even more. 

Percy’s frown became even more pronounced. Mrs. Weasley, however, seemed to falter entirely, blinking as though she hadn’t heard Mr. Weasley correctly.

“Another… Hermione?” she repeated slowly, casting a bewildered glance at the young woman sitting silently across the table.

Hermione kept her gaze down, her fingers curled tightly around the edge of her chair.

Arthur looked at his family's confused faces for a moment before drawing a slow breath and launching into an explanation as simple as he could.

He finally spoke about what happened to the Malfoy trial the day before—how everything had taken an unexpected turn and why everyone is either tight-lipped or does not have any memories about it at all. 

The existence of other realities.

About the sudden appearance of another Hermione Granger.

A Hermione who didn’t belong to their reality. 

Her heritage.

How she crossed realities in search of her reality's Draco.

And how the Draco Malfoy of their reality had, impossibly, been possessed by the soul of his alternate self from a world without Voldemort.

A world untouched by war that is shaped by different choices and consequences.

“And while the Ministry is still trying to make sense of how it all happened,” Mr. Weasley continued, “there’s one thing we know for certain: they are in danger.”

Mrs. Weasley’s hand, still hovering near her teacup, trembled slightly. 

“Arthur,” she said, her voice a fragile thread, “you’re telling me that boy—Draco Malfoy—is going to be staying with us? Here , at the Burrow? With… with the other Hermione?”

Arthur met her gaze, calm but resolute. 

“Yes,” he replied simply. “Until they figure out why this anomaly happened in the first place.”

George let out another hollow chuckle, though there was no real humor behind it. 

“Brilliant,” he muttered again, stabbing a piece of egg with unnecessary force.

Percy’s mouth opened, closed, then opened again. 

“And the Department of Mysteries just… decided this?” He asked his father.

Mr. Weasley's gaze was steady. 

“It wasn’t just their decision.” He glanced at Harry. “Harry believes it’s the right thing to do.”

The attention shifted and as all eyes fell on Harry.

He didn’t flinch, though his throat bobbed in a subtle swallow as he tried his best to meet their eyes—mostly Ginny's.

“I think there’s a reason why Voldemort never rose in their reality,” Harry said slowly, his voice steady but low. “A reason why their world didn't have a war—or yet to have a war. I don’t know what it is yet—and I believe neither do they —but whatever kept Voldemort from coming back there….” He then faltered as Mrs. Weasley kept her eyes on him. 

“I—I just—if they go back unprepared,” he continued, stumbling over his words under the eyes of the woman he closely considered his mother, “if they return without understanding why their world is the way it is—they could lose everything. Voldemort may not have risen there, but if something’s changing, if there’s even the slightest chance he could… I—I can’t just send them back blind.”

Ginny's arms were crossed, but her eyes had softened as she quietly listened to him.

However, Mrs. Weasley’s lips pressed into a thin line as her gaze flitted in between her husband and Harry. 

“And you think you must help them,” she said gently to the raven-haired boy—well, no longer a boy—though there was no real question behind it.

Harry nodded, though he's still finding it hard in himself to look at her directly. 

“Yes.” He answered. “I want to give them everything I know—everything I remember about him. If there’s even the smallest chance it could help…” 

He trailed off, but the meaning lingered.

Arthur's hand covered his wife gently, grounding her. 

“I know it’s not ideal, Molly.” He said softly, deep understanding reflecting on his eyes as his wife turned to him. “It’s been hard… for us. But this is the safest place for them for now. The Department reinforced the wards themselves—the Burrow’s now the most secure place outside the Ministry.”

The silence was thick enough to cut.

George, still pushing his eggs around his plate, finally broke it—his voice a low drawl that did little to mask the edge beneath his words.

“So we’re just going to welcome them here, then?” His gaze stayed on his father for a beat too long before flicking sharply to Harry. “We don't get to have a say in it at all?”

“George.” Ginny hissed, a warning but it didn’t stop the bitterness curling at the edge of her brother’s words.

Harry visibly tensed under the weight of George’s stare, his shoulders drawing in just the slightest bit.

But before anyone could say anything more, Ron spoke.

“It was my idea.”

The words, though simple, landed like a stone dropped into still water—sharp and sudden, with ripples spreading across the room.

George’s head snapped toward him, his mouth parting slightly. Not in shock, but something close to disbelief as he stared at him.

Ron, however, didn’t waver. 

He crossed his arms and leaned back into his chair, his gaze locked onto his older brother’s, unwavering.

“It was my idea,” Ron repeated. “To have them stay here, so don’t blame Harry.”

“The Ministry needed somewhere secure—somewhere the wards couldn’t be controlled by them.” The tall redhead continued. “So I suggested the Burrow. We’ve done it before, haven’t we? Our family’s been involved countless times.” 

Ron’s voice is quieter now but no less firm. 

“With Harry, the Order…”

Arthur’s expression remained solemn, his hand still covering Mrs. Weasley’s, gently anchoring her.

But Ron kept his gaze on his older brother.

“Why stop now?” He asked.

The silence that followed wasn’t empty, it was heavy, brimming with unsaid things, with the weight of all the decisions they’d had made before—to all the times their family had been dragged into the forefront of danger.

A muscle in George’s jaw twitched as he let go of his fork, the silverware clanking heavily against the plate as he crossed his arms and leaned back, mirroring his younger brother sitting across him, flanked on either side by Harry and Hermione.

His fingers drummed once against his arm before his lips twisted into a faint, humorless smile.

His voice sliced through the silence once again—dry and drawling.

“So let me get this straight,” George began, his gaze steady on Ron. “There’s a Malfoy— of all people—and a Hermione, but not our Hermione. A Hermione who’s apparently related to—and heiress of some long-thought-extinct, probably dark and mysteriously powerful pureblood family—from another reality. And they’re staying here, under our roof, with us .” 

His words were slow and deliberate as his eyes traveled on each member of the trio who were sitting next to each other before going back to his brother.

“And you lot are planning to tell them everything you know about stopping the noseless wonder —” his lips curled with disdain that uncomfortably looks so foreign on his face, “—so they're ready when they pop back to whatever bloody perfect world they came from and… what? Hope they can stop him before he rises there too?”

A harsh silence followed, broken only by the faint creak of a chair as Harry nervously shifted in his seat.

George's stare remained fixed on Ron as if he could see straight through his brother’s resolve.

Then, softly, his next words landed like a dagger to the heart.

“You know helping them won’t bring Fred back.”

Tension snapped through the room like a live wire. 

“George,” Ginny hissed again, harsher this time—but he didn’t even flinch. 

He only gave a half-hearted shrug, his gaze never leaving Ron’s as if the words he’d just thrown were nothing more than simple facts. 

“I’m just telling the truth,” George muttered, his tone light but cutting. 

Ron’s ears flamed a furious red.

“I know that,” Ron said, his teeth gritted as his glare locked onto his brother. 

George didn’t miss a beat. 

“Then why are we helping them?” he shot back, his voice a fraction louder now. 

Ron blinked, his expression now somewhere between disbelief and fury. 

For a moment, he just stared at George—as if he couldn’t quite recognize his brother in front of him at all.

“You can’t be serious,” Ron said finally, his voice hoarse. 

George’s jaw tightened. 

“If what Harry says is true,” Ron continued, his voice rough, “then maybe they could save him.”

The single word— him —hung in the air like a ghost.

But George’s face hardened, his tone ice cold.

“He’s not our Fred.” He snapped.

His voice cracked on the name, but his gaze never wavered. 

“He’s not our brother.”

“So what?” Ron finally ground out, completely losing his cool. “We just do nothing? We just turn our backs on them?”

George's laugh was bitter and empty. 

“I’m not turning my back on our family,” he corrected, his voice like a whip. “And I’m certainly not planning to lose more.” 

The air in the room felt too thick—like every breath they took only fed the fire burning between the two brothers.

Ron shot to his feet so fast his chair scraped harshly against the floor, the sound cutting through the tense air. 

His chest heaved, his fists clenched at his sides, but it was the look in his eyes, furious and wounded that made the air around them crackle.

“You think you’re the only one mourning?” Ron snapped, his voice rough as if each word scraped his throat raw. “You don’t think I know how that feels?”

Beside Ron, Hermione’s hand slipped into his, her fingers soft yet firm as they curled around his own.

“Ron.” She whispered, his name barely above whisper. A quiet plea for him to stand down.

Her knuckles were white, and though her voice was calm, her eyes had been darting over to both Mr. and Mrs. Weasley ever since they started on the topic.

Arthur’s hand is still holding Molly’s, though his knuckles are almost white with how tight he was gripping his wife's hand—who in turn also has his on an equally deathly grip. 

Both of their faces were etched with heartbreak, the weight of it carving lines deep into their features as they watched their sons fight on either side of their dining table that used to be full of laughter and healthy banters of their family.

On Ron’s other side, Harry placed a hand on his back, solid and grounding. But there was a subtle tremor in his grip as his fingers curled into the thick fabric of Ron’s jumper.

Harry couldn’t look at anyone—not Ron, not George, not Mister or Mrs. Weasley, not Percy, and most certainly not Ginny, whose stare he could feel burning into him. 

He's clenching his jaw so tight it could break a tooth… or two, but he kept his gaze firmly fixed on the table, on the empty spaces between the plates—on anything but anyone.

Because for the first time since he agreed to Ron’s alternative suggestion for a place after his own idea of Grimmauld Place was turned down, he realized— really realized—how much of a mistake it had been.

How naive it was to think they could bring Malfoy and Red here and expect the weight of their presence not to crush the already fragile pieces of this family.

And worse, how much of the current situation they're in now was his fault.

Because the moment George said Fred’s name, the guilt struck like a curse to the chest.

It was him .

He was the one who planted the seed in Ron’s head, pushing him with quiet, insistent words laced with names that still haunted them both—of lives they couldn't save in their own world just so he could convince his best mate to let him help Malfoy and Red

He hadn’t played fair. He knew it, even then.

And now, hearing George, seeing Ron standing there, furious and hurting—it felt as if a gaping wound had been torn open.

One that Harry had helped create.

And he felt it now, the same sinking shame that had probably clung to Malfoy like a second skin back at the Ministry when Red had pushed up his sleeve to reveal the Dark Mark.

The same shame that kept Malfoy from meeting Red’s eyes.

Harry knew it— felt it —because right now, he couldn’t bring himself to look at Ginny either.

George tilted his head back, his gaze flat as he met Ron’s furious stare. His eyes flicking briefly to the furious flush on the tip of Ron’s ears that is now creeping across his face.

“Red’s never been a good look on you, Ronniekins .” George said flatly, his voice now lacking its usual teasing lilt, making the nickname feel more like a jab than a joke.

Both Harry and Hermione's grip on their best friend tightened as they felt him stiffened under their hold.

Ron looked about ready to shake them off and lunge across the table to his brother when a dishcloth shot across the kitchen and smacked him squarely in the face.

A loud smack followed almost instantly—this one clearly from George's direction.

Everyone jumped at the loud noise—except Ron who furiously pulled the dishcloth off his face, his ears burning even redder than before.

All eyes whipped to George who was now clutching the back of his head, a scowl twisting his features as his face sported the same furious red as Ron’s.

“Oi!” George barked, spinning toward the culprit.

Ginny.

She stood beside him, her wand gripped tightly in her hand with her jaw set and her own eyes burning—clearly the one behind the charmed dishcloth and the slap.

No one even noticed she stood up in the first place.

“Are you mental?” George hissed, rubbing the back of his head as though she’d just walloped him with a brick instead of her hand.

Ginny’s eyes blazed, burning just as fiercely as the flush on her cheeks.

“Are you?” She shot back, her voice low but calm, her wand still clutched tightly in her hand like she was daring him to say anything else.

On the other side of the table, Ron's fists remained clenched at his sides, his chest still heaving but the dishcloth at his feet seemed to mock him—an unspoken reminder that Ginny was quicker, sharper.

Wilder .

And apparently, so does her tongue.

“Ginny.” Harry said softly, almost nervously as he watched them—but the name barely left his lips before Ginny cut him off, her gaze never leaving George.

“Or would you like me to give you a matching pair of ear holes,” she said coolly. “So you could hear better.”

A sharp intake of breath came from Mrs. Weasley’s end of the table, and a clipped “Ginny!” broke the tension for half a second—but it fell into deaf ears.

Because George was already rising to his feet.

He rose from his chair, the scrape of the legs against the floor like nails on a coffin lid.

He towered over Ginny easily, his height casting a shadow over her smaller frame—but Ginny didn't so much as blink.

She only tilted her chin up, meeting his glare with a steady gaze, burning just as fiercely as his.

And in that moment, it wasn’t just a brother and sister standing there.

It was two people—two survivors of a war—both holding the same grief, the same fury, the same unbearable ache.

Both too stubborn to break.

George’s jaw tightened, his shoulders squared, and when he finally spoke, his voice was low and dangerously calm.

“You can’t seriously be agreeing with them.”

Ginny’s lips pressed into a thin line, but her wand stayed firmly in her grasp, the tip quivering just slightly but her face remained steady, her expression carved from stone.

“And what if I am?” She shot back. “What, George? You’re going to let him suffer—let the other you suffer—the same way you did?”

George's scowl deepened, a flicker of something—pain, anger, betrayal —flashing across his face.

“You think this is about me?” He said, his voice cracking at the end. “That this is about him ?”

Ginny didn’t flinch.

“You’re not the only one who lost him,” she told him quietly, the words slicing through the silence. “But you are the only one willing to let someone else lose a brother too.”

The air in the room turned suffocating again.

The words hung there—raw, unyielding—until the silence became too much, stretching like a frayed thread about to snap. 

Every breath felt heavier, every glance a silent battle, and the space between George and Ginny felt both too vast and too close—like a thread pulled taut, ready to snap.  

But the youngest Weasley's focus remained locked on George.

“I get it,” she continued, her voice calmer but no less sharp. “You’re angry. You’re hurt. We all are. But if you think for one second that tearing into Ron and Harry is going to change anything, then you’re the one who’s lost his mind.”

George’s throat bobbed, and for the first time since the argument started, his mask cracked—just slightly.

Ginny took a breath, then another, and when she spoke again, her voice was softer.

“We lost Fred. We lost so many people. You know what it was like during the war. You know what it cost us. But if there’s even a chance that we can stop that from happening to someone else—” she cast a glance at Hermione, at Ron who is still standing, at Harry—before turning back to him. “Then isn’t it worth it?”

“ Enough .”

Mrs. Weasley’s voice, soft yet sharp, sliced through the thick tension like a wand through fog.

George, for all his barbed words, had the decency to press his lips into a tight line, his gaze shifting to the far corner of the kitchen rather than meet his mother’s unyielding stare.

Mrs. Weasley rose from her chair, her hand still resting on top of Arthur's for support, though her knuckles had turned white from the way she was clutching him.

Her voice trembled, but it didn’t waver.

“I have buried a child.”

The words fell into the room like a curse—deadly and cold.

Everyone stilled.

Ron’s fury seemed to evaporate instantly, leaving only raw grief in its place. Even George, who had been bristling with tightly coiled anger moments before, flinched at the quiet devastation woven into his mother’s words. Ginny, standing just as rigid, looked down at the floor.

Mrs. Weasley’s eyes shone, but she didn’t cry.

“I will not watch my family tear itself apart over something that hasn’t happened yet,” she told them firmly, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands. “Not over people who—who are lost, just like us .”

Her gaze shifted, falling on the trio—on Hermione, who looked small, her hand still clasped around Ron’s; on Harry, who seemed like he wished the floor would swallow him whole, and to Ginny and George who are now avoiding each other.

Mrs. Weasley’s lips trembled ever so slightly.

“Our family may not know them the same way we know our Hermione and that boy,” she continued, her voice gentler now, “but they are someone. And they are alone in a world that isn’t theirs.”

Her gaze softened on George.

“And you are right, George,” she whispered. “Their Fred is not our Fred. He never will be.”

George’s jaw worked soundlessly, his eyes wet but hard as stone.

“But if helping them means stopping what the war took away from us in our world…” She swallowed. “Then I will open this home to them, just as I have opened it to every other lost soul who’s needed it.”

The lines on her face, etched deep by years of worry and war, seemed heavier now.

"This is my house,” she said softly, her voice steady despite the crack threatening to split it in two. “And I will not have what's left of my children tear each other apart under its roof.”

Her gaze, warm but firm, shifted to Ron—her youngest son who is still standing rigid across George and Ginny, his jaw clenched so tight it looked painful.

“Ronald, sit down.”

For a tense moment, Ron didn’t move. His fists remained tight at his sides, his chest rising and falling with barely restrained anger.

But then Hermione gave his hand a gentle squeeze and Harry’s grip on his jumper tightened ever so slightly, a silent plea for him to listen.

Finally, with a reluctant exhale, Ron slumped back into his chair, his eyes now fixed stubbornly at the table.

Mrs. Weasley's eyes then landed on Ginny. No words were needed as the weight of her gaze alone was enough. 

Ginny's defiance wavered for a fraction of a second before she dropped her shoulders in silent surrender and slipped back into her seat without another word.

Molly’s attention then shifted to George who is the only one left standing among his siblings.

“And you,” she said, her voice softening, though the hurt in it was unmistakable. “I know you’re grieving—I know we all are—but that doesn’t give you the right to lash out at your brother or your sister.”

George’s jaw worked soundlessly for a moment, but he didn’t argue.

Instead, he took his seat back without being told to, arms crossed and shoulders stiff as he stared at the wall.

For a long, painful beat, no one spoke.

Then Arthur cleared his throat, his voice steady but gentle.

“This isn’t easy for any of us,” he said. “But we are helping them because it’s the right thing to do.”

His gaze settled on George—firm but understanding.

"I know you’re scared, son. I am too . But turning them away won’t make things any less dangerous for our family.”

George’s throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, his arms still folded across his chest.

Another silence, but this time, it wasn’t as sharp. It felt heavier, but not quite as jagged.

Harry, still staring at a fixed spot on the table, finally spoke—his voice hoarse.

“They didn’t ask for this,” he said softly. “Neither of them did.”

George’s head tilted ever so slightly, his expression unreadable.

“And neither did we,” he murmured.

The words weren’t cruel—not like before, but there was a painful honesty to them that no one could argue with.

When Mr. Weasley finally spoke again, his voice was calm.

It wasn’t loud, but it didn’t need to be.  

He wasn’t looking at anyone in particular but somehow, it felt as though he was looking at all of them at once.

“The young Lord Malfoy and Lady Granger will be staying here, with us .” His gaze never wavered. “It’s already been finalized with the Ministry. There’s no more changing it.”

George said nothing. 

He just exhaled sharply, shaking his head as he pushed back from the table.

“I need some air.” He muttered before striding out of the kitchen.

Ginny watched him go, her own expression unreadable.

Arthur sighed again, rubbing his temples before looking at the trio sitting at the table.

“Well,” he said, attempting a tired smile. “We best prepare to welcome them.”

"You know," a voice drifted softly from the doorway, measured, but carrying that familiar thread of quiet judgment. "I still think throwing them like that is barbaric.”

Ron froze, his arm stretched out mid-swing with a squirming gnome in his grasp, kicking its stubby legs in protest.

He turned his head around slowly, his grip tightening around the flailing creature—not enough to hurt but just enough to keep it from wriggling free as he found Hermione standing just by the back door of the Burrow.

That day at the Burrow carried a quiet, expectant weight. 

Breakfast had long since passed—three hours before lunch, actually—but the house felt like it was holding its breath. 

After all was said and done, Mrs. Weasley had sent everyone almost immediately off to tidy up and prepare for their unexpected and unusual guests, and they all went off and followed her instructions without as much a complaint. 

George, however, had locked himself away in the room he once shared with Fred. His absence was noted, but no one dared to disturb him, leaving the others to move about the house—dusting, tidying, waiting—for the inevitable knock at the door.

Ron blinked at her, his mouth opening and closing once before he huffed.

"It doesn't hurt them," he muttered, though the defensive edge in his voice was half-hearted at best. "It confuses them—stops them from coming back so soon.”

The gnome twisted again, and Ron’s hand slipped. The gnome took its chance and sank its teeth into his knuckle.

“Bloody hell—!”

He cursed, quickly hurling the creature over the garden wall in a slightly less graceful arc than intended. 

It let out a garbled squeak before disappearing into the brush.

Hermione arched a brow. 

"Yes, I’m sure they’re absolutely thrilled.”

Ron sucked on his knuckle, glaring at the spot where the gnome had vanished.

He then wiped his hands on his trousers before shooting her a sideways glance. 

“What are you doing out here anyway?” Ron asked as he hefted another struggling gnome by its legs. “Thought you’d still be inside with…” He trailed off, his gaze flicking briefly back to the house, before clearing his throat. “With Ginny.”

Hermione’s expression softened, a knowing look in her eyes as she watched him spin the gnome around once—twice—before sending it soaring over the garden wall. 

“Harry’s with her,” she told him. 

Ron let out a short, gruff exhale—not quite a huff, but close enough to make the corner of Hermione’s lips twitch into the faintest of smiles at his predictable reaction.

“And I needed some air,” she added, her voice quieter now.

Ron’s jaw tensed, but he didn’t press her.

Instead, he picked up another gnome by its ankles, ignoring its furious squeals as it flailed in his grasp.

"You want a go?" He asked, more to break the silence than anything.

Hermione's nose crinkled in distaste. 

"I’d rather not."

Ron shrugged, as if already expecting her answer, though a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. 

"Suit yourself."

He then swung the gnome in a smooth arc over his shoulder, sending it soaring over the hedge with a yelp.

Hermione watched it vanish into the distance and shook her head. 

"Barbaric," she muttered again, but there was less bite to the word this time.

Another beat of silence passed, broken only by the rustling of leaves and the occasional angry chitter from the hidden gnomes.

Then Ron spoke, his voice quieter now.

"They really are staying." He said—more a statement than a question.

Hermione’s lips parted, but the words caught in her throat for a moment before she nodded. 

"Yes.”

She then shifted slightly, her fingers tracing the edge of the doorframe, her expression thoughtful now.

“Are you… alright?” 

Ron’s jaw flexed again, his grip momentarily tightening around the gnome squirming in his hand before swinging it around. 

“’M alright,” he answered simply as he sent it flying over the garden wall.

Hermione didn’t reply straight away. She simply studied him for a moment before stepping away from the doorframe to join him.

The light sound of her footsteps and the soft crunching of grass caught Ron’s attention and he glanced over his shoulder, his brow furrowing.

“Careful now—”

Hermione barely had time to react before a gnome shot out from the undergrowth. A blur of brown potato-like head and flailing limbs bared its sharp teeth and headed straight for her ankle.

She yelped, stumbling back a step as the gnome lunged—only to be met by the solid toe of Ron’s shoe.

It flew a few feet with a furious squeal and landed in an undignified heap. 

Before it could scurry away, Ron moved fast and grabbed it by its knobbly legs, spinning it in a tight circle and flinging it over the hedge in one fluid motion.

The gnome's outraged cry faded into the distance.

Ron then dusted off his hands, his gaze following the gnome’s graceless arc until it disappeared into a bush.

Then, as if suddenly aware of himself, he shifted and shoved his hands into his pockets before taking an awkward glance back at Hermione.

She was gaping at him—her eyes wide and fingers hovering near her mouth where the startled sound came from earlier.

For a beat, neither of them spoke.

Then—

A laugh burst out of her.

It was small but genuine, and she shook her head, a hint of incredulity in her voice.

“Really barbaric,” she said, her voice light and teasing.

Ron blinked at her, his mouth twitching before he smiled and rolled his eyes.

He huffed, toeing the ground with the tip of his shoe, still keeping his hands firmly in his pockets.

“Yeah, well,” he muttered, “they started it.”

Hermione laughed and he joined her.

Their laughter eventually faded, the easy sound slipping into a quiet that felt surprisingly comfortable. 

The garden still rustled with the soft sway of leaves and the distant scuffle of gnomes returning and burrowing back into the ground. But for a moment, neither of them seemed to notice.

Hermione’s gaze then drifted back to the house, her expression sobering.

Her smile dimmed.

“It’s going to be weird, isn’t it?” she murmured.

Ron followed her line of sight, his hands still buried in his pockets, and gave a small, resigned nod.

“Most likely.”

Another stretch of silence—this one less charged, more familiar. 

The sort of quiet they used to share back at school, between arguments and adventures, when words weren’t always necessary.

Then, Hermione shifted beside him.

Ron felt it, the subtle way her weight shifted from one foot to the other—and he turned his head just as she did the same, their eyes meeting again.

There was something hesitant in her expression now, like she wasn’t quite sure how he would react to whatever she was about to say

“Look, Ron,” Hermione started softly, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, “I know it’s going to be… hard. Seeing another me— Red —and… well, seeing her with Malfoy .”

Ron’s expression didn’t shift at first, but his jaw twitched—a tiny, almost imperceptible movement.

Hermione pressed on, her voice quieter now.

“But I just—I want you to remember that she’s not me. She’s different. And whatever happens… Please don’t hold it against me.”

The last part came out quickly, like she just needed to get the words out before they could tangle on her tongue.

Ron blinked once, then twice.

And then, his eyes softened.

“Of course not.”

Hermione’s shoulders eased, just a fraction, but enough for Ron to notice.

He offered her a weak smile that is a little worn around the edges.

“It’ll be hard for sure,” he admitted, his voice rougher now, like the words cost him a bit more effort than he’d like. “But honestly… I think it’d be even harder not to laugh imagining Malfoy at the Burrow.”

Hermione blinked, caught off guard—then snorted.

The sound surprised even her, but it broke the tension as she clapped a hand over her mouth, stifling the laugh that tried to escape.

Ron grinned, his smile growing a little bit.

“Seriously,” he added, a spark of amusement flickering behind his eyes. “Bet he’s never even seen a ghoul in an attic before.”

Hermione shook her head, biting her lip to keep from laughing again.

“You’re impossible,” she muttered.

“I mean, really,” he added, his lips quirking. “Malfoy. Here . In my mum’s kitchen.”

Hermione shook her head, biting back another laugh.

“Without his fancy peacock pie,” Ron went on, his grin turning just a little mischievous now.

“And the dragon pâté,” Hermione added, her voice warm again.

“Or the elf-made truffles,” Ron snickered.

“Don’t forget the gilded pheasant roast,” Hermione said with a smirk.

“And the charmed champagne jelly.” 

“Plus the candied moonfruit tart.” 

“And Merlin forbid, no firewhisky-glazed salmon,” Ron laughed.

“Not a single butterbeer souffle in sight,” Hermione chimed in.

Ron chuckled. 

“Bet he’ll have a right heart attack when he sees the clock.”

They laughed.

Hermione was smiling now—properly, fully—and for the first time since stepping outside, she looked like she could finally breathe again.

And Ron—well, Ron was still standing there with his hands stuffed in his pockets, but the awkwardness from earlier had ebbed away.

Even if just for a little while.

Meanwhile, upstairs in one of the rooms—Charlie’s old one—Ginny moved around with practiced ease, tugging off the worn sheets from the bed, her motions brisk but not rushed. 

The window was cracked open just enough to let in the cool morning air, and the faint scent of wildflowers drifted in from the garden.

The old quilt—one covered in patches of rough fabric Charlie must have collected from his travels—was folded at the foot of the bed, waiting to be replaced.

It was quiet.

The silence of the room was broken only by the occasional creak of floorboards beneath her feet as she moved around when the door opened behind her.

She didn't turn.

Harry stepped inside the room without a word, closing the door behind him with a quiet click. 

He crossed the threshold and grabbed a fresh set of pillowcases from the chair and stepped beside her, taking the bare pillows from her hands one by one. 

Without a pause, he slipped them into the new cases, his fingers brushing over the fabric with the same practiced ease as someone who had done it more times than he could count.

They moved around each other seamlessly, Ginny bundling off the old sheets while Harry shook out the new ones. 

She smoothed the blanket, and he tucked in the edges without being asked.

When the bed was finally made, Ginny stepped back and grabbed the discarded quilt from the floor. 

Her fingers paused, absently tracing one of the sewn patches—a small square of burnt orange fabric that looked suspiciously like a bit of Charlie’s old dragonkeeper uniform.  

“I saw Hermione on my way here,” Harry said, breaking the silence as he adjusted the freshly cased pillows, giving them a firm fluff before setting them neatly at the head of the bed. “Thought she was supposed to be with you.”  

Ginny bent to gather the discarded pillowcases, shaking out the creases before folding them briskly. 

“She helped me with Bill's room,” she replied, tucking the old linens under her arm. “But she kept fidgeting—couldn't sit still—so I sent her out to get some air.”  

As if on cue, a burst of laughter echoed from outside.  

Their heads turned in unison toward the window, the view offering a clear look into the garden below. 

There, amid the overgrown hedges and patches of wildflowers, stood Ron and Hermione. 

He was saying something while she shook her head with a grin, her face brightening like a dandelion in spring.  

Ginny hummed softly, a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. 

“Looks like she’s already sorted out.”  

Harry didn’t respond right away. 

He continued to watch his two best friends below, a warm feeling in his chest as he saw Ron smile openly at Hermione as she laughed—as if the whole early morning’s debacle had not taken place at all.

“Yeah,” Harry finally murmured, a faint hum of agreement under his breath.  

Ginny didn’t wait for more. 

She moved past him, grabbing a dust cloth from the chair and began wiping down the desk, her strokes steady and rhythmic.  

Harry remained, his fingers idly pulling off the dusty thin curtains from the curtain rod as he kept his eyes on the couple.   

“It’s about to get awkward here once they arrive,” he said, his voice quieter this time.

Ginny didn’t miss a beat. 

“You think?”  

Harry hummed softly, casting one final glance at best friends before pulling away from the window and crossing the room to rejoin Ginny. 

He then placed the curtain on top of the ever-growing pile of dusty fabrics before grabbing a second cloth from the desk and began dusting the shelves.

For a while, the only sounds in Charlie’s old room were the soft swipes of cloth against wood and the occasional sigh of dust being stirred into the air.

Harry worked methodically, reaching up to dust the taller shelves, his brow furrowed in quiet concentration.

Ginny, having wiped down the desk, gave the surface one last swipe before setting it aside and perching on the newly made bed.

She then watched Harry as he carefully brushed the cobwebs from the highest corners, stretching on the tips of his toes.

“So,” she said, tilting her head. “What do you think of her?”

Harry didn’t turn around to face her, suddenly fixated on coaxing a tiny spider he found hanging from its delicate web in the corner of the shelf.

“Who?”

Ginny smiled faintly, her voice light. 

“ Her —the other Hermione. How different is she from our Hermione?”

Harry finally managed to ease the spider into his palm, his other hand reaching for a discarded matchbox he'd found while cleaning. Flipping it open, he then carefully lowered the creature inside, snapping the lid shut just enough to let air in. 

He’d let it go outside later—somewhere far enough from Ron.

“Honestly?” Harry replied, still inspecting the matchbox like it was the most fascinating thing in the room. “I can’t tell.”

Ginny’s gaze remained steady on him.

Harry then placed the matchbox on the desk and grabbed the cloth again, wiping at a clean patch on the shelf—more out of habit than anything.

“I’ve only seen her once.” He added. “So I can’t really say how different she is from Hermione.”

Ginny only shrugged, understanding his point as her fingers picked at a loose thread on the quilt.

“Honestly,” she said after a moment as she watched him scrub at a stubborn chunk of something stuck on top of a desk drawer—which she figures is probably a long-forgotten wad of Drooble’s Best Blowing Gum. “I don’t think it’ll be awkward just because there’ll be two Hermiones here at the Burrow. I think it will be awkward because of the other Hermione.”

Harry didn’t turn around, still focused on scrubbing off the gum. 

“What do you mean?”

Ginny shrugged again, crossing her legs at the ankle.

“Well, we know our Hermione—we basically grew up with her. But what about the other one? The one who grew up with the likes of Malfoy?”

Harry’s hand stilled. 

His brow furrowed deeply as he slowly turned to look at her, genuine confusion written across his face.

“What?” 

Ginny raised a brow, as if it was obvious. 

“You told us the other Hermione is a descendant of the Peverells—a pureblood family,” she reminded him, then paused briefly, a flicker of a thought crossing her thoughts as her gaze drifted into a lone and poorly-drawn portrait of a dragon on Charlie's wall. “Which, now that I think about it, makes me wonder if that means Hermione is also a descendant of the Peverells here .” She then shrugged, as if the question wasn’t worth lingering on as she turned her eyes back to him. “And she happens to be close friends with Malfoy , another pureblood who thinks everyone is beneath him.”

She then tipped her head.

“So… what does that make her ?”

Harry blinked, his mind stalling for a beat longer than he liked. 

“Surely she wouldn’t be like him.” He replied, though a thread of uncertainty laced in his tone.

Ginny let out a light and good-natured laugh as she shook her head at him.

“Harry,” she said softly, “the Malfoys are a family who value old tradition and etiquette. They’re at the top of wizarding high society—basically royalty.” She gave another shrug. “Or… well, used to be here in our world, anyway.”

Harry didn’t move, still staring at her.

She looked back at him.

“Do you think Malfoy wouldn’t have taught or influenced the other Hermione about their ‘pureblood’ aristocratic culture—their beliefs, their lifestyles ?” She asked him. “Especially given her position as the head lady of a pureblood family as ancient and esteemed as the Peverells?”

Her hand then swept in a subtle gesture, taking in the modest, cluttered warmth of the Burrow.

“What would she even think of this place?” she asked him softly, her eyes landing back on Harry.

Harry's hand stilled over the desk, his fingers curling a fraction tighter around the cloth but his gaze is fixed on Ginny—a flicker of worry reflecting in his green eyes. 

Ginny caught the look on his face and let out a laugh.

“Oh no.” She said, shaking her head at him with a hint of amusement tugging at her lips. “Whatever you're thinking inside that head of yours, Potter , it's not that.”

She glanced around the room again and at the little imperfections that made the Burrow what it was, a soft smile tugging at her lips with warm fondness.

“I'm not ashamed of our home.” Ginny told him. 

“I just…” she paused, her fingers absentmindedly smoothing the edge of the blanket. “I just don’t want Mum’s heart to break if the other Hermione doesn’t find the Burrow up to her… standards,”

Her voice was quiet, but there was a weight behind the words.

“—when our Hermione has always treated this place as her home . I don’t think Mum could take it if that were to be the case.”

It was quiet.

Harry didn’t respond right away, Ginny’s words sinking into the stillness like a stone. He hadn't thought about it.

Not really. 

Not about how Red might see the Burrow, or how Mrs. Weasley—with all her warmth and unyielding love—would bear it if this other version of someone they all cherished found their home lacking. 

The thought settled uneasily in Harry’s chest, his heart sinking just a little.

Ginny looked back at him again, her smile returning—but this time with a sharper edge.

“But if it ever comes to that, you know I always feel generous with hexes.”

Harry smiled faintly, the corner of his mouth twitching upward as he shook his head.

“Of course you would.”

Ginny grinned back before standing up and returning to her task, gathering the remaining scattered sheets from the floor and folding them haphazardly so they’d fit into the waiting laundry basket.

Harry, now crouched by the desk, went back to scrubbing at the stubborn wad of gum, his jaw tight with determination as if the gum itself had personally offended him.

For a while, the only sounds in the room were the rustle of fabric and the repetitive scrape of cloth against wood.

“Though I must admit,” Ginny said, breaking the silence once more as she shook out a pillowcase before folding it, “that other Hermione must be a truly devoted friend to go after Malfoy like that.”

Harry's hand paused on their scrubbing, his attention on her once again as she stacked another folded sheet onto the pile, her voice thoughtful. 

“I mean,” she continued, “for an important figure like her back in their world, you’d think they would resort to finding someone else to get him instead of sending the last surviving blood of the legitimate Peverell heir.”

Harry couldn't help but blink, the memory of the trial flashing freshly in his mind as he remembered the way most members of the Wizengamot resisted and clung to their misplaced authority against Unspeakables Vane and Draven, and how it had taken every ounce of Red’s unyielding resolve to force their hand

“I don’t think they would’ve managed to pull it off if they sent someone else, to be honest,” he replied, returning back to his scrubbing. “It might’ve taken ages before the Department of Mysteries could have custody over Malfoy without the Wizengamot being up in their arse about it.” 

“And I would know,” Harry went on as Ginny raised an eyebrow at him while adjusting the sheets in the laundry basket. “Even I was a little skeptical about the whole thing—and would probably agree with them not to release Malfoy if it weren't for her. She even threw Malfoy under the Alleyan—Athenian— whatsits? —oh, Aletheian Bind and the Veritas Vow just to seal the deal.”

Ginny’s hands stilled for a moment, fingers brushing the fabric before letting out a soft huff of amusement, shaking her head.

“Now that,” she started, “was something. Trust it to whatever version of Hermione to do something as crazy as that if it meant getting her friends out of trouble.” 

Harry chuckled fondly.

“Yeah,” he murmured, finally scraping the last stubborn bit of gum from the desk and wiping the surface clean. 

With a sigh of satisfaction, he straightened up and stretched his back before turning to the small bookcase tucked into the corner of Charlie's old room.

It was a modest shelf, crammed with a mix of worn books and an odd assortment of wizarding trinkets. 

Harry grabbed the dust cloth, ready to start wiping down the shelves when a miniature statue—no bigger than a large chess piece of what suspiciously looked like a doxy , snapped its tiny jaws at his finger, its wings fluttering in an irritated buzz.

He jerked his hand back sharply.

“Bloody hell,” Harry muttered, eyeing the thing warily. 

He nudged it aside with the edge of the cloth, careful not to get too close again and watched as the little creature hissed and flapped onto its side before rolling back into place like a wind-up toy, still trying to reach for his fingers.

Why Charlie Weasley have that kind of trinket in his bookcase—much less a doxy? Harry will never know—but then again, considering the dragon tamer, he figured some questions were better left unasked.

With the biting statue pushed aside into a more safer distance, Harry reached for the books behind it, sliding a few out to properly dust the shelf. But the moment he glanced at the titles, his face went red. 

Suddenly, the doxy statue made a lot more sense.

Clearing his throat and suddenly being hyper-aware of Ginny standing just a few feet behind him, he quickly shoved the books back into place—perhaps with a bit more force than necessary—and focused on dusting everything but the titles, his face faintly burning.

“Harry?” Ginny's voice piped up from behind him, her brow furrowing slightly. “Are you alright?”

“Yep!” Harry replied—far too quickly with a voice slightly more pitched than usual. 

He kept his gaze firmly fixed on the row of books, aggressively dusting the space around them without daring to glance at the titles again.

Ginny blinked at him, her head tilting at the odd tone but then just shrugged and returned to adjusting the last of the sheets in the laundry basket.

Silence settled between them once more until Hermione’s bright laugh once again floated in through the open window from the garden outside.

Ginny's hand paused, her head lifting absently to glance out the window, her gaze drifting over the sunlit garden.

“Ron’s going to have a hard time, won’t he?” She said absentmindedly as she folded the curtain Harry pulled from the window earlier.

“Yeah,” he replied without thinking. “Seeing how Malfoy and Red are together.”  

For a moment, there was only the soft scrape of fabric against wood. 

Then—  

“Malfoy and who?”  

Harry paused mid-swipe and turned his head, finding Ginny staring at him, the dusty curtains frozen mid-air.  

He cleared his throat.

“Red,” he repeated. “You know—the other Hermione.”  

Ginny didn’t blink.  

Harry's hand, as if rebelling against him, went back to wiping the same spot on the shelf—one that was already spotless.  

“Yeah,” he muttered, avoiding her gaze as heat creeped down his neck. “I know. Hermione made fun of me for calling the other her that, too.”  

“No, Harry,” Ginny said slowly, snapping out of her stare. “That’s not what I meant.”

Harry blinked. 

“Oh.”

“And—while I admit I understand why Hermione would make fun of you for calling the other her Red —” 

Harry’s face burned hotter as he went back to wiping the already-spotless shelf.

“—I would like you to repeat what you just said.”

The cloth paused mid-swipe as his brain scrambled to figure out what exactly she meant.

“…What?”

“That part about Malfoy and the other Hermione.” Ginny said, still eyeing him like he’d just sprouted an extra head.

“That they are together?” He repeated, confused, his voice lifting slightly at the end as if questioning himself.

Ginny gaped.

“Together?” she echoed, like the word itself was offensive. “Like—like dating ? Snogging ? Holding hands ? Like for real dating, dating … like that ?”

She’s looking at him as though he’d just told her that Percy decided to quit the Ministry to become a professional broom racer instead, leaving her utterly baffled.

Which, considering she grew up with Fred and George, was saying something.

Harry blinked again, his mind going blank for a moment.

“Uh… yeah?”

“ What!? ”

The word shot out of Ginny like a spell, high-pitched and sharp enough to make Harry wince.

Before either of them could say another word, a voice called from downstairs, muffled but clearly impatient.

“ Harry? Ginny? ”

Harry blinked rapidly, his heart still racing from Ginny’s outburst, and glanced around the room. It didn’t take much to realize they’d barely made a dent in cleaning Charlie’s old room. 

The other furniture was only half-dusted, a few loose sheets were still draped over the bed, and the laundry basket—still only half-filled—sat forgotten by Ginny’s feet.

With great panic, Harry pulled out his wand and gave it a sharp flick.

Immediately, the room responded. 

The dust cloth lifted itself from his grip and darted over the remaining shelves and surfaces, a cloud of dust puffing into the air before vanishing. The lined curtains Ginny had been folding pried itself free from her frozen fingers, and stacked themselves neatly into the basket. The old sheets soon joined after and rolled themselves into tight bundles before settling on top.

Ginny, however, hadn’t moved an inch, still frozen and gaping at Harry like the information is refusing to process properly in her head.

Their names were called again—sharper this time.

“ Coming! ” Harry shouted back, giving the room one last once-over before deciding it was clean enough.

Satisfied, he grabbed Ginny’s hand gently but firmly and led her out of the room, the laundry basket and the collected rubbish floating obediently behind them.

It wasn’t until they were halfway down the stairs that Harry heard Ginny mutter faintly under her breath:

“I take back what I said earlier—looks like Ron’s not the only one who’s going to have a hard time.”

Harry sat beside Ginny at the long wooden table, his knee occasionally brushing against hers beneath it. 

On another day, the subtle contact would have given Harry butterflies. But now, with the weight of the atmosphere pressing down on the room, every small movement seems to feel magnified.

Everyone was there.

Mr. Weasley sat at the head of the table, his expression calm but serious, an opened letter in his hand. 

The seal of the Ministry was unmistakable, but it wasn’t the ordinary red wax most official correspondence bore. This one shimmered faintly like an iridescent silver pressed into the envelope with faint markings around the edges, symbols that Harry couldn’t quite place but could conclude enough that it came from the Department of Mysteries.

Mrs. Weasley was seated at his right, her lips pressed into a thin line. On Mr. Weasley’s left sat Percy, straight-backed and stiff as ever.

And then there was George, who, judging by the faint scowl tugging at the corner of his mouth, clearly hadn’t come downstairs by choice.

Harry suspected Mr. Weasley must have personally fetched him from his and Fred’s room—likely leaving George with little room to argue.

Ron and Ginny, however, seemed determined not to look at George’s direction and kept their eyes on their father.

Well, Ron was resolutely avoiding his brother while Ginny, while sitting close to Harry, had her body angled ever so slightly away from George.

Harry shifted slightly, resisting the urge to clear his throat as the silence pressed on, his eyes flickering between Mr. Weasley’s solemn face and the faintly glowing runes on the envelope.

He didn’t know what he’d expected when Mrs. Weasley had called them down—but it certainly wasn’t this. 

However, Mr. Weasley's focus remained on the letter, his fingers carefully smoothing out the creases as though preparing himself to speak.

At last, he did.

“We received a notice from the Department of Mysteries,” he said evenly, his voice calm but firm enough to cut through the thick silence. “It’s to inform us that Draco Malfoy and Herm— Lady Granger .”

A short, awkward silence followed Mr. Weasley’s words. His gaze flickered to Hermione who was seated stiffly next to Ron.

“Sorry.”

Hermione, clearly just as flustered, gave a small, uneasy smile. 

“No problem,” she replied softly before adding a little hesitantly and uncomfortably, “that’s her name too.”

They exchanged uneasy glances and the awkwardness lingered.

Mr. Weasley cleared his throat and casted a quick glance at the runes glowing faintly along the parchment’s edges before continuing where he left off.

“Unspeakable Vane wrote to us to inform that Draco Malfoy and Lady Granger are currently on their way here.” He finally finished, his gaze sweeping across the table and meeting each of their eyes in turn as if to study their reactions.

Ron was the first to break the silence, his voice steady but with a faint edge to it. 

“Are they Apparating here?” He asked, his blue eyes darting towards the window as if expecting the platinum-blonde and the woman wearing Hermione's face to pop up suddenly in the garden. 

Despite his attempts to appear nonchalant about the whole thing, there was a slight tension in the way he sat and his posture that shows that the situation was gnawing at him more than he cared to admit.

Mr. Weasley paused for a moment before shaking his head. 

“No.” He replied simply.

The answer seemed to confuse almost everyone.

Harry furrowed his brow. 

“Then how are they getting here?” He asked, his eyes darting towards the living room where the fireplace is. “Floo powder?”

Again, Mr. Weasley shook his head. 

“No.” He said with a deep sigh. “According to Unspeakable Vane, Lady Granger is still recuperating and is currently in no condition to travel by magical means in the meantime.”

There was a beat of silence before Percy, ever practical, adjusted his glasses and asked, “So… are they traveling here by car?”

The question reminded suddenly Harry of the convoy of Ministry cars that had once escorted him to King’s Cross Station back in his third year, when the entire wizarding world had been on high alert over his godfather’s escape from Azkaban.

“Isn’t that dangerous?” Ron cut in, his voice sharper this time. “Wouldn’t Apparating be safer? What if they’re—” He hesitated. “What if they’re intercepted along the way?”

Though the words weren’t spoken, his meaning was clear.

The rogue, uncaptured Death Eaters were still a risk, and traveling by muggle transportation instead of magical means seemed reckless at best.

Mr. Weasley offered Ron a small, reassuring smile, though the tightness around his eyes suggested his own concerns ran deeper than he let on.

“The Ministry has assigned the most capable Aurors to escort them,” he said, his voice steady but gentle. “And the car they’re traveling in has been… enchanted—heavily. It’s similar to a Fidelius Charm, in a way. No one can track its path or even recognize it for what it is unless they already know about it.”

Mrs. Weasley gave a brisk nod, though the tightness in her expression didn’t soften. Her hands, still resting on her apron, flexed slightly before she turned to the rest of the table.

“Are the rooms ready?” She asked, her voice firm but with a motherly lilt.

“Yes,” Hermione replied immediately, sitting a bit straighter. “Ginny and I cleaned both rooms thoroughly—fresh sheets, dusted the wardrobes, everything. Harry helped too,” she added, ever the one to give credit where it was due.

Harry shrugged slightly, his mind still half-focused on the idea of Draco and the other Hermione traveling by car, but he gave a small nod in acknowledgment.

Ron let out a short sigh. 

“I’ve degnomed the garden too.” He muttered before grumbling quietly under his breath. “Not like it’ll make much of a difference.”

A few more murmurs passed between them. The anticipation in the room was almost tangible, like they were all holding their breath for something inevitable.

After a moment, Harry shifted slightly in his seat, his gaze flickering to Mr. Weasley before he finally asked the question lingering in his mind. 

“Mr. Weasley… have you seen them? Malfoy and—” He hesitated, his throat tight around the name. “The other Hermione?”

Mr. Weasley’s expression softened. 

He gave a slow nod.

“Yes.” He replied, his tone tired but kind. 

Mr. Weasley then rubbed his face, the prominent dark circles under his eyes told everyone that he hadn’t slept yet. 

“Kingsley brought me along when he visited the place where they’ve been staying—at the earliest crack of dawn.” Mr. Weasley then shook his head, a wry smile on his face. “We discussed the arrangement with them and if they’d be willing to accept our offer about having them here at the Burrow.”

“And how did it go?” Ron asked warily.

Mr. Weasley exhaled slowly, the weariness in his posture becoming more evident. 

“Well, as you can see,” he said, “they agreed—but not without resistance.”

“Why?” George drawled. “Our home not up to their taste?”

Arthur’s gaze shifted to his son, a disapproving frown settling across his features. 

“No.” He replied evenly. “In fact, their hesitation had little to do with the Burrow itself. They were more concerned about the state of our family after everything we’ve endured during the war, and how welcoming the body of a Death Eater — as the young Lord Malfoy so pointedly put it—might affect us and invite unwanted consequences.”

The weight of those words settled over the room, and George’s expression dimmed.

There was no pause, no softness to the words. Just the plain, uncomfortable truth.

However, it appears Mr. Weasley is still not done as his gaze slowly drifts from George to Ron, who is sitting stiffly across from his brother.

“And as for Lady Granger's concerns…” Mr. Weasley trailed off, his eyes flicking briefly to Hermione’s hand resting on Ron’s arm, then back to him.

“I understand that you and Hermione are exploring something beyond friendship—”

Ron’s ears reddened, and his scowl grew more pronounced. 

“Dad—”

“—but I need you to remember that this Malfoy’s Hermione and our Hermione are not the same person.” Mr. Weasley said, not letting Ron finish. His voice steady and face serious. “And it will not make her comfortable if you will look at her the way you would look at Hermione.”

Ron’s scowl deepened. 

“I know that.” He muttered as Hermione who was sitting beside him turned a solid red. “You don’t have to tell me, dad.”

But Mr. Weasley didn’t waver. 

“Then I hope you truly understand it,” he said softly but firmly. “Because while I’ve only spent a short time with them, I’ve seen enough to know that the young Malfoy is fiercely protective of her—and very possessive .” Arthur added deliberately, like a direct warning to his son.

Ron’s brow furrowed, now looking confused as if to question why his father is singling him out instead of addressing it with the rest at the table.

He opened his mouth as if to say something but Mr. Weasley seemed to have only paused long enough to let his words settle before continuing.

“Men like that,” he continued softly, still keeping his eyes fixed on him, “especially the Malfoys—are not the sort you want to pick a fight with, son. You don’t know how they think, or what they might do—especially for those people they consider theirs .”

A flicker of something dark passed through Ron’s face, but he pressed his lips into thin lines, instead choosing to say nothing in the end.

As if satisfied, Mr. Weasley finally broke eye contact and swept his gaze across the rest of the room.

He sighed once again, more heavily this time.

“Apparently the same goes for her,” Arthur finally said, a grim sort of finality and resignation in his voice. “If not more .”

Hermione shifted uncomfortably beside Ron, her fingers curling slightly where they rested on his arm.

“Which is why,” Mr. Weasley resumed, now addressing everyone at the table, “it would be best for all of us to give them space and time to adjust.”

“Remember, they’re not from here.” Mr. Weasley went on, his voice a little softer now but no less firm. “This isn’t their home. Whatever the Draco Malfoy of our world said or did to you—at Hogwarts, at war—that’s not him. And it would be unfair to hold either of them accountable for the actions of people they’ve never been.”

George’s mouth twitched as though he wanted to protest, but Mr. Weasley pressed on before he could.

“ Do not hold it against either of them,” he repeated, pointedly looking at him. “Not the young Malfoy, and certainly not Lady Granger. Because in their eyes, we’re the strangers, not them. Understand?”

“Dad?”

All heads turned as Percy spoke, his posture unusually stiff but his gaze was steady and fixed on their father.

Arthur blinked, a faint crease forming between his brows as he regarded his usually composed son. 

“Yes, Percy?”

“When you said they're possessive with each other,” Percy began slowly, his voice a careful balance between curiosity and discomfort. “Did you mean…?”

His voice trailed off, but his focus remained on the elder Weasley as if waiting for him to answer the unasked question.

Mr. Weasley’s confusion was evident, his blue eyes narrowing slightly as though trying to work through why the question was even necessary.

“They’re together,” Mr. Weasley said, his tone a matter-of-fact as he tilted his head. “Haven’t we already said that earlier?”

Silence.

Percy’s jaw dropped slightly, his usual composure slipping at the same time his glasses slipped down on the bridge of his nose.

George, who had been leaning back in his chair with a carefully constructed mask of indifference, suddenly sat bolt upright—his face a masterpiece of disbelief.

“You’re joking.” George said flatly, his eyes firmly fixed on Mr. Weasley as if trying to read him.

Mrs. Weasley, who had been watching the exchange with a puzzled frown, now blinked rapidly. 

At that moment, Harry finally realized why Ginny had looked so shocked earlier when they were cleaning upstairs.

They hadn’t told them.

And judging by the sudden stiffness in both Ron and Hermione's posture, they had only just realized it too.

Their eyes meet with Mr. Weasley's wide ones.

For a beat, the only sound was the faint crackling of the hearth.

“Oh.” Mr. Weasley muttered with a sheepish chuckle, the awkwardness creeping into his voice. “We haven’t, have we?”

From beside him, Harry heard Ginny's weak voice, filled with quiet disbelief. 

“Harry’s not kidding.” She muttered under her breath, her gaze distant. She looks as if she was still recovering from her own shock from earlier.

Percy blinked, adjusting his glasses in a way that usually signaled he was about to launch into a logical explanation—but this time, there was none. 

“That seems… statistically improbable.” He said, as though the laws of magic and probability couldn’t possibly allow for such an outcome.

Mrs. Weasley looked utterly baffled, her hands still clutching her apron. 

“Are you certain, Arthur?” She asked faintly. “ Truly certain? That boy and Hermione?”

Ginny, for her part, just whispered to Harry. 

“Did anyone check if one of them’s under the Imperius Curse? Or check for Polyjuice?” She asked. “Because that would make alot more sense.”

“ Ginny .” Hermione said, mortified, having heard her from where she sat while Ron glared at his sister and pulled Hermione a little closer to him.

And honestly? Harry would think so too if he hadn't seen Malfoy and Red at the courtroom and the way they navigate around each other.

“You’re sure they’re not cursed or anything?” Percy asked, uncharacteristically self-conscious. “Or under a spell?”

This time, it was Mr. Weasley’s turn to sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose like he was nursing a headache. 

“Yes, son. They’re not cursed. They’re together, by choice .”

Mrs. Weasley looked torn between horror and concern, like she couldn’t decide if this was a tragedy or just some bizarre cosmic joke. 

“And they’re… happy?” She asked, her voice still slightly strangled.

Arthur gave her a tired smile. 

“They seemed… close.” He said simply.

“Close,” George repeated blankly. “Right. Of course. Close. So… does he call her Mudblood in their version of sweet talk, or—”

“GEORGE!”

The word cracked through the room like a whip, sharp and furious, and for a brief moment, the only sound was Mrs. Weasley’s outraged voice echoing off the walls.

She was staring at her son, her face a mix of disbelief and disappointment—as though she couldn’t quite comprehend the vile word that had just passed his lips.

George met her gaze, his jaw tight, but there was the faintest flicker of something almost apologetic in his eyes. Still, his tone remained dry, unyielding.

“I’m just stating a fact.” He said evenly, his voice a touch quieter but still edged with bitterness. “Let’s be honest—it's not exactly a shock, is it? The Malfoys have always used people to their advantage.”

There was an uncomfortable ripple through the room at his words.

George’s gaze flicked back to Mr. Weasley. 

“She’s a Peverell descendant, isn’t she? The most sought-after pureblood family—mysterious and untouchable , with rare family magic that everyone thought was gone—only to be awakened by someone like her.” He scoffed, his words laced with a cutting sort of disbelief. “It wouldn’t surprise me if the Malfoys saw a golden opportunity to align themselves with her. What better way to pull the Peverell lineage under their control than through marriage?”

Mr. Weasley’s jaw tightened, the crease between his brows deepening as disappointment painted his face.

“George.” He said, his voice steady but firm. “You have no right—in any way—to assume the nature of their relationship.”

George's mouth opened, but Arthur raised a hand, silencing him.

“We know nothing about them.” Mr. Weasley continued, his words calm but weighted. “And until we do, I suggest you refrain from making such accusations. More importantly,” his tone sharpened, “I will not hear that word spoken under this roof again.”

“I’m just saying it’s hard to believe,” George muttered, his voice quieter now but still edged with skepticism. “It’s impossible. You can't exactly expect us to believe that Malfoy doesn’t have some sort of hidden motive with her? That he’s a devoted and adoring bloke?”

“Why?” Ron suddenly asked slowly, his voice was quiet but there was something to it that made George’s head turn.

Ron looked back at his brother dryly. 

“Is it much easier for you to believe the existence of other realities or that she crossed worlds just to get to Malfoy—but not that they’re together?”

George blinked.

For a moment, something unreadable flickered across his face but it was gone just as quickly.

“You seem to be taking this well, little brother.” George drawled, though there was an edge to his words. “What, it doesn’t bother you that a version of your girlfriend’s off snogging the ferret?”

The words were obviously meant to sting, to needle at Ron’s infamous temper—but the reaction George got wasn’t the one he expected.

Ron didn’t flushed red nor shout.

He didn’t even blink.

Instead, he met his brother’s gaze with a dry sort of calm.

“You haven’t seen what we saw in that courtroom.” He said simply.

Ron’s voice remained steady, a quiet intensity simmering beneath the surface as George frowned at him.

“You didn’t see his face when Kingsley placed her under the Honesty vow,” Ron said quietly as the whole table went silent. “How he looked like the mere idea of her being forced to prove herself tore him apart. You didn’t see how hard he tried to push her away—how he wouldn’t even let her touch him, as if he believes that just by laying a hand on the body he's in would somehow taint her .”

George blinked, the sharp retort on the tip of his tongue faltering.

"You didn’t see his face when she saw the Dark Mark on his arm," Ron continued, his voice low and measured, but there was a flicker of something raw in his words. “Or the way he can't bring himself to look at her—like he was expecting her to walk away right then and there.”

The silence in the room seemed louder now than the crackling of the hearth.

" And you didn’t see his face," Ron added, the words slower now, “when she pushed herself too far just to get to him, when she fell—and how he looked when he thought he lost her.”

There was no need to elaborate what he meant—nor need to spell out how he remembers how the other Hermione had collapsed from the strain of her magic, or how he remembers Malfoy’s face like his whole world seemed to shatter beneath him the moment she hit the ground. 

Because Ron had seen that look before— felt it before. Trapped in the Malfoys’ basement, helpless as Hermione screamed above, every cry carving into him like a blade. He remembers the panic, the fury, the crushing weight of being unable to reach her, unable to stop it. And seeing that same raw fear on whoever is possessing Malfoy’s face—it unsettled him more than he cared to admit.

From Ron’s left, Harry could only stare at him, momentarily forgetting just how observant his best friend could be—how he can see beyond what he and Hermione couldn't—when he wasn’t too caught up in his own head.

But Ron's gaze remained steady as he met George’s increasingly uncertain ones.

“Malfoys are manipulative, Ron,” George finally said, though his voice lacked the usual bite. “You really think this isn’t some elaborate game? That he’s not playing the long con? It's what they do. You don't really think—”

“If it’s all an act,” Ron said with an alarming edge of seriousness in his voice as he cut him off, “then I’d gladly eat a tin of Hagrid's rock cakes.”

The room fell into stunned silence.

Harry blinked. 

Of all the things Ron could’ve said—he chose that one ?

Though for a brief moment, Harry's mind wandered to Hagrid. His oversized teapot, his lumpy rock cakes, and the way he'd always beam with pride whenever someone managed a bite without cracking a tooth. 

He really ought to pay him a visit soon for tea, and maybe a gentle suggestion to go easy on the baking.

George, however, was clearly caught off guard, and was looking at his brother like he wasn’t sure if he’d heard correctly. 

“You’d—”

“A whole tin.” Ron added flatly, not breaking eye contact. “Without water.”

Hermione, still sitting stiffly beside him, discreetly pressed a hand over her mouth—whether to stifle a laugh or a groan, Harry couldn’t tell.

For a moment, it seemed like George might argue, his jaw working as though grasping for some clever retort—but then, with a short, incredulous laugh, he leaned back in his chair, shaking his head.

“Well, bloody hell,” George muttered. “Now I’m almost hoping it is an act, just to see that.”

From the head table, Mr. Weasley sighed as he rubbed his temples tiredly, like the motion might ease the dull, persistent ache building behind his eyes since the morning. The tips of his ears, however, were now a faint shade of red—an unspoken sign of embarrassment at the realization that he hadn’t needed to single out or warn his son about how to act around their guests after all.

But Ron didn’t smile. His gaze remained steady on George, and the weight of everything unsaid still hung in the air.

Because whatever anyone thought of Draco Malfoy, whatever they thought—Ron had seen the way he looked at the other Hermione—the same way Harry saw it too. And if that was manipulation, then it was the most convincing lie Ron had ever seen.

And he wasn’t buying it.

“So…” Ginny's voice broke the silence, her gaze flicking between her father and Ron before settling on Mr. Weasley with a raised brow. “How long are they, exactly?”

Mr. Weasley, still rubbing his temples, opened his mouth, perhaps to offer some placating, noncommittal response—but Harry, without thinking, beat him to it.

“From what we’ve heard…” Harry said, his words dragging just a fraction as if part of him couldn’t quite believe he was saying them aloud, “since third year. Before summer.”

For a moment, Ginny just stared at him, her brown eyes wide with incredulity.

“Third year,” she repeated blankly. “Before summer.”

Harry gave a small, awkward shrug, well aware of the way everyone's attention is on him now.

Ginny blinked once. Twice. Then leaned back in her chair and let out a soft, almost disbelieving laugh.

“Well, bloody hell,” she muttered, a wry smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Malfoy sure does move fast.”

Her gaze flicked over to Hermione then—who still hadn’t said a word—before cutting briefly to Ron, as if expecting some explosion of protest. But Ron just sat there, his mouth a thin line, his fingers tapping an uneven rhythm against his knee.

"Did he propose right after or something?" She mused, her tone just a bit too light. “Or was that, what, fourth year? Fifth?”

Mr. Weasley sighed again, looking as though he aged a decade in the last few minutes. 

"I don’t think that's quite the point here." He muttered.

Mrs. Weasley’s voice broke the silence this time, soft but steady, a careful edge of concern woven into her words.  

“And… What about us?” she asked, her gaze flickering from Arthur to Harry and Ron before returning to her husband. “In their reality—where Hermione is with the boy—what’s our standing with them?”  

The question settled heavily over the room, and for a moment, even George didn’t have a quip lined up. 

It was the unspoken question hanging in the air since the moment Arthur confirmed Draco and Hermione’s relationship, because whatever this was, whatever they were stepping into, it wasn’t just about two people. 

It was about families. 

And the bad blood between the Malfoys and the Weasleys wasn’t something that could simply be ignored.  

Arthur exhaled softly, the lines on his face deepening as he offered his wife a small, tired smile.  

“Well,” he began carefully, “according to her, she’s well acquainted with our family.”  

Mrs. Weasley blinked at that, her brow furrowing slightly, and though her lips pressed into a thin line, there was a flicker of surprise—even relief in her expression.  

But then, after a brief hesitation, her eyes drifted to Harry and Ron, her concern sharpening, a mother’s worry plain as day.  

“And how is she with them?” Mrs. Weasley asked softly, her voice just a touch hoarse now. “With Harry and Ron?”  

Harry straightened, blinking in surprise.

Ron, too, looked up, his tapping fingers going still.

Arthur's smile faltered.  

There was a pause, brief but weighty, as his gaze flickered toward the two boys at the table. He opened his mouth once, then shut it again, as if weighing his words with unusual care.  

“They… don’t have the best relationship.” He admitted, the words landing with a quiet sort of finality.

The reaction was immediate.

“What?”

Harry and Ron spoke at the same time, their voices overlapping—equal parts confusion and disbelief.

However, Harry's heart sank as one of his theories of the other reality was proven true. 

The other Hermione wasn’t their friend—not in the way their Hermione was. 

The bond that tied the three of them together in this reality simply didn’t exist in hers, and somehow, knowing that made the distance between their worlds feel even greater.

Mrs. Weasley’s eyes flicked between them, the lines around her mouth tightening once more.

“Well, that shouldn't be a surprise,” Ginny muttered, breaking the sudden silence.

Both boys snapped their heads towards her, their matching frowns so identical it would’ve been almost comical if not for the tension still swirling through the room.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Ron asked, his voice edged with something between curiosity and offense.

Ginny merely shrugged, her fingers idly tracing a knot in the wood of the table as though the conversation wasn’t slowly twisting tighter.

“Hermione told me once that you two only became friends with her after the troll incident in first year,” she said simply, vaguely gesturing toward Hermione without looking at her. “So if they never went through that together in her world… what reason would you have to be friends?”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Ron's mouth opened, then closed.

And suddenly, the weight of it all felt even heavier.

Because if the foundation of their friendship had never been built in that reality… could that be the reason why it all went differently?

The room remained heavy with silence, and some eyes drifted to Hermione who had grown noticeably quiet, though her gaze darted anxiously between Harry and Ron, worry reflecting in the depths of her brown eyes.

Then George spoke.

“So, if she wasn’t exactly chummy with these two,” he said, tipping his chin toward Ron and Harry, “then how did she manage to get along with us ?”

Mr. Weasley didn’t respond immediately. 

His fingers drummed lightly against the edge of the table as though he's choosing the best way to answer him.

“It was actually you and Fred who made that happen.”

Another silence.

A shadow passed over George’s face, the sardonic mask slipping ever so slightly.

His mouth parted like he was going to say something, a quip, a question, but the words caught somewhere in his throat.

For a moment, it was as though someone had reached into his chest and tugged, not enough to break anything—just enough to remind him the wound was still there.

He didn’t move, but his expression dimmed—the lingering spark in his eyes flickering out for a heartbeat.

Mr. Weasley, ever observant, didn’t push. 

Instead, he continued, his voice steady but measured.

“She didn’t go into much detail,” he admitted, his voice softening. “Didn’t say exactly how the other houses reacted to her… unforeseen friendship with the then -Malfoy scion. But she did tell me that you and Fred stood by her side. Regardless of everything.”

Another beat of silence.

The weight of his twin’s absence loomed like a shadow, stretching long and quiet over the room. And for a brief, fleeting second, his gaze fell to the empty space at the table, to the space that had once belonged to Fred.

Something shifted in his expression—like a door opening to a room he hadn’t realized existed. His jaw tightened just a fraction by the weight of his father’s words.

Because this wasn’t just about what he and Fred might’ve done in that other reality.

It was about what they would have done—what they always did.

Stand by the people who need them, no matter the odds.

No one spoke. Not right away.

Another silence.

And this time, George didn’t have a single word to fill it.

A ripple of magic suddenly surged through the Burrow like an unseen wave, subtle yet undeniable. It wasn’t the usual hum of the wards settling, nor the gentle shift of familiar magic stretching over the home like a protective embrace.

No, this was different.

Foreign .

The sensation crawled up their spines, a distinct shift in the wards that sent a silent message through their bones, like a whisper against their magic as if the wards surrounding the Burrow had moved , stretching and bending as though acknowledging a presence at their borders.

As if sensing the source in perfect sync, every head turned toward the living room, toward the front door that separated them from whatever disturbance had stirred the air.

Mr. Weasley stood first, the chair legs scraping against the wooden floor as he straightened. Beside him, Mrs. Weasley followed, her expression pinched with unease and hands still gripping the apron she had long since forgotten to let go of.

Ron was next, then Harry, pushing back from the table without a word. And before anyone could stop them, the two boys strode toward the living room, Ron leading with long, purposeful strides.

Behind them, his parents followed.

But Mr. Weasley, ever the cautious one, stepped around Ron at the last moment by placing a firm but steadying hand on his son’s shoulder before reaching the door first before he could.

Then he opened it.

A sharp gust of cold morning air met them first, carrying the faint scent of damp earth and grass but their eyes were drawn forward, past the threshold and past the uneven stone steps that led into the yard.

To the sleek black car pulling up in front of the shed.

The very same shed that had once housed the enchanted flying Ford Anglia before it was forever lost in the woods of the Forbidden Forest—courtesy of one Harry Potter and his best friend Ronald Weasley.

There were figures already in position, stationed at calculated distances around the yard. 

Aurors, unmistakably. 

Some wore the standard Ministry robes, others were clad in dark, enchanted leathers designed for reinforcement, wands already in hand.

A tight perimeter.

No one was taking chances.

Behind him, Harry heard the faint shuffle of footsteps as the rest of the household gathered, moving silently from the kitchen and into the living room and quietly watching.

Mr. Weasley exhaled soflty, his eyes fixed on the car as its engine stilled.

“They’re here,” he murmured.

And that’s when it really hit Harry how completely unprepared everyone is for the storm that was about to arrive.

Mr. Weasley then crossed the threshold, his footsteps steady and deliberate as he moved towards the car. 

The cool morning breeze ruffled the edges of his robes, but his focus remained ahead as he approached the vehicle. 

One of the Aurors, a woman with a stern face and sharp eyes, stepped forward to meet him, her stance carrying the unmistakable air of authority. 

Even without introduction, Harry could tell she was leading this operation.

She extended a hand, and Mr. Weasley shook it firmly. They exchanged a few quiet words, the Auror gesturing faintly toward the vehicle as she spoke.

Then, the left-side back door of the car creaked open, catching all of their attention.

A foot clad in black leather sneakers—surprisingly familiar —hit the ground, followed swiftly by another.

And then, just as tension curled through the air like a drawn bowstring, he emerged.

Draco Malfoy.

The platinum-blonde strands of his hair caught the warm amber light as he straightened from the car, his silver eyes sweeping over his surroundings in a slow, methodical assessment. 

They flicked toward the Burrow, pausing as if appraising the structure itself—not with disdain, nor with judgment, but simply taking it in.

There was nothing familiar about his face.

Not in the way Harry remembered.

No sneer, no thinly veiled contempt twisting his pointy, aristocratic features. 

Just a blank, unreadable coldness.

Then, as if sensing the movement ahead, Malfoy’s gaze snapped to Mr. Weasley.

Arthur approached him without hesitation, his steps steady, purposeful.

Never one to shy away from making others feel welcome despite the awkwardness, Harry watched as Mr. Weasley held out his hand with calm certainty.

And without an ounce of hesitation, this Draco Malfoy took it.

However, Malfoy remained silent as Mr. Weasley spoke, his eyes flicking over the elder Weasley's face, listening, nodding occasionally but offering no words in return, his expression never shifting, not once.

There was something chillingly polite about the whole interaction as they watched from the living room, none of them being able to read the young man's face nor what's going on inside his mind.

As Malfoy listened to Mr. Weasley, an Auror moved toward the opposite side of the car, his gloved hand reaching for the door handle.

But before he could touch it, Malfoy’s head turned sharply in his direction.

It wasn’t much. Just a slight turn of his head, his silver eyes flicking toward the Auror but it was enough.

Mr. Weasley’s words stilled mid-sentence, his brows knitting together as he followed the younger man’s gaze.

From the living room, they watched in silence as the Auror, an older wizard with a sharp jaw and practiced composure—a deep scar running down the side of his face, cutting from his temple to his jawline—froze in place.

His fingers hovered inches above the door handle, the tension of the unfinished movement lingering like an unsprung trap.

Then just as quickly, the Auror withdrew.

He took a measured step back, his posture stiff but deferential, and gave Malfoy a small—almost instinctive —bow of the head before turning and walking away without another word.

And just like that, Malfoy turned his attention back to Mr. Weasley.

Harry frowned, glancing between the retreating Auror and Malfoy, who remained unfazed—his expression unchanged as if nothing had happened at all.

There was no tension in his posture, no indication that what just transpired had meant anything at all. Just an impassive, silent expectation as he waits for Mr. Weasley to continue.

Mr. Weasley, however, seemed less certain now. 

There was a flicker of hesitation in the way he stood, as though reevaluating the conversation they had been having. But after a brief pause, he continued whatever he had been saying before.

Malfoy listened, offering a nod now and then but nothing more, his cold eyes unreadable as ever.

Then, finally, after another brief exchange, Mr. Weasley then gestured toward the open car door where Malfoy had stepped out of earlier

Whatever Mr. Weasley said was too quiet for any of them to hear, but his softened expression made his intentions quite clear along with gestures, as if offering something—or perhaps an act of assistance.

But they saw Malfoy’s response as he shook his head—not in outright refusal or dismissiveness, but with a slow and almost effortless grace.

It was just a slight, small tilt, smooth and composed as though the very movement had been calculated.

Meanwhile, Harry wasn’t sure how a simple shake of the head could look elegant, but somehow , Malfoy managed it.

Ron made a small noise under his breath, something between exasperation and disbelief.

“Of course, even his gestures have to be perfect.” He muttered.

Hermione shot him a look but for once, Harry wasn’t entirely sure he disagreed as he continued watching quietly along with the rest of the Weasleys.

Whatever lay beyond that door, it was clear Malfoy would handle it himself.

Mr. Weasley nodded softly, accepting Malfoy’s silent refusal without pressing further.

He then took a step back, giving the young man space as Malfoy finally reached for the car door and closed it with a quiet, decisive click.

From the living room, they could only see Malfoy's head while the rest of his body was obscured by the vehicle.

But with the car door closed, they can now see him fully.

Beside Harry, Hermione inhaled sharply, her gaze fixed on Malfoy as though seeing something she hadn’t expected.

Harry, too, stared—though for an entirely different reason.

Because Draco Malfoy—pureblood heir, once polished to an almost unnatural perfection—was standing there, dressed in jeans.

Jeans .

Not the perfectly tailored slacks that had always seemed a requirement of his wardrobe. Not the pristine, expensive fabrics that set him apart from the rest of them at school. 

Just a pair of dark-wash jeans.

And instead of the crisp button-downs, tailored coats or high-collared robes Harry always saw him wore, he was wrapped in a black hoodie. 

A loose, slightly oversized, and unmistakably worn— hoodie , the fabric soft with age.

Across the chest was some insignia painted in white that Harry couldn’t quite make out because of the distance—though whatever it once represented had clearly long since begun to fade.

Even his shoes were wrong.

Gone were the polished dragonhide boots, the ones that had always showcase his status even in the smallest of ways. 

Instead, he wore black trainers— Muggle ones . 

Harry recognized them, not because the Malfoy of their world had ever worn anything remotely similar, but because he had seen shoes like them before.

Dudley’s rich friends used to wear them whenever they stopped by Privet Drive during the summer, their parents’ luxury cars parked neatly along the curb—showing off the latest trends with casual arrogance. 

They were expensive. 

High-end. 

The kind of thing that had probably cost a fortune but looked utterly unremarkable to anyone who wasn’t paying attention.

Though, the thought of him in Muggle sneakers— trainers —felt about as absurd as seeing Professor McGonagall riding a skateboard, and yet here he is.

And despite the clothes that looked more fitting for a Muggle college student than the young Lord of an ancient wizarding family, despite the dark circles under his eyes—no doubt remnants of the war, made worse by the sleepless nights after whoever this Malfoy is had taken over this reality’s Draco Malfoy’s body—despite the way he looked, there was something about the way he moved.

There was no hesitation nor uncertainty in his posture. Every motion was deliberate, precise—as if the very air around him bent to accommodate his presence rather than the other way around—almost an echo of Red’s.

He did not fidget. 

He did not falter—unlike when Harry first saw him in the ruins of the Great Hall where the apparent soul-switching happened unbeknownst to them—nor when he saw him at the courtroom desperately asking for an audience with the Department of Mysteries and continuously claiming that he's innocent like a complete mad man.

Even now, dressed in worn-out clothes—save for those damn shoes—he carried himself like someone who knew he was meant to stand apart from the rest of the world.

Beside him, Ron let out another scoff.

“Looks like a right mess.” He said, shaking his head. 

Harry wasn’t sure if Ron was referring to Malfoy’s appearance or the fact that they were standing here, watching him as if he were some kind of unknown creature that had just been dropped into their world.

They then watched as Malfoy stepped away from the closed door and rounded the car with the same unhurried precision.

Then without pause, he reached for the handle of the right-side back seat and pulled it open.

He crouched slightly, his head disappearing behind the open car door as if retrieving something—or someone .

A beat passed.

Then, just as carefully as he had lowered himself, Malfoy straightened once more

But this time, he wasn’t alone.

A sharp gasp filled the silence, barely muffled.

Harry knew, even without looking, that it was Mrs. Weasley.

On his other side, Harry felt more than saw Ginny press forward beside him, her shoulder brushing against his as she tried to get a better look.

Because cradled securely in Malfoy’s arms and nestled against his chest, was her.

Hermione— but not their Hermione .

Red.

The one they hadn’t met yet.

The one who had stood in front of the Winzengamot, unshaken, unraveling everything they thought they knew.

And she was asleep, her head resting comfortably against Malfoy’s shoulder, her breathing slow and steady.

But there was something different about her now.

The last time he had seen her, she had looked every bit the composed, calculated force that had stood unwavering in that courtroom, her sharp eyes and steady voice slicing through tension like a blade.

But now…

Now, she looked soft .

Gone was the perfectly neat, no-nonsense bun she had worn at the trial.

Instead, her long curls spilled freely over Malfoy’s arm, catching the warm morning light in rich waves—wild and untamed, framing her small, sleeping face with an almost careless elegance.

Asleep, her face was peaceful, unguarded—none of the sharp edges, none of the fierce determination that had defined her presence.

She wasn’t wearing the polished, formal attire from before either, the one that made her look sharp-edged and untouchable. 

Because unlike Malfoy who is dressed in dark, muted colors that made him look like he had just stepped off some Muggle university campus, Red was wearing—of all things—a pair of soft, fluffy pink pajamas that looked like they belonged in a quiet, cozy home, and not at the center of a warping, reality-bending crisis.

Over it, she wore a black hoodie, almost identical to Malfoy’s—though hers was smaller, but still slightly oversized. However, instead of the white insignia, it has a print of a ginger cat that looks remarkably a lot like Crookshanks.

And peeking out from beneath the fabric of her pajama bottoms, a pair of black Converse adorned her feet, the tiny white stars speckling the sides. The laces are neatly tied, as though someone had taken great care to ensure she was comfortable before the journey.

She looked…pale, yes. But no longer deathly so, not like she had been when she collapsed in the courtroom, sending everyone at the chamber into a panic—including Malfoy who nearly dove into the marbled floors just to catch her.

Now, in the quiet morning air, she looked peaceful.

And Malfoy, still dressed in his strange, casual Muggle clothes, still carrying himself with that eerie, practiced control—stood there, holding her like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He didn’t shift under their stares.

He simply adjusted his grip slightly, cradling her closer as if it was a routine, as if he had done it a hundred times before.

And then, as if sensing the weight of their gazes, Malfoy slowly lifted his head—his silver eyes meeting theirs at the Burrow’s threshold, making Harry and those around him jump.

Startled, Harry, Ginny, Ron, and Hermione scrambled back from the doorway, their movements hurried, uncoordinated and nearly tripping over themselves as they backed up into the living room.

Mrs. Weasley, George, and Percy, however, remained where they stood, their gazes locked onto the approaching figures.

Outside, Mr. Weasley nodded at Malfoy, then at the Aurors as the black car pulled away, its engine barely making a sound as it disappeared down the path and out of sight. 

The remaining guards stationed around the property gave subtle nods before dispersing, retreating back to their hidden posts.

No one spoke.

The only sound was the faint crunch of footsteps against the gravel as Mr. Weasley led Malfoy toward the house.

Through the silence, they heard Mr. Weasley’s voice, gentle but firm, telling Malfoy to watch his step over a particularly slippery patch of earth. 

There was no audible response, just the quiet shifting of movement as they made their way toward the door.

Mr. Weasley entered first, and stepped back to make room.

And not a moment later, Malfoy followed with the kind of practiced composure that made it look like he had walked through a hundred unfamiliar thresholds before.

However, the space seemed smaller with him in it.

Because the moment he stepped inside, the space seemed to shrink, the weight of his presence pressing against the walls of the Burrow.

The small frame of the Hermione in his arms is held closer against his chest now.

But Malfoy didn’t say anything, nor did he look or acknowledged anyone.

He simply stood there, surveying the room.

His silver eyes flicked over the mismatched furniture, the crowded bookshelves, and the soft clutter of their home.

However, unlike the Malfoy they knew—the one who would have curled his lip at the sight of their home, who would have filled the air with disdainful remarks—this one said nothing. 

His face remained impassive, unreadable, as he stood in the middle of the Weasleys’ living room with Red cradled securely in his arms.

On the other hand, despite his casual clothes—the worn hoodie, the Muggle trainers, there was still something about him that didn’t quite belong in a place like this.

Harry, however, waited, half-expecting some kind of reaction. 

A sneer. A scoff. A flicker of something in those cold eyes. 

But still, there was nothing.

Malfoy’s just there, unbothered with no visible sign of discomfort at standing in the heart of a home so unlike his own.

The same could not be said for everyone else though.

The weight of their combined stares must've settled over him like an oppressive fog, thick with unspoken words and unanswered questions. Even Ron, who had sworn he wouldn’t make a big deal of it, found himself shifting uncomfortably, his jaw tight.

Across the room, George watched him, his face unreadable but his gaze unwavering.

The silence stretched.

That was until a soft sound broke through the air.

Hermione— Red —shifted slightly in Malfoy's arms, as if seeking warmth, security, and him . 

A small, sleepy and groggy noise of discomfort, barely more than a murmur, left past her lips as her fingers seemed to instinctively curl tightly against the fabric of his hooded sweatshirt while Malfoy held her closer, her face now pressed lightly against his collar, her breathing slow and even.

Now that they were just merely a foot away, Harry could finally make out the faded insignia printed across Malfoy’s chest. 

The emblem, though worn with time, was still recognizable—a detailed crest with a shield divided into quadrants, a crown sitting above it, flanked—ironically enough—by twin lions . Beneath the emblem, in peeling white letters, were the words King’s College London , followed by Class of '76 .

Harry frowned, his mind stalling for a moment as he stared at the old hoodie, wondering how in Merlin’s name Malfoy—of all people—came to possess something like that.

Hermione— Red made another noise of discomfort 

Malfoy didn’t complain.

Instead, he merely adjusted his hold once again without a single word, cradling her impossibly closer as she burrowed into him, pressing and tucking her face deeper against his chest with a quiet, contented sigh.

And for just a fraction of a second, they all saw it.

How Malfoy’s expression softened.

It was quick—so fleeting that they could have imagined it. 

But they saw it. 

The way the tension in his shoulders loosened, how his gaze flickered down to her with something far too gentle, too careful, before the cold mask returned just as swiftly as it had slipped.

That seemed to pull Mrs. Weasley out of her silence.  

Her gaze lingered on the sleeping girl in Malfoy’s arms, concern flickering across her face before she hesitantly stepped forward.  

“Dear, she’ll be uncomfortable like that,” she said gently, her voice carrying the warmth of a woman who had spent years caring for others. “We’ve set up a room for the both of you—why don’t you bring her upstairs so she can rest properly?”  

Malfoy turned his head slightly, his silver eyes meeting hers and regarded her for a brief moment, his expression still stubbornly unreadable as ever—before offering a single, slow nod.

“Thank you, Mrs. Weasley.” He said, voice quiet, clipped, but polite.    

Harry blinked.  

Ron stiffened slightly beside him, his head snapping toward Harry as if to silently ask: Did he just—?   

Harry didn’t respond. He was too busy trying to convince himself that this wasn’t some fever dream.  

Though this Malfoy wasn’t the same one who would hurl insults at this family without a second thought like he did in fifth year that lead to a rather bloody quarrel which resulted to most of the Gryffindor quidditch team members being banned from playing—it was still surreal and almost mind-boggling to witness.

Because Malfoy—whoever this is—just thanked Mrs. Weasley .  

Politely.  

Without sarcasm.  

Without a sneer.  

No snide inflection. 

And no forced, reluctant drawl.

Just calm, steady words spoken with what almost seemed like sincerity .

Ginny’s mouth had fallen slightly open, her expression caught somewhere between shock and suspicion as she tracked Malfoy’s every movement.  

Mrs. Weasley, to her credit, recovered quickly. 

She nodded, smoothing out her apron as she gestured toward the stairs. 

“Come along, then.” She said, her voice returning to its usual warmth. “I’ll show you the way.”

Without another glance back, Malfoy shifted Red slightly in his arms, adjusting his hold once more with effortless precision before following Mrs. Weasley up the stairs. 

His steps were soundless, controlled, and never faltering.

The rest of them remained frozen in place, unmoving, the weight of what had just happened settling over them like a thick fog.  

Harry let out a slow breath.  

Ron, still staring at the now-empty space where Malfoy had been, muttered under his breath.  

“Okay, yeah.” He said, voice slightly dazed. “I’m definitely hallucinating.”  

Harry didn’t disagree.  

And from the corner of his eye, he could see Ginny still watching the staircase, her mouth parted as though she wanted to say something but hadn’t quite found the words yet.

Harry watched the both of them for a moment before muttering, just loud enough for them to hear—

“If this isn’t a dream, I might start pinching myself.”

Ron huffed. 

“I’d say go for it, but if you don’t, I think I will.”

Judging from Ginny’s continued wide-eyed stare, she might have been considering the same thing.

However, through it all, Hermione had been uncharacteristically silent.

While the rest of them had exchanged glances, muttering their disbelief, Hermione had remained rooted to the spot, her gaze locked on the staircase where Malfoy and Red had disappeared.

Harry hadn’t noticed it at first, too distracted by Malfoy’s unsettling politeness and the general absurdity of the situation, but now—now he saw it. Something uneasy curling in his chest as he turned toward her.

“Hermione?” He asked hesitantly.

She turned to him at the sound of her name, and that’s when he saw them.

Tears.

Pooling her brown eyes, clinging to her lashes, her breath unsteady as she swallowed thickly.

Harry and Ginny both straightened, alarm flickering across their faces.

“Hermione—?”

“That belongs to Dad.” Her voice was quiet, but the words cut through the room like a sharp gust of wind.

Harry’s stomach dropped.

Ron, too, had snapped his head toward her, confusion flickering across his features.

“What?” Harry asked, his voice slower now, careful.

She swallowed, inhaling shakily and blinking rapidly as if willing the tears away.

“The hooded sweatshirt he’s wearing,” she clarified, her voice trembling slightly. “That’s my dad’s.”

For a second, the words didn’t make sense.

But then—oh.

Oh .

It clicked.

King’s College London . Class of ’76 .

That hoodie—it didn’t just belong to any Muggle.

It belonged to Hermione’s dad.

Or rather, Red’s dad.

Who was, in every way that mattered, the same man.

Harry felt his stomach twist. 

The realization settled over him like a slow-moving weight, pressing down hard as he remembers the sacrifices Hermione did just to survive and help him in the war.

How she obliviated her own parents just to keep them safe.

He didn’t know what to say.

So he did the only thing he could think of—he turned to Ron.

Ron, who looked just as lost, shifted awkwardly beside him before hesitantly reaching out, as if to pull Hermione into a clumsy attempt at comfort.

But before he could, Hermione stepped back.

She turned before either of them could stop her, her arm coming up to wipe at the tears that had begun to slip down her cheeks.

Without another word, she walked out of the room.

Ron shot Harry a helpless look before muttering a curse under his breath and quickly following after her.

Which left only him, Ginny and the rest of the remaining Weasleys.

Harry exhaled slowly, running a hand down his face.

He wasn’t sure what he had expected this day would be.

But whatever it was, it definitely wasn’t this.