Chapter 17
The grand hall of Hogwarts glittered with soft candlelight, casting an ethereal glow across the floor as music swelled and echoed through the ancient stone walls. Tonight was a special occasion, a rare ball held for the staff of the school, a tradition from times past that had been resurrected to bring some lightness and joy back into their lives after so many years of hardship. The war had left scars on everyone, and nights like this were meant to heal them, even if just for a few hours.
Hermione stood near the edge of the dance floor, watching the other professors twirl gracefully in their robes, their laughter mingling with the soft strings of the enchanted orchestra. She wore a deep emerald dress, its elegant folds shimmering as they caught the light. But despite the festive atmosphere, her mind was far from the present. Her thoughts were lingering in the shadows, back where Lucian’s portrait hung in the corridors. She hadn’t visited him since that conversation—the one that had altered the course of everything between them.
Since then, she’d been wrestling with her feelings, unsure of how to deal with the growing ache inside her chest. Tonight should have been a distraction, an escape from the confusing emotions that had only grown stronger. But even here, surrounded by life and movement, she could feel the pull of Lucian’s presence—his absence—as keenly as if he were standing right beside her.
Her fingers absently brushed the fabric of her dress, and as she watched the couples spin and sway to the music, she couldn’t help but imagine what it would be like to dance with him. In her mind’s eye, she could see him clearly—his tall, lean figure stepping onto the floor with her, his hand resting on her waist as he guided her effortlessly across the polished stone.
It wasn’t the first time she had imagined him like this, alive and tangible, his touch real. But tonight, the image felt more vivid, more painfully out of reach. Her heart clenched as she closed her eyes, letting the music wash over her, as if it could somehow bridge the impossible distance between them.
In her imagination, Lucian was there, his hand warm against hers as he led her into a slow, intimate waltz. His platinum-blonde hair, glowing faintly in the candlelight, was a sharp contrast to his dark robes, and his grey eyes were focused solely on her, filled with that unspoken admiration she had begun to recognize in their late-night conversations.
He would tease her, she thought, his lips curving into that signature half-smile as he leaned in, whispering something sly and clever, just enough to make her laugh. He would be graceful, moving with a quiet confidence that both unsettled and intrigued her, as if he had known all along that this was inevitable, that they would find each other, even across the barrier of life and death.
Hermione could almost feel the warmth of his hand on her waist, the way his fingers would curl around hers as they spun together. She imagined the intensity in his eyes as he looked at her, the weight of his unspoken emotions pressing down on her as if they could no longer be contained. And, in that moment, she realized just how deep her feelings had grown—how much she had allowed herself to care for him, despite the impossibility of it all.
A shiver ran down her spine as the fantasy faded, leaving her standing alone by the edge of the ballroom, the weight of reality crashing down around her. Lucian was gone. He had been gone for years. All that remained was the memory of a man who had sacrificed everything for a cause he had believed in—and the painted reflection of him that now occupied her thoughts more than she cared to admit.
Hermione opened her eyes, her gaze drifting up toward the shadowed entrance of the hall. Her heart clenched as her thoughts returned to him once again, lingering on the portrait she knew waited for her just beyond these walls.
And, as if drawn by an invisible force, her feet moved of their own accord, leading her quietly away from the celebration, through the familiar corridors she had walked so many times before. The music grew faint as she distanced herself from the hall, the echo of laughter fading into the background until all that remained was the soft sound of her footsteps against the stone floor.
When she reached the corridor where Lucian’s portrait hung, Hermione hesitated for a moment, her heart racing. She knew he couldn’t leave the frame, couldn’t step into her world, and yet... she felt him there, watching, waiting, as if he had been expecting her all along.
There he was, in his usual spot, his expression calm but attentive, his silver-grey eyes fixed on her with a quiet intensity that made her heart stutter. He was dressed in the same dark robes as before, but tonight, there was something different in the way he looked at her—something almost tender, as if he, too, could sense the shift in the air between them.
“Hermione,” Lucian greeted softly, his voice smooth and warm, as if he had been waiting for her to return to him all evening.
She swallowed, stepping closer to his frame, the flickering torches casting shadows on the stone walls around them. “I thought you might be watching the ball,” she said, her voice barely a whisper, the weight of her emotions making it hard to speak.
Lucian’s lips quirked into a half-smile, but there was a trace of sadness in his eyes. “I was,” he admitted. “But I find I’d rather be here. With you.”
Her breath caught in her throat at his words, and for a moment, she forgot how to breathe. It was the first time he had ever said something so openly, so without the veil of sarcasm or wit. And the rawness of it left her reeling, her heart aching with a longing she couldn’t suppress.
“I imagined...” she began, her voice faltering. “I imagined what it would be like if you were there with me. If we could—”
Her words died in her throat as she looked up at him, the weight of her confession hanging between them. Lucian’s gaze softened, and for the first time, she saw the depth of his yearning reflected in his eyes, the same ache she felt mirrored back at her.
“I would have asked you to dance,” he said quietly, his voice low and full of the same unspoken desires. “If things were different...”
Hermione’s heart clenched painfully. The distance between them felt unbearable, an insurmountable chasm of time and loss. And yet, in this moment, it felt as though the world had shrunk down to just the two of them, their shared longing the only thing that mattered.
“I know,” she whispered, her hand reaching out to brush the edge of his portrait’s frame. “I wish things were different too.”
For a long moment, they simply stood there, separated by the cruel divide of life and death, but bound by the quiet understanding of what could have been. Neither of them spoke, the silence heavy with unspoken words and unshed tears, until the music from the ball faded entirely, leaving them alone in the quiet darkness of the castle.
Lucian’s gaze lingered on her, his eyes full of unspoken promises that could never be fulfilled. “Perhaps, in another life,” he murmured softly.
Hermione’s heart ached as she nodded, her voice thick with emotion. “Perhaps,” she echoed.
And as the night wore on, they stood there, bound together by a connection that defied the limits of their reality, their unspoken desires haunting the space between them.