Vale, Sed Non In Aeternum
Farewell, But Not Forever.
Neville had known that Hermione was running off to Hogwarts to chase after Hyperion’s utter bullshittery. And honestly? Stupid. Completely, undeniably stupid. There was absolutely no point in trying to persuade Hyperion out of something once he had latched onto it like a particularly rabid terrier. The last time someone tried, Luna—the poor thing or not—had managed to redirect his obsession with the mechanics of Apparition to portal creation. That, naturally, ended in absolute disaster. Because Hyperion, in all his genius, had essentially chopped his own arm off.
So yeah. Neville had zero faith in Hermione’s ability to talk him out of whatever idiocy he was currently entertaining.
What he hadn’t expected, though, was for his Etheris to start blaring red instead of its usual calm blue tint. His frown deepened as he grabbed the crystal, and not even a second later, Ron’s name popped up with a message.
Neville just stared at it.
Blinking, he immediately searched for Ron’s link on the Ether system. The moment the connection established, Ron’s obnoxious face filled the projection—looking equally as horrified as Neville felt—before the link passed.
Neville inhaled deeply. And then—
“WHAT THE ABSOLUTE FUCK DO YOU MEAN HERMIONE WAS ARRESTED?!”
“I DON’T KNOW!”
Ron’s voice was as loud and aggressive as always, but there was a tremor to it that immediately made Neville pinch the bridge of his nose. Fucking wonderful. Absolutely wonderful.
He knew coming back to Hogwarts was going to be a shitshow. He just didn’t have the patience to deal with it.
Theo had already transferred back for his heirship, and that alone was enough of a problem. Having Theo and Ron back at Hogwarts meant that there were less people for Hyperion to fixate on, and while Aurelia and the others were competent enough to keep the compulsive bastard distracted, Neville knew—deep in his exhausted, overburdened soul—that two watchers were not enough to prevent him from committing mass murder.
Aurelia and Genevieve?
Yeah, they were not going to fucking survive this.
“Y’know…” Neville lets out a long-suffering sigh. “He used a fucking enchanted mirror. He had me bloody use an enchanted mirror to call him today because he was not going to let anyone see his bloody Etheris.”
“To be fair, he had a right go at me for whippin’ out my etheris in front of Zabini that one time. Lucky for me, Blaise didn’t give a toss.” Ron murmurs, watching as the lines that represented his voice went up and down with every word he spoke.“But seriously—Theo just told me Hermione got nicked the second she stepped foot in the Ministry. I’ve got no clue what the bloody hell’s goin’ on, but Harry’s livid! Had to get Theseus outta the castle ‘cause his magic was goin’ mental.”
“Brilliant. Absolutely bloody brilliant. This is exactly why I keep tellin’ you idiots to stay the fuck away from that place—‘cause all it does is cause problems. You hear me, Ronald? Prob-lems.” Neville practically spat out, rolling his eyes and trying to tug his hand away from one of his rather clingy plants. “But nooo, I say ‘Go to Ilvermorny! Come to Castelobruxo!’—but do you listen? Course you don’t. You stay there, and darling fucking Teddy thinks it’s a great idea to go back. I am just so unbelievably proud of you both.”
“I missed when you were shy.” Ron murmurs.
“Choke on a cock.”
“Rude!”
“You sound like Harry.”
“You arse!”
Neville rolled his eyes, sighing as he weighed his options. In the process, his hand smacked into one of his plants, which promptly retaliated by latching onto his sleeve. He cursed at it in Portuguese, prying its stubborn vines off with practiced ease.
He had choices, technically. He could either run off to Britain and willingly throw himself into whatever shitstorm was currently brewing over there, or…
He could stay in Castelobruxo, tend to his plants, finish his research paper, and actually relax for once in his godforsaken life.
Honestly, his thesis did need attention. His professors would be downright disappointed if he showed them half-baked results on his study of healing arts, and that kind of work required an extensive amount of research. And time. And effort.
Yeah. No. Hard pass.
"Yeah, deal with that shit yourselves."
“WHAT?! NEV—”
With the kind of ruthless efficiency he prided himself on, he shut the Etheris off, cutting the connection before Ron could launch into a tirade. The crystal immediately resumed its cool blue hue, humming faintly in his palm. Peace. Finally.
Or at least, it would have been, if another call hadn’t immediately pushed through the link.
Neville groaned, already regretting his entire existence, and jabbed the Etheris with barely restrained irritation.
“Neville…”
He exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“Hi, Luna.”
"Cher frère... Quel plaisir de te voir."(Brother dear… it's a pleasure to see you.)
Hermione Peverell sat in her holding cell as if she was merely sitting in a waiting room. Her calm exterior was almost unnerving, dark brown eyes tinged with a hint of silver in the middle peers at them, expectant and almost demanding in a way that visibly disturbed the aurors that were tasked with guarding her.
"Ma douce sœur, je suis vraiment désolé d'avoir mis si longtemps. On ne m'a informé qu'au moment de notre départ. Depuis combien de temps es-tu retenue ici?"(My sweet sister, I am so sorry for taking so long. I was only informed when we were about to depart. How long have you been kept here?) Harry grimaces, watching his sister intently who crosses her arms and frowns at him. Internally wincing at her displeasure, he immediately moved to placate her. "Ich kümmere mich darum und sorge dafür, dass du freikommst, okay? Sirius wird uns sehr helfen, also hab bitte etwas Geduld."(I'll handle this issue and have you released, alright? Sirius will be of great help to us so please be patient.)
"Prends ton temps, Hyperion. Ce n'est pas comme si j'étais pressée. Mais occupe-toi plutôt de ces deux-là. Je suis presque sûre qu’elle est une parente de notre chère Lia. Elle a été plutôt brutale avec moi... Je crois que mon bras est déjà en train de marquer."(Take your time, Hyperion. It's not as if I am in a rush. But do tend to those two over there. I'm quite sure she's a relative of our darling Lia. She was rather rough with me... I think my arm is already bruising.) Hermione drawls, gesturing to an auror that Hyperion recognises to be the same Fawley that had attacked them upon arrival.
"Hermione, ça va? Lequel t’a fait mal? Montre-moi."(Hermione, are you okay? Who hurt you? Show me.) Sirius practically snaps, almost startling the siblings.
Harry hums, head tilting as he watches Sirius, keenly aware of the way Hermione falters under the weight of his godfather’s concern. Fascinating. Did she truly think herself exempt from Sirius’ affections? As if her mere association with him—her brother—wasn’t enough to make the man latch onto her like some stubborn, overprotective parasite.
“I’m alright, Sirius.” Her voice is softer now, her smile gentle—too gentle, too fleeting—before her gaze sharpens once more, shifting to him.
“Hyperion.”
“Hermione.” Honestly? He’s exhausted already. “Patience. Gaunt is interrogating Scrimgeour about your charges.”
“Gaunt? Lord Slytherin?” The disbelief in her voice is almost amusing, her eyes widening—just a fraction, barely perceptible—before her jaw goes slack for a split second. Then, like clockwork, she shuts it, schooling her features into something more composed. She clears her throat, sending him a look—confusion bleeding into it, uncertainty lacing her expression.
“Lord Slytherin is helping us.”
“He’s been hospitable.” The words leave him in a lazy drawl, his attention flickering back to where Gaunt stands, speaking with Scrimgeour. Grim expression, sharp posture, every movement deliberate.
It’s… fascinating. Voldemort has improved. Significantly. The difference is striking, almost jarring, like watching a corrupted script rewrite itself into something eerily efficient.
Harry watches him for a moment longer, mind buzzing, thoughts skittering like restless insects.
Leaving was the right choice.
It had to be.
Not that he’d had much of a choice to begin with.
But still. Yes. Yes. Leaving was good.
He shifts, uncomfortable, gaze darting, cataloguing. Everything, everyone. The way Aurelia’s auror cousin hovers, practically breathing down Hermione’s neck like she’s just waiting for an excuse—just one excuse—to pounce.
And a part of him—a big part, most of him, really—wants to hex her into next week.
It would be so easy. Harry has so many weapons, so many options. Tools, really—nothing inherently evil about them. Just creations, things he’s built. Perfected. Others still waiting for the final touch, the right moment. Magefire is a good gun. Not his best, but a fine prototype, one of many.
He wonders, just for a second, how it would feel to power it with a Sectumsempra. To fire it like a bullet, watch the spell carve through flesh the way it was meant to. Intended to.
Harry blinks, thought dissipating the second Gaunt moves into view. Instinct pulls his entire body toward him, shifting away from Hermione without a second’s hesitation. His head tilts, smile curling onto his lips, expectant.
Gaunt sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Auror Lauren Fawley inspected her upon arrival and found an item that is supposedly illegal. Fawley claims that Miss Peverell over here brought a Dark artefact into the country with malicious intent.”
Ah.
Harry keeps smiling.
He is going to murder someone.
No, no—murder is crude. Messy.
He’s going to experiment. That’s what he’s going to do
He’s going to test his prototypes, push the limits of magic and metal, watch them work—watch the bodies fall, rot, decay with every single bullet he crafts, every ounce of magic he pours into them.
His fingers twitch.
Yes. That will do.
Pain. Blinding, unjust pain. His head throbs, the impact sharp enough to pull a startled yelp from his lips. Betrayal!Treachery! His head snaps toward his assailant, only to find—Hermione.
Once seated in all her elegant refinement, she had now forsaken grace entirely in favour of—violence. Violence against her own flesh and blood! His jaw drops, scandalised, affronted, wounded by this cruel and unprovoked assault.
The betrayal sinks into his bones.
“Mione!” he gasps, horror-stricken.
Hermione narrows her eyes, expression promising nothing but doom. “I know what’s going on in that head of yours, Hyperion Peverell. Don’t. You. Dare.” Each word is punctuated with growing menace before she lunges—oh, Merlin, she lunges—nails pinching his cheek with the precision of a seasoned torturer.
Harry jerks away, clutching his abused cheek as if she’s struck him a thousand times over, as if she has committed an unforgivable act of cruelty against his very soul.
“Traitor!” he hisses, wounded, betrayed, devastated beyond reason.
Hermione groans, long-suffering, rubbing at her temples like he’s the problem here. The audacity! “Just get me out, Hyperion.”
The exasperation in her voice stabs deeper than her betrayal.
How dare she?
How dare she be so dismissive of his suffering, of his boundless efforts to ensure her comfort, his tireless dedication to fixing this mess? And yet, she dares—nay, she has the gall—to act like he’s the inconvenience?
Unbelievable. Utterly unforgivable.
“You hit me!”
“And I will do it again if you keep being a brat!”
“I'm lord to our house!”
“And I'm older than you!”
Harry gasps, scandalised once more. “Do not say such things sister. We cannot let the public known you are becoming a spinster!”
Hermione gapes, offended and already willing to strike him like promised. Oh the horror! What kind of sister she is!
Someone clears their throat, rudely interrupting Hyperion’s entirely justified horror at his sister’s blatant violence. His head snaps towards Gaunt again. The man is handsome—this, he can acknowledge—but now is not the time to dwell on such things. Priorities.
He straightens his back, schools his expression into something appropriately pleasant, and offers Gaunt a charming smile before shifting his gaze to Sirius—who is shaking with suppressed laughter. Amazing. Splendid. Spectacular. Truly, this day just keeps getting better.
His mood improves significantly at such reactions. Satisfaction hums through him as he tucks his hands behind his back, his voice slipping into something soft, almost wistful. “Apologies. I get carried away when I see my sister. It… Tis been two months since we last saw each other.” A sigh, carefully crafted, full of melancholy.
Sympathetic looks are thrown his way.
Idiots.
“Understandable,” Gaunt says, ever the reasonable man, “but we must address this situation now.”
He turns to Hermione, expectant. “Miss Peverell, what was the artefact that Auror Fawley claims to be dark?”
Hermione huffs, irritated, her gaze flicking towards the so-called auror in question. Judgement radiates from her, sharp and cutting, her condescension barely concealed. “Dark, not dangerous,” she corrects, as if speaking to a particularly dense child. “I brought something called a Nocturne Bell—that’s the English translation. It resembles an ordinary bell and is often worn as jewellery or tucked into a pocket. It alerts the owner of anyone approaching them, particularly those with malicious intent.”
Harry idly searches his memory for the artefact in question. Ah. Cloche Nocturne. A fascinating little trinket they’d acquired in France last year—one that he had, of course, improved. Left in its original state, it would merely ring when someone approached, which was boring. So, naturally, he had enhanced it. His version would not only ring—it would vibrate violently and heat up should someone with hostile intent dare approach Hermione.
“And it just so happens,” Hermione continues, her tone dripping with irritation, “that when Auror Fawley over there approached me, it activated.” A slow blink. A scathing look. Her lips curl in disdain. “So forgive me if I was wary of you from the moment we met when such warnings proved true.”
The woman sputters, face darkening with outrage, and then—ah, there it is. Predictable.
“How dare you, you mudb—”
Harry tilts his head, watching her with detached curiosity.
“Watch your words before I cut your tongue out, Fawley.”
Silence.
Fawley goes rigid, and Harry smiles, mild and unassuming. She does not want to know the many ways he could remove her tongue from her mouth.
Because he could.
Easily.
“And to clarify this, Head Auror—”
The warmth, the amusement, the carefully cultivated mischief—gone. Just like that.
“The Cloche Nocturne is categorised as light magic in Britain, given that it operates on intent-based enchantments.” He tilts his head, eyes flicking towards Fawley with something akin to pity—though, really, it’s just thinly veiled disgust. “Not only did Auror Fawley come after my sister with clear, unambiguous ill intent, but she also arrested her without cause.” A pause. A moment of silence to let the weight of her failure sink in. “Her assessment was wrong, her assumptions terrible. Tell me, has the Auror Department learned nothing from the absolute disaster that was my godfather’s case?”
Scrimgeour goes exceptionally pale.
As he should.
The unjust imprisonment of Sirius Black is still fresh in the public’s mind, a stain on the Ministry’s already pitiful reputation. The Dark faction was furious—and rightfully so. A Lord of one of the oldest, most prestigious Houses in Britain, thrown into Azkaban without a trial. It had been pathetic. And now? If word got out that the Auror Department had, once again, wrongfully arrested someone from a prominent family—one with significant international connections, no less—then, well…
The Ministry might not survive it.
“Oh, right… Right,” Scrimgeour stammers, visibly scrambling to salvage what’s left of his dignity. “Release her! Now! No need for any documents—”
“I think some documentation is required,” Gaunt interjects, ever the reasonable man, smiling in a way that is not at all friendly. “Best you keep a record of aurors who display… biased and unjust tendencies, Rufus. It’ll assist in disciplinary measures. Training programs, perhaps.”
“I second that,” Sirius grits out, eyes burning with something very close to murderous intent.
Scrimgeour swallows hard, his gaze flickering between them. Three of the most powerful Houses in Britain—aligned against him.
He does not dare argue.
He wouldn’t survive it if he did.
Hermione is released with no further issues.
He'd have to tell Aurelia about her cousin’s failure and punishment. It would delight her so.
“Ow!” And now Hermione was back to assaulting him. “What is wrong with you woman?!”
“You! You trouble-attracting, idiot!” Hermione promptly spat, “I knew that looks on your face. Don't even think of cursing someone here, in public no less.”
“Why did you even come here?”
“Because I knew you'd cause trouble.”
“Your case was the trouble!”
Hermione huffs, refusing to meet his eye before she detaches herself from him, unhooking their arms like she was about to abandon him. How cruel!
She switches off to attaching herself to Sirius, arms locked and walking in front of him. “Let's go Sirius. My brother is too stupid to comprehend the worries of an older sibling.”
Sirius laughs, “I understand perfectly.”
Harry pouts. Because, truly, what else is there to do when his traitor of a sister and shameless godfather abandon him so cruelly? Off they go, walking toward the Apparition point, leaving him to suffer alone. Abandoned. Forsaken. Forgotten.
Scoffing, he runs a hand through his hair in a valiant attempt to fix it, despite knowing full well it’s a futile endeavour. But! Since when has impossibility ever stopped him?
“Your sister is more… aggressive than I expected,” Gaunt observes, his gaze flicking toward him with far too much curiosity. Oh? So much for the ever-elusive Slytherin mask.
“She’s only like this with me,” Harry drawls, shaking his head as if Hermione’s betrayal is some tragic burden he must bear. “Don’t worry, she’s not about to assault anyone else.”
Gaunt hums. “I hope not.”
“Sure.” Harry waves a hand dismissively. “Are we done here? Best I return to Hogwarts and pick up the others. Kat—Professor Morozova and Professor Szekeres have most likely arrived already.” He turns to Gaunt, watching him carefully, a bit irked but not too displeased. He’s simply in a hurry, that’s all.
“Unless you wish to escalate the matter, then no. We no longer need to remain here.”
“Oh—Of course I want to escalate this.” Harry grins, throwing his hands up in mock exasperation. “The same fucking Auror lost her mind when Aurelia and I first arrived. I’ll take it up with my headmistress—she can deal with it. No need to involve myself in this senseless drivel… unless, of course, I can dump the issue on someone else.”
“I recommend you hand it over to your godfather,” Gaunt muses, chuckling like this is all great amusement. “I don’t doubt he’d love a crack at the Auror Department after his own experience.”
“Oh, great idea. Let’s sic the man who spent twelve years in Azkaban on the very people who put him there. Brilliant.” Harry clicks his tongue, smirking. “Speaking of which, you wouldn’t happen to know why my godfather is acting… strangely cooperative with you, would you?”
Gaunt’s expression remains maddeningly neutral. “You’d have to ask him that.”
Harry narrows his eyes. “Fantastic.”
Gaunt only hums, as if he couldn’tpossibly care less, clasping his hands behind his back. “Lord Peverell…”
“Hm?”
“Will you be returning to Britain next time?” Gaunt’s voice is too smooth, soft like he’s carefully soothing a cornered beast. Like he expects Harry to lash out.
A reasonable expectation, given how he might have lost his temper a little earlier. But it’s not like Hyperion is some ticking time bomb or anything! (Many, many people—including a certain someone from the other side of the world—would vehemently disagree.)
Harry tilts his head, considering.
What does Britain have for him? Sirius, maybe. But that’s about it. He could easily whisk Ron away, have him live with them at Peverell Manor. Theo can visit whenever he wants. Sirius might actually leave the country altogether if Harry asked. So… really. What’s the point of staying?
He crosses his arms, thinking.
“I don’t know,” he admits, flashing Gaunt a grin. “I have no reason to stay.”
And then, because he can, because the timing is perfect, he tilts his head just so and asks—
“Will you give me one?”
Gaunt freezes. Mouth opening as if to answer, eyes flickering with something infinitely interesting.
But he never gets the chance.
Because Harry is already apparating away, disappearing in a whirl of magic back to Hogsmeade.
Ronald Weasley knows full well that men—proper blokes—shouldn’t cry. Shouldn’t sob in front of people. Shouldn’t wail like some heartbroken old widow in a sappy romance novel.
But he is not a simple man!
He is a man whose masculinity is solid, unshakable—not as bloody fragile as his Great Aunt Muriel’s precious china set! So damn the world, damn expectations, because the moment Hermione pops up in the castle, alive and well, he’s already sobbing into her shoulder, clinging to her like she’s his last lifeline.
And if anyone so much as looks at him funny? He’ll absolutely go crying to Harry and have him deal with it.
“Oh… oh, Ronald. Stop crying, alright? It’s gonna be okay,” Hermione soothes, voice all soft and proper as she pats his back, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead while he wails into her shoulder.
He sniffs, vaguely aware that she’s talking a bit posher than usual. All elegant and refined, sort of like how Pansy Parkinson and Daphne Greengrass sound when they’re being all high and mighty.
“No, it’s not!” he whines, words muffled against her robes. “You’re abandoning me all over again! You and Harry are all legal siblings now, and I’m stuck here! How could you?”
“Ron—goodness.” Hermione sighs, a fond chuckle escaping her as she kisses the crown of his head. “You’re such a crybaby now. That used to be Neville.”
“Yeah, well, now he’s a bitch!” Ron wails, throwing his arms up dramatically before burying himself back into her embrace. “A mean and rude bitch!”
He already mourns for what once was—when Neville was all sweet and soft, looking at the world with wide, hopeful eyes.
Now? Now he’s all snark and sharp edges, glaring at people like they’re no more than dust under his bloody shoe.
“You guys left me here, all alone. They kept calling you names, and—and—” Ron felt like he was about to vomit, but Hermione quite literally slapping his back made him swallow immediately. He didn't really care that people were now watching him cry and sob. Nothing else matters now that he had both Hermione and Harry…
Speaking of Harry—
“YOU—YOU PRAT!”
Harry struts back into the castle with Gaunt of all people in tow—ooh… yeah, that was concerning. Best not let that slip to Neville, or he’ll go off on another bloody tirade about their constant fuckery. Anyway—
“Why’s he crying?” Harry hums, suddenly hovering over Ron’s shoulder like some nosy little git.
Ron, in retaliation, buries his face further into Hermione’s neck and sniffles—because sod Harry, that’s why.
“He misses us, that’s all,” Hermione answers smoothly, all gentle and soothing like she’s not just abandoning him again.
“Oh! Yeah, he cried when I first got here.”
Ron snaps, head jerking up just to glare. “Fuck off!”
“Language!” Hermione scolds, shaking her head before letting out this long-suffering sigh like she’s exhausted by them both. “And behave. Stop fighting already, please? We’re in public, for goodness’ sake.”
“But you’re gonna leave again,” Ron whines, gripping her tighter, “and I’m not gonna see you two for who knows how long and—and—”
“And I can just pick you up for Yule and bring you back to the manor for the rest of winter break,” Harry cuts in, the smug little shit, grinning like he’s oh-so-clever. “Stop crying now, Won-Won.”
Ron elbows him right in the gut for that. Harry lets out a pained oof, groaning and grumbling curses under his breath. Serves him right.
“You better,” Ron sniffles, barely resisting the urge to stick his tongue out like a child—not that it’d be unwarranted. His complaint is cut short when Hermione presses a napkin to his face, dabbing at his tear-streaked and snot-ridden mess of a face. Not like he was all that concerned about it.
“What happened in the Ministry?” he mumbles, blinking at her.
“I’d like to know that too!”
Ron blinks, turning his head just in time to see Aurelia Fawley—who insists on being called Lia—marching toward them, the rest of the group trailing after her.
His arms tighten instinctively around Hermione. He can’t help it. It’s not like he’s mad at them, not really, but he can’t quite stop that ugly twist of resentment in his gut. These were the people who got to see Harry and Hermione all the time. The people who didn’t have to pretend they didn’t know them. Was it so wrong that he hated them for it, just a little?
“Mione?” Lia asks, a hand on Hermione’s arm, her frown soft but still there. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, Lia,” Hermione assures her, voice light but sharp with something unspoken. “Though your cousin won’t be.”
Lia blinks. “Wait, what?”
Harry snorts, eyes flashing with something that’s probably barely-contained murder. “Your bitch cousin was the one who went gunning for Hermione—said she was carrying something dangerous. It was a fucking Cloche Nocturne.”
“A Nocturne Bell? Lauren arrested you for a bloody bell?” Lia snaps, looking properly aghast.
“What’s a Nocturne Bell?” Ron asks, scowling.
Genevieve—the nice one, the one he actually doesn’t mind—pipes up with an explanation, all patient and know-it-all in that way only Ravenclaws can be.
“A Nocturne Bell, or Cloche Nocturne, is a bell enchanted to alert the owner of any approaching individual. It’s light magic.” She sighs, shaking her head before glancing around, probably checking on—
Rowle and Vance?
Ron isn’t too sure about the younger two, but he does know that Rowle’s supposed to be super sensitive to magical outbursts. Lia mentioned once that Harry had the bloke meditating by the lake just to calm him down. Which, honestly? Sounds properly reasonable.
For once.
“Ah… Ron, could you come here?” Genevieve gestures for him to come over.
Ron, still very much confused, reluctantly loosens his grip on Hermione, though he makes sure to send her his best kicked puppy pout before stepping away. She barely spares him a glance, which is rude, but whatever. He approaches Genevieve instead, only for the girl to greet him with this soft, knowing smile—and yeah, that is unsettling.
Ron doesn’t trust it. At all. Why is she so insistent on pulling Hermione away? Why is she smiling at him like she knows something he doesn’t? And more importantly—
“Nott!”
Ron’s head snaps toward the sudden yell, instincts already screaming at him to pay attention. There they are—the usual suspects. Parkinson, Malfoy, Greengrass, Blaise. All of them looking like they’ve just witnessed a crime. Eyes wide, faces caught somewhere between bewildered, horrified, and just plain shocked.
Ron immediately clocks that something is wrong. He just doesn’t know what. And then he follows their line of sight—
—and oh.
His jaw drops. Because there—wrapped around Hermione like she’s his long-lost sibling—is Theo Nott.
What.
The.
Fuck.
Ron is beyond confused.
“Thank Morgana you’re okay…” Theo whispers, clinging onto Hermione like she’s about to vanish into thin air. Arms tight around her waist.
Hermione, frozen, just stands there—clearly just as lost as Ron—her hands hovering awkwardly over Theo’s back like she has no idea where to put them.
Ron is trying very hard to make sense of this. Really, he is. But—
“Erm… thank you for the concern, Theodore.” Hermione’s voice is polite, careful, even has that soft little smile to go with it—
But Ron’s brain is still buffering.
What the fuck is going on?
“Who did this to you? Who thought it was a good idea to fucking arrest you? Ath—Hermione—tell me.” Theo practically breathes out, like he ran a fucking mile to get to her. “My lady—”
“Theodore.”
Ron stiffens. So does Genevieve. So does Aurelia. So does Hermione. So does Theo.
The whole bloody room feels like it’s holding its breath, waiting for something massive to happen.
Harry just stares at Theo. Not glaring, not sneering—just watching. Like he’s weighing something really important in his head. His expression is completely blank, not a flicker of emotion, not a twitch out of place. And then, just as Ron’s about to explode from the tension, Harry smiles.
“Let’s not get carried away.”
Theo swallows. Hard.
“Right,” he breathes out, stepping back from Hermione like he’s only just realised what he’s done. “I overstepped. Forgive me.”
Hermione, being the absolute saint that she is, smiles at him. Like Theo hasn’t just thrown Ron’s entire world into question. “It’s alright. You did nothing wrong.”
Ron begs to differ, but whatever.
“Alright!” Harry suddenly claps his hands, all charm and ease like he didn’t just send Theo into a near-existential crisis. “It’s been a long day. Our professors are waiting, and we must go.”
Ron bristles at that. Must you? He wants to desperately ask.
Harry, the smarmy git, barely gives him time to complain before he grabs Hermione’s hand, ruffles Ron’s hair—which is just rude—and smirks.
“I’ll kidnap you on Yule, and you can have your brothers pay the ransom.”
Ron scowls, swatting at his hand. “Please don’t.”
Harry snickers, completely unbothered. “Kidding. I’ll send an invite to the rest of your siblings. The manor gets empty when it’s just us two during winter break.” He sighs, dramatic as ever. “Be available by then, alright? I’ll cry if you aren’t.”
Ron squints. “Bet you’re an ugly crier.”
“Oh, most definitely.” Harry doesn’t even try to deny it. “Don’t I look hideous when I cry, sister dear?”
Hermione giggles, which—traitor—before nodding solemnly. “The most dreadful.”
And then, before Ron can even think about stopping her, she turns away from Harry’s grip, cups his cheek, and presses a quick, soft kiss to the other.
Ron falters. His throat tightens, and suddenly, his arms feel too heavy at his sides.
“Be well, Ron,” Hermione murmurs, her voice gentle, her gaze fond—and shit, this isn’t fair. “I’m sorry we couldn’t see each other for so long.”
He tries not to frown. Really, he does. But it’s hard.
“I know. I understand. You had to go.”
Harry sighs—already looking like he hates this as much as Ron does—before he grimaces and yanks Ron into a bone-crushing hug. “I’m sorry we couldn’t bring you with us.”
Ron sniffs, pressing his forehead to Harry’s shoulder. “You can bring me along next time.”
And it’s not a question. It’s a demand. A fact.
Harry grins, the weight of his promise pressing into Ron’s ribs.
“I will.”
Ronald Weasley knows full well that men—proper blokes—shouldn’t cry. Shouldn’t sob in front of people. Shouldn’t wail like some heartbroken old widow in a sappy romance novel.
But he is not a simple man…