Chapter Thirty-Seven: Precipice
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Draco:
Tears of Joy was a ridiculous notion.
No one cries simply because they’re happy.
Hermione:
Hermione gathered her things with careful precision, the small rituals of order steadying her hands. If the world were unraveling, then she would meet it with structure. Logic. Ink on parchment.
Order, she reminded herself, was a kind of mercy. Work was what kept the fear quiet, and the rhythm that kept her breathing.



















