An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
“Where the hell have you been?” Daniel’s voice shook, more broken than angry. “Three nights, Hermione. Three bloody nights—”
Jean pushed past him, clutching Hermione’s face in trembling hands. “Oh, sweetheart… look at you, you’re freezing.”
Hermione tried to summon composure, the mask Narcissa had drilled into her for years — chin high, shoulders back. But it cracked instantly under the weight of their eyes, under the raw warmth of their concern. Her lips trembled.
“I… I waited,” she gasped, the words spilling out jagged, strangled. “At the gates. Three nights. I thought—if I stayed—they’d come back. They had to. But—” Her chest hitched violently. “They never came. They left me.”
The last words tore her open. She folded forward, her knees buckling, ugly sobs breaking free — unpolished, childlike, desperate.
Jean caught her before she hit the ground, pulling her close against her chest. “Shh, shh, my love. You’re safe now. You’re home.”
Daniel’s arms wrapped around them both, firm and unyielding, his chin pressed hard into Hermione’s hair as if to anchor her by force. His voice, hoarse but steady, rumbled low against her crown. “You’re ours, Hermione. Not theirs. Never again theirs.”
But Hermione shook her head helplessly, fists clutching at Daniel’s shirt like a drowning child. “They didn’t even say goodbye,” she choked. “I begged them. I begged—” Her voice fractured into another torrent of sobs.
credit picture to the owner