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Chapter Text

Harry huffed as he looked at Hermione and Ron. They were dirty, underfed, and lost.

And yet, he couldn’t help thinking that he must look exactly the same.

The forest surrounded them with a thick silence, broken only by the crunch of dry leaves beneath their boots and the distant murmur of wind moving through the treetops. It smelled of damp earth, moss, of something ancient and alive that contrasted almost painfully with the death that still seemed to cling to their skin. Harry felt the weight of his rucksack digging into his shoulders, a constant ache that kept him anchored to the present, as if his body refused to forget that he was still here.

“This’ll do,” Ron said at last, breaking the silence.

He didn’t sound particularly convinced, but he hadn’t been in weeks. Harry nodded without arguing. Any place was just as good—or just as bad—as any other.

Hermione let her bag fall with a restrained sigh. She immediately crouched, wand in hand, checking the perimeter out of pure habit. Harry watched as she traced protective enchantments with precise, almost automatic movements. Her face was thinner, her eyes sunken, but there was a familiar rigidity to her, as though the world might still fall apart if she let her guard down for even a second.

“No signs of recent Dark magic,” she murmured. “We’re safe… relatively.”

Relatively. Harry almost smiled at that.

He sat down on a fallen log. The bark was cold and rough beneath his fingers, real in a way that unsettled him. For a moment, the memory of the Gryffindor common room crossed his mind—the crackling fire, the smell of burning wood, the sense of safety that now felt like it belonged to another life entirely.

Ron dropped down nearby, stretching his legs with a groan.

“Merlin, I miss food from the Burrow,” he said, rubbing his stomach. “Even Mum’s weird stews.”

Hermione let out a brief laugh, almost surprised by herself. It was a fragile sound, fading as quickly as it had appeared. Harry felt it resonate in his chest all the same, as though that small, human moment was something he’d been waiting for for months.

They lit a small fire with a simple spell. The flames illuminated the clearing with a trembling glow, casting long, distorted shadows among the trees. Harry found himself staring into them. Fire no longer felt comforting; every spark reminded him of explosions, screams, the metallic smell of blood mixed with smoke.

He swallowed.

“Are you alright?” Hermione asked softly, sitting beside him.

Harry hesitated. The automatic answer—yeah, fine—caught in his throat. “I don’t know,” he admitted at last.

Ron said nothing, but leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. The firelight illuminated his tired profile, and for the first time Harry noticed how grown-up he looked, how much everyone had changed.

The forest kept breathing around them. An insect buzzed nearby; a night bird called in the distance. Life went on, indifferent to the war, to Voldemort, to freshly dug graves. Harry closed his eyes for a second and let the sounds wash over him.

It wasn’t peace. But it wasn’t battle either.

Maybe, he thought, that was the closest thing they could ask for right now.

“Should we talk about what happened?” Hermione asked suddenly.

Both boys turned to look at her. Hermione swallowed, tense.

“I’m not sure, Mione…” Harry said hesitantly.

“The kiss,” Ron blurted out at the same time Harry spoke. Their gazes snapped to him. Ron flushed.

“What kiss?” Harry asked awkwardly. “If this is about Ginny, I—”

“You kissed Ginny?”

“Don’t act like you didn’t know, Ronald,” Hermione rolled her eyes.

“Right.” Ron paused, avoiding Hermione’s gaze. “But I didn’t mean that kiss. I meant that kiss.”

“Oh,” Hermione murmured.

Harry looked at both of them. “Oh?” he echoed, sounding more amused than he’d intended.

Ron ran a hand through his hair, making it even messier than usual. The fire crackled, as if it had something to say about it.

“It was… you know.” He shrugged awkwardly. “Everything was blowing up, we thought we were going to die, Fred—” He stopped short, swallowed. “And suddenly we were there. It was adrenaline. Fear. Relief. All at once.”

Hermione pressed her lips together. The firelight carved shadows beneath her eyes, and for a moment she looked both younger and older at the same time.

“It wasn’t a lie,” she said carefully, as though each word weighed something. “But it wasn’t… a conversation either. There wasn’t time. And then…” She gestured vaguely, encompassing everything—the war, the losses, the exhaustion still lodged deep in their bones. “After that, it felt wrong to talk about it. Like acknowledging it would make it trivial, compared to everything else.”

Harry watched them in silence. The night air brushed his face, cool, carrying away the smell of smoke. He felt an unexpected pang of relief—not disappointment, not exactly—but the confirmation that even that, even kisses and confessions, had been swept up by the tide of the battle.

“I suppose that makes sense,” he said finally. He nudged a small branch into the fire; it crackled and turned to ash. “None of what we did was… normal.”

Ron let out a dry laugh. “Normal died somewhere around the time we became friends after defeating a troll,” he joked.

Hermione exhaled slowly, a tight smile on her lips, as if she’d been holding her breath for a while. She moved closer to the fire and held her hands out toward the warmth. Her fingers trembled, barely noticeable.

“That’s why I wanted to talk,” she said. “Not about the kiss. About everything.” She looked up at them, one by one. “Because if we don’t do it now… I don’t know when we will.”

The silence that followed was different from before. Heavier. Harry felt something tighten in his chest, a familiar pressure, like the moment before plunging into icy water.

The fire crackled louder as a gust of wind shook the treetops. The shadows danced, warping, and for an instant Harry saw other flashes—green light, collapsing walls, bodies falling. He clenched his fists until his nails bit into his palms.

“I still hear him,” he said suddenly, surprising himself. His voice sounded rough. “Voldemort. Sometimes, when everything’s quiet. Like now.” He touched his scar by reflex; the skin was smooth, but the sensation lingered. “And Snape. And Dumbledore. And my parents.” He swallowed. “It’s like the war hasn’t completely ended in here.” He tapped his chest lightly.

Ron nodded slowly, eyes fixed on the flames.

“I dream about the Battle of Hogwarts,” he admitted. “But it’s never the same. Something always changes.” His hands curled into fists. “Sometimes Fred survives. Sometimes I don’t. Sometimes it’s one of my brothers… or my parents.”

Hermione brought a hand to her mouth. Her eyes shone, wet, but she didn’t cry. She never did when she needed it most.

“I remember the library,” she said in a thin voice. “Thinking I might lose all those books… and then realising people were dying, and that my fear was so small and so enormous at the same time.” She shuddered. “And erasing my parents’ memories. Knowing we won, but that there are things I can’t undo.”

The forest listened. An owl hooted in the distance. The fire radiated uneven heat—too much one moment, not enough the next.

Harry stood and, without thinking too much about it, sat closer to them. Their shoulders nearly touched. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

They didn’t heal that night. There were no answers, no grand promises. Just words spoken softly, memories shared, silences respected. The exhaustion wrapped around them slowly, heavy but honest.

“Do you think we’ll ever get over it?” Hermione asked. And Harry thought that she, as always, had too many questions about too many things.

“I’m not sure,” Harry answered after a moment.

“I wish we could,” Ron added.

Silence settled between the three of them again.

They had slipped away from the Burrow, leaving a note about travelling the world together to heal. They knew there was no perfect choice, that it might even have been selfish considering barely a month had passed since the war. But the truth was that none of them could bear to stay there a moment longer.

They felt trapped, suffocated. Stuck, as if nothing would ever change. And in the middle of one of their usual late-night conversations, they’d decided it without planning it at all: they would run as far away as possible until they found a place where they felt better. And they would do it together. The three of them. As always. As it had been from the start. And probably as it always would be.

“I’ve been reading…” Hermione began, interrupting Harry’s thoughts.

“Oh-oh,” Ron sighed. “Those are dangerous words.”

“Very dangerous,” Harry agreed with a small smile.

Hermione held their gazes for a few seconds longer, that stubborn spark in her eyes, before huffing. “Very funny. I mean I’ve been reading about post-war magic,” she clarified, adjusting her scarf more snugly around her neck. “About how large-scale magical conflicts leave… residue. Instability. Echoes.”

Harry tilted his head. The fire crackled; a spark jumped and died on the damp earth. “Echoes of what?” he asked.

“Everything,” she replied without hesitation. “Emotional, temporal, even spatial. Magic isn’t a switch that turns off when a war ends. It adapts. It twists.”

Ron frowned. “Is that a fancy way of saying we might explode?”

“Ronald,” Hermione sighed, though there was a hint of a tired smile on her lips. “No. Well. Not exactly.”

Harry let out a quiet laugh. Strangely enough, talking about magical theory felt almost… comforting. Familiar. Something that had nothing to do with death or prophecies.

“So what do your books say?” he asked, poking a stick into the fire.

Hermione hesitated for a second. “That when magic is suppressed for too long—fear, guilt, pain—it sometimes looks for a way out. And it’s not always… elegant. Especially since it’s theorised that magic reacts to the emotional state of the witch or wizard.”

Ron raised an eyebrow. “Brilliant. So we’re an emotional time bomb.”

“That wasn’t helping,” she replied, then added almost without thinking, “Although, if you refined it, it might work for you in theatre.”

Ron gaped at her, indignant. “Oh, yeah? And since when are you a theatre critic?”

Hermione raised her wand in a quick motion, more reflex than intent. “Since I learned to recognise unnecessary exaggeration.”

A brief flash shot from the wand’s tip.

“Hey!” Ron jumped back immediately, raising his own. “Oi, we’re talking, not duelling!”

The spell—an incompletely cast, harmless Levicorpus—skimmed the air between them.

Harry barely had time to react. “Prote—!”

Too late.

Ron cast Protego instinctively, the bluish shield snapping into place… only to deflect the spell straight at Harry.

“Ron—!”

The impact didn’t hurt, but it disoriented him. Harry stumbled, the world spinning for a second, as if someone had shaken his brain. “Are you mental?!” he shouted, clutching his forehead, now hanging upside down.

Ron blinked, torn between concern and surprise. “You were in the way!”

“Because you didn’t look!”

Hermione stared at them, horrified… then frowned. “Oh no,” she murmured. “No, no, no. This is exactly what I was talking about—”

“What?” Harry snapped, glaring at her despite dangling in mid-air. “That we’re idiots?”

“That you’re reacting without thinking,” she replied in the tone she used when she was on the verge of losing patience. “Put your wands away!”

Ron, still defensive, huffed. “Tell Harry! He started it!”

“I didn’t start anything!” Harry protested. “You hit me!”

“Accidentally!”

“Oh, well that makes it better!”

Hermione clenched her teeth. The exhaustion, the tension, weeks of holding it all in surged up her throat at once. “You know what?” she said, lifting her wand again. “Fine. If you want to behave like children—”

“Hermione, don’t—!”

Too late again.

A Finite Incantatem shot out, clean and controlled, aimed at Harry, who, without thinking, responded with an Expelliarmus—the spell came to him as naturally as breathing—out of habit more than any real intent, and then both spells collided with the Protego Ron had instinctively raised again.

The air vibrated.

Three flashes.

Three simple spells.

Three thoughtless actions.

All of it collided at the centre of the clearing.

The sound wasn’t an explosion, but something worse—a deep, resonant hum, as if the entire forest had inhaled at once. The pressure slammed into their ears, their chests. The fire went out instantly, plunging the world into an unnatural dimness.

“Harry…” Hermione murmured, her pulse racing.

The magic didn’t disperse.

It twisted.

It rebounded.

Ron’s shield, still active, absorbed the impact unnaturally and then folded in on itself, wrapping around him.

“Uh—” Ron managed before a brutal cold ran down his spine. It wasn’t pain. It was like falling into icy water.

Light burst.

Hermione screamed his name.

Harry hit the ground as the spell broke on its own, groaning as he fell and then trying to get back up. The ground vanished beneath his feet.

There was no transition. No warning.

The world folded in on itself, the air grew heavy, the forest stretched and shattered like a cursed reflection on water.

They fell.

They fell with their stomachs in their throats, their senses scrambled, magic buzzing beneath their skin like a poorly sealed current. And when everything stopped—when the noise faded and the world took shape again—none of the three of them knew yet that the forest was gone, or that something had gone terribly wrong.

But they did know this:

They were no longer in the forest.

And that terrified them.

Chapter Text

The impact wasn’t painful.

It was disorienting.

Harry opened his eyes with the sensation that the ground was still shifting beneath him, as though the world hadn’t quite decided where to place him yet. The air was heavy, dense, saturated with a sour smell of dampness, old rubbish, and something metallic that reminded him far too vividly of the smoke left behind by a badly cast spell.

Tall walls surrounded him. Dark brick. Narrow windows, some of them broken. A rusted dumpster a few metres away. The sky was barely visible, sliced into irregular strips between the buildings.

They were in an alley.

A filthy, disgusting, foul-smelling alley.

“Hermione?” Harry called, pushing himself upright awkwardly.

She was beside him, already on her knees, wand in hand by reflex. Her breathing was fast, shallow. Harry felt his hand touch something wet.

It made his stomach churn.

“I’m fine,” she replied without looking at him. “You?”

Harry nodded, more out of habit than conviction. He stood fully, wiping his hand on his trousers with a grimace he didn’t bother to hide; whatever he’d touched didn’t deserve a second thought. The alley seemed to close in around them, as though the brick walls were breathing slowly, exhaling that rancid stench straight into his throat, scraping his lungs. There was no wind. No birds. No faint, ever-present murmur of living magic that had always accompanied the world.

That unsettled him more than any curse.

Harry turned slowly, assessing every shadow, every dented metal door, every shattered window that might be hiding something or someone. You could never be too careful. The war didn’t disappear just because you landed somewhere else.

“I’m in one piece,” he said at last, rubbing the back of his neck, trying to ease the lingering pressure behind his eyes left over from being accidentally hit by a spell. “I think.”

Hermione was already on her feet, brushing dirt from her knees with sharp, abrupt movements. Her gaze darted too quickly, as if she were trying to read the place through sheer force of logic. Harry recognised that look: the expression of someone refusing to panic through sheer stubbornness.

Typical Hermione, he thought, watching her grip her wand so tightly her knuckles had gone white.

“This isn’t normal,” she murmured. “I can’t feel… anything. No magical currents, no residue, not even interference. It’s like magic is…” She hesitated, searching for the right word. “Dampened.”

Harry swallowed. He didn’t need academic terms to understand it. He felt it in his chest, in that uncomfortable hollow that reminded him too much of the days after the battle, when the world was still there but something fundamental had changed. He forced himself to breathe deeply and took a few cautious steps toward the mouth of the alley, peering out.

The distant sound of something like traffic reached him, muffled, followed by a far-off siren that made his shoulders tense instantly.

Loud noises.

He didn’t like them.

Not after Hogwarts.

“Brilliant,” he muttered, that dry humour surfacing whenever things were going straight to hell. “A magic-less place that smells like rubbish and comes with threatening noises. Always wanted to holiday here.”

Hermione glanced at him briefly, exhausted but grateful. Harry knew she understood the joke.

A low sound, almost a whimper, came from behind them.

That's when Harry remembered Ron, who had been too quiet to be... well, Ron.

He spun around immediately, scanning the darkness of the alley. “Ron?” he asked, his pulse spiking.

And then he saw him.

Slumped awkwardly against the wall, legs too short, balance clearly nonexistent.

His first thought was absurd and disconnected: Something is very wrong with the perspective.

The second thought was worse.

The third refused to form at all.

Harry froze, as though moving would somehow make the scene more solid, more real.

The redhead looked up at him, huge, familiar blue eyes shining in a way that hit Harry straight in the stomach.

“Harry…” Ron said—or something very much like Ron, with a voice that was too high, too slow, rolling the R too carefully, as if he were concentrating not to mess it up. “I think… I think something weird happened. You’re enormous.”

Harry stared.

First, it was the size.

Then—again—everything else.

There was a child sitting on the filthy ground of the alley, barely lit by the light from a nearby streetlamp, with messy red hair far too dirty for his small head. He was wearing—or rather, swimming in—Ron’s hoodie, which now swallowed his entire body. The sleeves were so long his hands were completely hidden.

The child stared at them with wide eyes.

Those eyes were Ron’s eyes.

Something dropped inside Harry’s chest.

“…Hermione,” he said slowly, without taking his eyes off the child.

“This isn’t London, or any city I recognise,” Hermione continued muttering to herself, trying to do something with her wand that Harry couldn’t quite identify.

“Hermione,” Harry said again. “Hermione.”

He didn’t raise his voice. He couldn’t. It came out as a rough thread caught in his throat, as though saying her name was the only way to make sure they were still real—that this wasn’t another post-battle hallucination, another warped memory of the Room of Requirement or a burning corridor.

He kept staring at the child, unable to blink, with the absurd certainty that if he looked away even for a second, something worse would take its place.

The war had taught him that much: when something didn’t make sense, it usually got worse.

And they really didn’t need that right now.

“Hermione,” he repeated, a little louder this time, his voice trembling despite himself. “Hermione.”

“…the architecture doesn’t match any modern European magical style, the streetlamps appear electrical, not enchanted, and the smell—Merlin, what is that smell?” she continued, pacing in short circles as if the ground might give her answers if she stepped on it hard enough. “This could be a non-magical city, or an active suppression zone, or—”

“HERMIONE.”

Harry raised his voice sharply without meaning to, pointing with his entire arm.

She looked at him, still caught in her internal monologue, wand half-raised, brow furrowed like someone on the verge of either a brilliant conclusion or a nervous breakdown—whichever came first. She was about to say something—Harry saw it form on her lips—but then she followed his gaze.

The world shattered.

Hermione went completely still for half a second.

One exact second.

Long enough for a mind trained to process the impossible to take inventory: wrong size, wrong proportions, wrong clothing.

Then her eyes locked onto the red hair. The blue eyes. That confused, mildly offended expression Harry had seen a thousand times—only now it was sitting on a face that was round and far too small.

“…no,” Hermione said very slowly.

“RON!”

Ron startled so violently he lost his balance and toppled sideways with an undignified thump.

“DON’T SHOUT!” he shrieked immediately, his childish voice rising and falling without his control. “DON’T SHOUT! WHY ARE YOU SHOUTING?! OH NO. WHAT’S HAPPENING TO ME?? I’M GOING TO DIE. OH GOD. OH GOD. OH GOD.”

That was enough for Harry.

He panicked.

Because if Ron was panicking, then things were actually bad.

So Harry panicked too, pointing at Ron as though he were a dangerous, entirely foreign creature, even though he knew exactly who he was.

The alley filled with voices.

Three different shouts, overlapping, bouncing off damp brick, climbing the narrow walls, blending with the distant echo of the city. Ron crying and yelling Harry’s name. Harry shouting Ron’s name as if it might anchor him to reality. Hermione shouting because they were shouting, because everything was wrong, and because she couldn’t afford to fall apart now, not again, not after surviving.

“HARRY!” Hermione kept yelling. “HARRY, THAT IS— THAT IS—!” She pointed relentlessly at the small redhead.

“RON IS SMALL!” Harry shouted, as if she couldn’t see it. “RON IS VERY SMALL! RON SHOULD NOT BE THIS SMALL!”

“He’s a CHILD!” Hermione yelled back. “RON IS A CHILD, HARRY! RON IS NOT A CHILD!”

“I AM NOT A CHILD!” Ron screamed at full volume, face red, eyes shining. “I’M BIG! I HAD A MOUSTACHE! A LITTLE ONE, BUT IT WAS MINE!”

He tried to stand again to prove his point.

Took two wobbly steps.

Dropped back to his knees.

“THIS IS HORRIBLE!” he sobbed. “MY LEGS HURT AND THEY DON’T WORK!”

“OH MERLIN, WHAT ARE WE GOING TO DO? WHAT AM I GOING TO DO?” Hermione shouted, staring at Harry, still pointing at Ron.

Harry grabbed his hair with both hands, tugging hard. “DON’T LOOK AT ME LIKE THAT!” he yelled at Hermione. “I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO! I KILLED VOLDEMORT, I DON’T KNOW HOW TO FIX BABIES!”

“HE’S NOT A BABY, HE’S RON!” she yelled back. “RON, SAY SOMETHING ADULT!”

Ron lifted his head indignantly and thought with every ounce of intensity his small, panic-filled body allowed.

“TAXES!”

Absolute silence.

All three froze.

Harry was the first to move.

Not because he knew what to do—but because standing still felt dangerously close to freezing, and that was something he no longer allowed himself. He had learned—through blows, losses, and screams—that when everything broke, someone had to do something, even if it was clumsy, wrong, or insufficient.

He slowly lowered his hands from his hair and looked at Ron.

At the child.

At child-Ron.

The word taxes still hovered in the air like a badly pronounced curse.

“…okay,” Harry said finally, his voice strangely calm, as if something inside him had forcibly clicked into place. “Right. That was… good.”

Ron sniffed, face still red, eyes damp. He wiped his face with the sleeve of the hoodie—missed entirely—and smacked himself in the cheek.

“See?” he said, pouting indignantly. “Not a baby. Babies don’t know about taxes. I hate taxes.”

Ron had never paid taxes in his life, as far as Harry knew. And Harry knew a lot about Ron. Sometimes more than he wanted to.

Hermione made a strange sound—half hysterical laugh, half strangled sob—and pressed both hands to her temples as if trying to keep her brain from coming apart piece by piece.

“Of all the possible indicators of adult cognition…” she muttered. “It had to be that one.”

Harry moved closer to Ron, slowly, carefully, making sure not to seem threatening. He crouched in front of him, bringing himself level with those enormous eyes, now even bigger with unshed tears. The alley still smelled vile—but beneath it was something stronger: the familiar scent of Ron, of old fabric, dirt, sweat, and something that always vaguely reminded Harry of the Burrow.

Ron was still Ron.

That helped.

Far more than Harry wanted to admit.

“Listen,” Harry said, lowering his voice without realising it, using the tone he’d learned with nervous magical creatures and traumatised roommates. “You’re not dying. Not right now. And you’re not alone. Okay?”

Ron stared at him for several long seconds.

“Mate… I’m still an adult,” he reminded him. “Even if I look like a kid.”

Harry blinked. “Right.”

Both of them looked at Hermione, as if expecting an explanation—or a solution.

Hermione looked up, feeling two pairs of eyes fixed on her with near-accusatory intensity. Harry had that familiar expression of his: chronic exhaustion mixed with stubborn hope that always seemed to say please, let someone else know what to do this time. Ron, meanwhile, stared up at her, chin tilted at an uncomfortable angle for his short neck, eyes huge and shining—as if she were the only person who could explain why the universe had chosen to betray him in such a specifically humiliating way.

Hermione opened her mouth and then closed it again.

Not because she lacked theories.

She had too many.

But because none of them fit yet without breaking something important in her head.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she said at last, her voice trying to sound firm and only managing to sound busy holding itself together. “I don’t have an immediate, magical answer. And before you say it—no, this doesn’t resemble any standard reversible Transfiguration, nor any known curse, nor a documented side effect of a simple spell collision. If I had to venture a guess—and I want to stress that this is speculation—I’d say it’s a profound bodily alteration linked to a mismatch between mind and physical form. Which is… strange. Very strange.”

“Strange like ‘my hair turns green for a few weeks,’ or strange like ‘he’s stuck like this forever’?” Harry asked, trying to sound casual, even as the knot in his stomach tightened just from forming the question.

Ron answered before she could, crossing his arms with the dignity of someone who had clearly forgotten that his center of gravity was now completely different. “Strange like ‘I can’t reach things,’” he grumbled. “And like ‘my legs are traitors.’ And like ‘everything smells stronger.’” He wrinkled his nose and looked around with renewed disgust. “This place smells awful. Is this how Muggles live?”

Harry forced a crooked smile at that, more for Ron’s sake than his own. There was something deeply unsettling about hearing such a Ron complaint come out of a mouth that was far too small, with slightly mispronounced words and a voice that cracked at the ends. It was like seeing a living memory, a distorted version of the past that moved, spoke, and breathed right in front of him.

And yet… and yet Ron was still Ron.

He was still complaining, still being dramatic, still finding reasons to be indignant even when there were clearly much bigger problems on the table. That anchored Harry more than any logical explanation ever could.

“Right,” Harry said, running a hand over his face. “Right. Okay. So…” He looked around again, instinctively. “We’re in an unknown place, with no perceptible magic, with noises I don’t like, and Ron is…” He made a vague gesture with his hand. “This. Brilliant. Perfect. Just what we needed.”

Hermione took a deep breath—so deep her chest visibly rose—then let it out slowly, as though she were following a mental checklist step by step. Harry recognized the gesture. He’d seen it in freezing tents, in smoking ruins, right before she forced herself to function because someone had to.

“First,” she said, counting on her fingers, “we need to confirm where we are. Second, we need to get out of this alley before someone sees us. And third—” she looked at Ron, softening her expression just a fraction, “we need to make sure he’s… stable.”

“I am stable,” Ron protested at once, stumbling over the words. “Just… small. And very angry. And a bit tired.” He paused, frowning. “And I think I’m hungry.”

Harry let out a short laugh, surprising himself. It was low and rough, but real. “Of course you’re hungry,” he said. “You’re always hungry. The body must’ve decided to keep that part intact.”

Ron nodded gravely. “Thank you. It’s good to know the universe still has some sense of coherence.”

Hermione shook her head, though the corner of her mouth twitched—because it really was ridiculous to see a child no older than two years old speaking and behaving like an adult.

She approached Ron carefully, crouching in front of him and studying him with an almost clinical focus that wasn’t entirely cold. There was worry there, and something deeper: nameless guilt, the feeling that something had slipped out of her control under her hands and she hadn’t been able to stop it. “Does anything hurt right now?” she asked. “Dizziness? Strange tingling sensations? Mental blanks?”

“My pride hurts,” Ron replied instantly. “And my knees, because I fell when we got here. And…” He went thoughtful. “I think my head works the same, it just takes longer to tell my body what to do. Like there’s a lot of chaos—like in Quidditch when you’re flying and you run into other players and you’re trying not to crash into them.”

Harry closed his eyes for a second at that. Chaos. Disconnection. Far too familiar. When he opened them again, Hermione was nodding slowly, as if filing the information away for later. “That’s important,” she murmured. “Very important.”

A closer sound—the screech of something metallic and distant footsteps—made Harry go rigid at once. The humor evaporated instantly, replaced by the constant state of alertness that had never quite left him since the war. He stepped forward, positioning himself without thinking between Ron and the mouth of the alley, his body already tense, ready to run or fight or flee if necessary. His wand was in his hand, though he didn’t truly need it. He never did when it came to feeling responsible. He never had.

“We need to move,” he said quietly. “Now.”

Ron looked up at him. “Harry…” he said, hesitating. “I don’t run very well.”

Harry didn’t answer right away. He turned, looked at him, and something clenched in his chest with unexpected force. Without thinking too much—thinking too much was dangerous, but thinking too little was, too—he bent down and carefully picked Ron up, lifting him against his chest. The weight was different, wrong, far too light. Ron went stiff for a second, startled, and then clutched at Harry’s hoodie with both small hands, pure instinct.

“I know,” Harry said simply. “That’s why I’ll run.”

Ron blinked, confused… and then rested his head against Harry’s shoulder with a defeated sigh. “This is humiliating,” he muttered. “But comfortable.”

Hermione watched them for a moment longer than necessary, something soft and aching crossing her face, before straightening and nodding. “Let’s go,” she said. “Before this world decides to welcome us in a worse way.”

Harry moved forward carefully, every sense alert, Ron’s weight anchoring him to the present in a way that was strange and terrifying and, somehow, reassuring. He didn’t know where they were. He didn’t know exactly what had happened to Ron. He didn’t know how to fix any of this.

But he knew one thing, with an absolute certainty that vibrated in his bones:

As long as he could move, as long as he could hold them, neither of them was getting left behind.

And for now, that would have to be enough.

.

.

.

Chapter Text

Hermione was the first to move.

She pushed herself upright slowly, as if a sudden motion might make the entire building collapse, or worse, make the world suddenly remember that they existed. She wiped her face with the back of her hand, took another deep breath, and looked around with sharp, critical eyes, already working, already cataloguing.

“Alright,” she said quietly, firm in that tone she used when panic threatened to get the better of her. “No one in. No one out. We have a roof, thick walls, and at least two exits. That’s… acceptable. Temporarily.”

Harry nodded without moving away from the door. His head was tilted, listening, counting the seconds between distant sounds: a siren far away, an engine passing, something metallic clanging somewhere in the building. Nothing immediate. Nothing moving toward them.

Still, he didn’t lower his wand. He couldn’t. Not when he knew danger was out there, lurking like a beast waiting to devour them at the first chance it got.

Ron shifted in his arms, already tired of the tension even before fully understanding it. He rested his cheek against Harry’s chest and yawned dramatically.

“Can we officially declare this place less horrible than the street?” he murmured. “Because my expectations were low and yet…” he glanced at a suspicious stain on the floor. “…wow.”

Hermione shot him an automatic look—half reproach, half relief. “Ronald.”

“What?” the redhead said.

Harry let out a slow breath through his nose. He crouched carefully and set Ron down on an old, forgotten blanket in the corner, making sure he was properly covered with the coat.

“Don’t move from here,” he said seriously.

Ron looked at him, offended on principle. “Dude, I’m not a bloody baby,” he reminded him. The words sounded oddly funny under the circumstances. “And just so you know, I wasn’t planning on moving. I’m not an idiot.”

“Debatable,” Hermione muttered, and Ron shot her an indignant look.

Hermione stood and began to walk the space, touching surfaces, opening rusted doors carefully, looking under tables and behind lockers. “No electricity,” she reported. “No running water. But—” she opened one of the lockers, “—there are old blankets I can clean with a spell. And this.” She lifted a broken torch. “Muggle, obviously, but I can fix it.”

“Everything here is Muggle,” Ron said, pointing at the ceiling with his chubby little hand. “That’s what worries me most.”

Harry finally stepped away from the door and moved closer, lowering his wand, though he didn’t put it away. “We have to assume that guy won’t stay petrified forever,” he said. “When the spell wears off, he’ll talk. And if he talks—”

“We don’t know to whom,” Hermione finished. “Muggle police, or worse, social services. Or something even worse, some magical organisation operating in this place.” She looked up at Harry. “We don’t know what’s normal here.”

“Gunshots are,” Ron muttered, "We already know that."

An uncomfortable silence followed.

Hermione sat down on the wobbly table, clasping her hands as if she were about to give a lecture. “Alright. Let’s recap.” She looked at Harry, who had moved to pick Ron up again; Ron curled against him without guilt. “We’re not in England. That’s obvious. The language is the same, but the accent and expressions… we’re in some English-speaking country. Possibly the United States. New Jersey, judging by the red-helmet guy’s accent.”

“How do you know so much about accents from other countries?” Ron asked, curious.

“I have a couple of cousins in New Jersey, in the States. And some others in Queens. And I think one or two in France,” she recalled, frowning slightly. “We don’t really speak anymore—we were never close—but I remember their accents from family dinners when I was younger, before my grandparents died.”

“Oh,” Ron said, surprised and intrigued. “I didn’t know you had more family besides your parents.”

Hermione shrugged. “We never cared much to keep in touch,” she repeated. “They’re more like very distant cousins, from what I understand. So they don’t really matter much, and I don’t matter to them either.”

“I see,” Ron murmured, clearly finding that strange, given how even distant cousins still tended to matter in the magical world.

Hermione blinked and changed the subject. “Anyway, I think this city is called Gotham. I saw it on a bus sign and some shops while we were running, so that’s almost certainly the name. And it’s not anywhere I know or remember.”

“I’ve read a fair bit of Muggle geography,” Harry said. “There’s never been a city, country, or town by that name. I’d know if there were—I planned to run away once, when I was a kid and didn’t know Hogwarts existed.”

“Exactly,” Hermione said, taking a deep breath. “We don’t know how we got here, or why. But we do know one important thing: magic works.”

Harry looked at his wand. “There’s no reason it shouldn’t.”

“I don’t know…” Hermione bit her lip. She looked conflicted, as though something didn’t quite fit and she was trying to connect the pieces. “Magic feels different here.”

“Maybe because we’re in a different country?” Ron suggested carefully.

“No,” Hermione shook her head. “That’s not how magic works. Magic feels the same everywhere—stronger in some places, perhaps, but not… like this.” And both boys knew what she meant.

Magic felt different there, in that city. As if it were somehow disconnected, different, even though it worked perfectly when they used it. It felt colder, less warm. Less raw and vibrant than it should be, instead flatter, simpler somehow, and yet at the same time more dangerous.

“It’s like everything is different from what we’re used to.”

Hermione fell silent after saying it, as if she feared that putting it fully into words would make the feeling settle in. Her fingers tightened around the wood of the table, and Harry noticed that small, telltale gesture she always made when she was genuinely unsettled, not panic, but intellectual distrust. The kind of alarm that went off when something broke rules she knew far too well. Harry followed her gaze, even though there was nothing concrete to look at—just old walls and still shadows—and yet he felt a shiver run down his spine. It wasn’t pure fear; it was that dull discomfort he’d learned to respect during the war, the sense of standing on ground that didn’t obey the same laws he took for granted.

“Whatever it is,” he said at last, his voice low but steady, “it doesn’t seem to react badly to us.” He lowered his wand a little, more for Ron than out of conviction. “The spell worked like always. No backlash. No… resistance.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s safe,” Hermione replied at once, looking up at him. “It only means we’re still ourselves.” She sighed, tired. “But this city… I don’t know, Harry. I don’t feel magic around us like I do in London, or even in completely Muggle places. It’s like it’s not integrated into the environment. Like it’s… tolerated.”

Ron frowned, processing that in his own way, brow furrowed and one hand gripping Harry’s hoodie. “That sounds awful,” he said finally. “Magic shouldn’t be tolerated. It’s like…” he searched for a comparison. “…being in someone’s house who clearly doesn’t want visitors, but won’t kick you out either.”

Hermione stared at him, surprised. “That’s…” she blinked. “Actually very accurate.”

Ron grinned, proud, then yawned again and rested his head against Harry’s shoulder with absolute trust. Harry ran a hand through his hair without thinking—a reflex he no longer questioned—and turned his attention back to Hermione.

“So what do we do?” Harry asked. “We can’t stay here forever. But we can’t just walk out either.”

Hermione stood and began to pace slowly, measuring each step as if organising the space might help organise her thoughts. “We stay the night,” she decided, though it was obvious to all three. “No matter how uncomfortable it is. Leaving now would be reckless. Tomorrow, in daylight, we observe. No visible magic. No drawing attention.” She looked at him seriously. “Harry, I know your instincts are to protect us at all costs, but here that could make things worse.”

Harry held her gaze for a few tense seconds, then nodded. “I know.” He swallowed. “I just… don’t want us to become easy targets again.”

“We aren’t,” Hermione said gently, without hesitation. “We survived Voldemort. We’ve been lost before. This isn’t different, just stranger.”

Ron lifted his head a little, half asleep, half alert. “And we’re not alone. It’s the three of us, like always. Even if I look like this,” he added. “That has to count for something.”

Hermione smiled faintly, tired but sincere, and crouched to adjust the blanket over Ron while he was still in Harry’s arms. “Yes,” she admitted. “It does.”

Ron raised one small hand. “Important question,” he said after a few seconds, making Harry look down at him, surprised—he’d thought Ron was asleep. “Does magic work the same? Because if we’re in a weird place, with weird people falling off rooftops, maybe the rules are weird too.”

Hermione studied him for a long moment, surprised. “That’s a good question.”

Ron smiled, satisfied, then added teasingly, “Always the surprised tone, huh, ’Mione?” And she smiled back, amused.

Harry ran a hand through his hair, messing it up even more. “Whatever we did, it wasn’t a normal transfer. Not a Portkey, not Apparition, not any kind of transport I remember.” He frowned. “It felt… wrong. Like something shoved us.”

Hermione went a little pale at the memory, but nodded. “I felt it too.”

Ron wrinkled his nose. “I just remember it was cold. And then not. And then everything was huge.”

“Because you shrank,” Harry told him.

Ron nodded. “Exactly.”

Hermione looked thoughtful again, but in Harry’s opinion, when wasn’t she?

“So... Another plan,” she said, raising a finger. “One: no more magic in public. None. Not even small spells. That man already saw too much, and we don’t want trouble with MACUSA.”

Harry opened his mouth to protest, then stopped because he knew she was right. “…Alright.”

“Blimey, this is going to be hard,” Ron sighed, complaining. But he agreed too.

“Two: we need information,” she raised another finger. “But we can’t go out together. We draw too much attention.”

“Brilliant,” Ron said sarcastically. “I love it when the plan includes splitting up.”

“We need a backup plan in case of emergency,” Hermione said quickly. “A story, in case this isn’t just us accidentally landing on another continent and is something more serious.”

“What kind of story?” Harry asked.

Hermione hesitated.

“Orphans,” she said at last. “It always works.” She looked at Ron. “And he...” she swallowed, uncertain, “... is our younger brother.”

Ron looked at both of them, then shook his head. “That won’t work,” he told them. “We’re too different, the three of us.”

Harry agreed. “If Muggles involve social services and we can’t stop it, we’ll have trouble keeping Ron with us, considering we’re not blood relatives.”

Hermione frowned at that, clearly annoyed with herself for not having considered that angle earlier. She bit her thumb and began pacing again, faster now, as if urgency had found a new outlet.

“You’re right,” she admitted bluntly. “We’re too different, there are too many inconsistencies. And if there’s one thing I know about the Muggle world, it’s that inconsistencies are what make intelligent people ask questions.” She stopped, looking at both boys, who watched her with equal parts concern and seriousness. “Muggles can accept many things, but they don’t usually overlook legal contradictions when minors are involved. And if social services here function even halfway decently, they’ll want paperwork, proof, records…” She pressed her lips together. “Things we don’t have. Things we can’t fabricate without obvious magic or raising suspicion.”

Her gaze moved from Harry to Ron, then to the ceiling for a few seconds, before settling on Ron again, and then back to Harry.

“Without documents, without verifiable kinship, Ron would be separated from us in less than an hour if someone decides to ‘help.’ That’s not a possibility we can allow. Not after everything we’ve already lost, and certainly not when we don’t even know where we are.”

Harry felt a knot in his stomach. He looked at Ron, small and exhausted in his arms, trusting even now, as if the world couldn't touch him while they were together. The thought of someone trying to take him away, of some Muggle official deciding that Harry was 'unfit', washed over him with a wave of quiet, all-too-familiar rage.

“I’m not going to let them take him,” Harry snapped, his voice low but dangerous. “It doesn’t matter where we are.”

Hermione watched him closely, recognizing that tone at once. She didn’t contradict him. “I know,” she replied. “And I won’t either. But that’s precisely why we need to think before someone forces us to react.”

Ron had stayed quiet through the exchange, which was unusual even for his reduced version. His gaze was fixed on the ceiling, following a long crack that ran through the bricks like a frozen lightning bolt. When he spoke, he did so slowly, without a trace of humor.

“There are…” he began, then stopped, as if doubting himself. “There are things in the wizarding world for that.”

Harry and Hermione turned their heads toward him at the same time.

“For…?” Hermione asked cautiously.

Ron shrank a little further into Harry’s coat, suddenly uncomfortable with the attention.

“For when blood isn’t enough,” he told them. “Or when there is no blood. Mum used to say it was old nonsense, things pure-blood families told themselves to feel better… but they weren’t just stories.” He frowned, straining to remember. “A blood adoption ritual. Or something like that.”

Hermione froze. Literally. Her mind—always fast—was already rifling through mental shelves, forgotten texts, marginal notes she had once dismissed as irrelevant. “That…” she said slowly. “That exists. It’s recorded in pre-Statute texts. Very old ones. Very… problematic.”

Harry looked from Ron to Hermione. “Explain,” he asked, not liking being the only one in the dark.

Ron took a deep breath, as if he were about to say something important and wasn’t sure he wanted to. “It’s not adoption the way Muggles understand it,” he began. “It’s more… symbolic. Magical. It binds someone to a family not by surname, but by core. Magic recognizes the bond as real. Legal.” He glanced at Hermione. “In the old books, it counts as true kinship, right?”

Hermione closed her eyes for a second and nodded. When she opened them, there was a dangerous mix of fascination and alarm in her gaze. “It’s blood magic,” she said. “Deep magic. Not Dark, necessarily, but heavily regulated by the modern Ministry. In fact…” she wet her lips, swallowing. “I believe it was banned after several magical wars. It was abused—some families stole children from others as revenge for perceived slights or offenses.”

“Everything gets abused,” Harry muttered.

Ron nodded seriously. “Aunt Muriel used to say the problem wasn’t the ritual, but who used it.” He grimaced. “Though she also said the problem with most things was people who breathed, so take that with a grain of salt.”

Hermione didn’t smile. She was far too focused.

“The ritual requires consent,” she recalled. “From all parties. And a genuine familial anchor. It can’t be done for convenience. Magic rejects it if there’s no true intent of care and belonging.”

Harry lowered his gaze to Ron without realizing it. “That wouldn’t be a problem.”

Ron lifted his head, surprised, and looked at him directly. For a second there were no jokes, no exhaustion, no childish fear. Just Ron. “I didn’t say it because of that,” he murmured. “I said it because… if this goes wrong. If we’re forced to choose quickly. It might be the only way no one can say we aren’t family.”

Hermione leaned against the table, as if her legs had suddenly failed her. “Even if it works…” She inhaled, pausing briefly. “The magic would bind us permanently. It’s not something that can be undone. And doing it outside any known jurisdiction…” She shook her head. “It would be risky. Very risky. Especially if we ever go home. This would change everything between the three of us.”

“Everything here is risky,” Harry replied, consciously ignoring Hermione’s last words. “But it doesn’t sound like something we’d do lightly. It sounds like a last resort.”

Ron nodded slowly. “Exactly. Last resort.” He yawned, suddenly exhausted again. “Not for now. I just… wanted you to know.”

The silence that followed was different from the ones before. Not uncomfortable. Not urgent. It was heavy, yes, but full of meaning, as if a door had cracked open and none of them yet dared to step through.

Hermione was the first to break it.

“If there’s even a slight chance we’ll need it,” she said to both boys, “then I need to remember every detail. Components. Conditions. Consequences.” She looked at Ron, half-asleep against Harry. “And you’ll tell me everything you remember. Even the parts that seem stupid.”

Ron gave a weak smile. “Perfect. I always wanted my useless knowledge to save the day.”

Harry rested his head against the wall, closing his eyes for a moment, Ron safe in his arms, Hermione already planning ten steps ahead.

He didn’t know what world they were in. He didn’t know what rules awaited them outside. But he knew one thing with absolute certainty: they weren’t going to stop being a family just because the world decided they weren’t. And that calmed him more than he expected.

Hermione looked at both boys before sighing and pointing her wand at the pile of blankets she’d found earlier, casting a Cleaning Charm over them. She separated a couple, then transfigured the rest into the closest thing to a mattress and a pair of pillows she could manage, hoping it would be comfortable enough for all three of them to sleep there through the night.

She finished adjusting the improvised mattress with a final flick of her wand and stared at it a second longer than necessary, as if assessing not just its comfort but the fragility of the moment itself. Then her shoulders sagged, real exhaustion seeping through for the first time since they’d entered the building.

“Before we sleep,” she said softly, practical but gentle, “we should make sure no one can get in here without us knowing.”

Harry nodded immediately. He hadn’t stopped thinking about that since closing the door. The unease hummed beneath his skin with the same insistence it had during those nights at the campsite, when every crack of the forest could mean they’d been found.

Hermione didn’t wait for a verbal response. Her wand was already in hand, her eyes lit with that particular gleam that appeared when she entered full survival mode—the same one she’d worn during the escape, when the world seemed determined to crush them and she had been, again and again, the one to raise invisible walls between them and the worst of it. She walked slowly along the perimeter of the station, counting steps in silence, murmuring spells barely audible, precise and careful, as though every syllable had to fit perfectly or the magic would unravel. Harry watched her, feeling a bitter familiarity tighten in his chest: Hermione protecting, defining boundaries, calculating risks; him keeping watch; Ron being the quiet center around which everything revolved without anyone saying it aloud—the one who kept them grounded despite everything.

“Cave inimicum,” Hermione whispered, tracing a slow arc through the air, letting the magic settle into the walls, the floor, the doors. “It’s not exactly what we used in the forest, but it should alert us if anyone tries to enter. Muggle or wizard.” She paused, frowning slightly. “Well… alert us. They shouldn’t notice anything.”

She took a few more steps and added a Muggle-Repelling Charm, adjusting it with almost surgical delicacy, ensuring it wasn’t aggressive—just… discouraging. Nothing suspicious. Nothing that pushed too hard. They’d learned that the hard way.

Meanwhile, Harry knelt beside the improvised mattress and settled Ron with the same nearly ritual care he’d developed without noticing over the past few hours. He adjusted the coat like a blanket, motioned, and wrestled with him for a few seconds—taking advantage of Hermione being distracted with the protective charms to remove Ron’s coat and transfigure it into something more appropriate to his size—which resulted in a very red-cheeked, very annoyed Ron wearing a brown full-body pajama covered in broomstick patterns. Harry then tucked him in carefully, making sure there were no gaps for the cold to sneak through.

Ron protested, but curled up anyway, exhaustion crashing over him. “I don’t like having a baby’s body,” he complained.

Harry laughed. “But you look adorable, Ickle Ronniekins,” he teased.

“Keep it up and the next thing you know I’m biting you,” Ron warned, shooting his best friend a sour look.

Hermione finished the last charm near the main door and rested her forehead against the frame for a second, breathing deeply. The magic settled with an almost imperceptible whisper, like a net spreading around them. It wasn’t infallible. It never was. But it had kept them alive before, and that counted.

“Done,” she said at last, slipping her wand back into her sleeve. “If anyone crosses the perimeter, we’ll know. And if it’s a Muggle… they’ll probably decide this place isn’t interesting and move on.”

Harry looked up at her. Dark circles marked the skin beneath her eyes, and yet she still stood straight, steady, bearing the weight of decisions no one else wanted to make. He thought, not for the first time, that if the world had ever bothered to look closely, Hermione Granger would have been recognized as a force of nature—unstoppable and powerful.

“Good job,” he said simply.

Hermione nodded, accepting the praise without unnecessary words, and sat down on the floor beside the mattress, crossing her legs. For a moment she allowed herself to close her eyes—just a few seconds—before opening them again, alert once more.

“We’ll sleep in shifts,” she added. “Two hours each. Harry, you’re first.” She looked at him pointedly. “I’ll take the second shift. Ron—”

“Ron snores,” Ron murmured without opening his eyes, hidden beneath the blankets. “That counts as auditory surveillance.”

Hermione let out a sigh that was almost a laugh. “It’s not like you could do much in your state.”

“Exactly,” Ron agreed.

Harry leaned back against the wall, wand in hand, eyes fixed on the door, though his eyelids felt heavier than he wanted to admit. The adrenaline was beginning to fade, leaving behind that deep, bone-settling exhaustion—the same one he’d felt at the end of the war, when there was nothing left to give and yet they still had to keep going.

The building creaked softly in the night wind, a hollow, distant sound. Outside, the city remained a wakeful animal, full of faraway noises they didn’t fully understand. But within the perimeter, within that small space protected by magic and sheer stubbornness, the world narrowed to three uneven breaths.

Harry looked down at Ron once more, making sure he was truly asleep, then lifted his gaze to Hermione, who had already begun mentally assembling an invisible list of everything she would need to research, remember, or prepare once morning came.

They didn’t know where they were. They didn’t know what rules governed that place. But they had done what they always did when chaos found them: protect each other, think, and cling to one another with tooth and nail.

And for that night, at least, that would be enough.

.

.

.

Waking up wasn’t abrupt. There was no immediate jolt, no violent memories crashing in all at once. Instead, it came as a slow and strangely warm awareness: the pleasant weight of another body pressed against his, a warm breath brushing his neck, the steady rhythm of someone sleeping deeply. Harry opened his eyes just a little, disoriented, and the first thing he thought—before he even remembered where they were—was that it had been a long time since he’d slept this deeply. Too deeply.

The second thought hit like a bucket of ice water.

Watch.

Harry tensed instantly, his body reacting before his mind could catch up, and for a moment all that warmth turned into alarm. He tried to move, but something—someone—kept him anchored. He lowered his gaze, and then he saw everything at once: Ron asleep between them, curled into himself, his head resting against Hermione’s chest and one hand clutching Harry’s sleeve; Hermione herself, asleep on her side, her brow relaxed, one hand resting unconsciously on Harry’s arm as if that were its natural place. And him… he had an arm around both of them, protective even in sleep, as if his body had made decisions without asking permission.

The panic came late, but it came hard.

Harry held his breath, his heart racing. We didn’t keep watch, he thought. There were no shifts. No two hours. Nothing. The three of them had fallen asleep together—vulnerable—in an abandoned building in an unfamiliar city where people fired guns at two in the morning. He closed his eyes for a second, mentally cursing himself, running through every horrible possibility of what could have happened while they slept as if the world wasn’t actively trying to kill them.

Nothing.

That was the problem.

Nothing had happened.

There were no screams, no nearby sirens, no footsteps outside, no strange pressure in the magic that always accompanied a real threat. The air was still. The station remained silent. And, most importantly, Hermione’s spells were still there—intact—vibrating softly beneath his skin like a firm net that hadn’t been touched.

Harry swallowed and forced his breathing to slow.

It’s fine, he told himself. It’s fine. For now.

He allowed himself to relax just a fraction—enough not to wake either of them. Ron muttered something unintelligible and shifted closer, burying his face between them, completely unaware of the collective near–heart attack they’d just avoided. Hermione sighed in her sleep and moved just enough to end up even closer, her forehead brushing Harry’s collarbone. He stayed perfectly still, aware of every point of contact, of how his arm around her didn’t feel invasive or forced, but… right. As if it had always been there.

He didn’t think about that too much. He never quite knew how to, not without his thoughts tangling the way they always did whenever it came to her and how natural her closeness felt.

Hermione was the next to wake, with that faint look of confusion she always had before fully remembering the context. She blinked once, twice, and then went completely still as she registered the position she was in. Her eyes moved slowly, assessing: Ron asleep, safe; Harry awake, tense but calm; the magical net intact. Relief crossed her face before she could even put it into words.

“Did we…?” she whispered, leaving the question unfinished.

Harry shook his head very slowly. “Nothing happened.”

She closed her eyes for a second, resting her forehead against him without thinking. “We missed the watch,” she murmured—more a mental note than a reproach.

“Yeah,” Harry admitted. “But…” He glanced around again. “I guess, this time, it worked out.”

Hermione nodded against his chest, accepting the logic without arguing, too tired to fight the facts. She didn’t move right away. Neither did he. Ron was still deeply asleep between them, oblivious to everything, and separating now felt unnecessary—almost cruel—like breaking a fragile balance they’d built without realizing it.

Harry adjusted his arm slightly, more instinct than conscious choice, making sure both of them were covered. Hermione didn’t comment. She just took a deep breath and stayed there.

For now, Harry decided, the world could wait a few more minutes.

They had survived the night, and for the moment, that was enough.

“You’re squashing me,” Ron complained, wriggling between them.

Harry froze for a split second, convinced that any sudden movement would break something he didn’t fully understand yet. Then, very slowly, he looked down at the red-haired bundle now stirring between them with the clumsiness of someone who’d slept too well and too deeply. Ron frowned, stretched one leg, and achieved exactly zero extra space—ending up even more trapped between Harry’s chest and Hermione’s side, accidentally elbowing Harry in the process.

“Ow,” Harry protested.

“Not my fault,” Ron muttered thickly, half-asleep. “You two are like… walls. Warm walls.” He cracked one eye open. “Suspiciously comfortable walls that make my baby body very happy to keep sleeping.”

Hermione let out a sigh that was half exhaustion, half resignation, and opened her eyes fully. She blinked a couple of times, processing the situation with the same efficiency she always applied to everything—though this time there was something slower to her, something softened by shared warmth and the certainty that, at least for now, no one was chasing them.

“We’re not squashing you,” she told Ron quietly. “You’re exaggerating.”

“I’m being oppressed,” Ron replied, dramatic even half-asleep. “Historically, this never ends well for the Weasleys. Or for redheads.”

“I can’t believe you still think the redhead extermination is real,” Hermione snorted.

“It is real, Mione,” Ron said solemnly. “And I am a victim of it.”

Harry let out a short exhale that, to his surprise, turned into a silent laugh. He remembered—very clearly—that he was the one who’d shown Ron that ridiculous Muggle conspiracy article about the extermination of redheaded people. The sound vibrated in his chest, and Hermione felt it before she heard it, lifting her head slightly to look at him.

“Did you sleep well?” Hermione asked finally, in the same tone she might’ve used to ask if he’d eaten breakfast.

Harry nodded. “Too well,” he replied. And that seemed to make her smile—just barely, a small curve of her lips that no one else would have noticed, but that Harry registered with strange clarity, as if his brain had decided to file that expression somewhere important without consulting him first.

Ron yawned loudly and tipped his head back, his cheek squashed against Hermione’s chest. She made an automatic sound of protest but didn’t move him.

“If we’re going to die in an unknown city,” Ron said, closing his eyes again, “I’m glad it’s at least after a decent night’s sleep.”

“We’re not going to die,” Hermione replied, more out of habit than conviction.

“That’s what you said the last time we camped,” Ron countered, eyes still closed. “And the time before that. And the time before that.”

Harry tightened his arm around both of them just a little—a small, almost unconscious gesture, but one heavy with intent. It wasn’t possessive. It was… reassuring. As if his body knew exactly what to do even while his mind was busy dipping in and out of panic.

“We’re still here,” Harry said. “That counts for something.”

Hermione nodded, resting her forehead against his shoulder again. The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. It was the kind that only existed once the important things had already been said—when there was no need to fill the space with words because no one was trying to escape anything in that moment.

For several minutes, none of them moved. The building remained still. The magic remained stable. Outside, Gotham continued its distant chaos, but inside that small, improvised circle of blankets and bodies, there was something almost domestic, almost ordinary, something that felt dangerously close to home.

Harry thought, vaguely, that if someone had told him years ago that his life would end up feeling like this, sleeping on the floor of an abandoned building, Ron snoring softly and Hermione breathing against his chest—he wouldn’t have believed them. And yet, there he was. Not happy, exactly. But steady. Anchored.

Hermione was the first to truly move, though she did so carefully, as if afraid of waking not just Ron, but the moment itself. She pushed herself up slightly, stretching her neck, and scanned the room again, checking exits, shadows, weak points. The Hermione he knew. The one who never fully let her guard down, even when the world seemed to grant them a reprieve.

“As soon as Ron really wakes up,” she said, “we should eat something. And then figure out what to do about… all of this.” She gestured vaguely with her hand.

“Can we think after breakfast?” Ron asked, opening one eye. “My brain doesn’t work without food.”

“Yours doesn’t work with food either,” Hermione teased automatically.

Ron grinned, satisfied. “But at least it tries.”

Harry watched them bicker quietly, feeling something settle inside him, a calm certainty that didn’t depend on plans or maps or knowing what part of the world they were in. He didn’t know what awaited them once they left the fire station. He didn’t know how many more times they’d have to run, hide, or improvise.