# Hermione's Bedroom - An Hour Later
The morning light streamed through Hermione's bedroom windows in bright, orderly shafts, illuminating a space that was equal parts sanctuary, study, and battlefield of ideas. Every available surface was claimed: bookshelves sagging under the weight of magical theory, modern medical journals, and suspiciously dog-eared fantasy novels; a desk that looked like a shrine to controlled chaos with its immaculate parchment stacks, color-coded quills, and a brass timepiece ticking with the confidence of someone who had never heard of daylight savings; and framed photographs carefully arranged on her dresser, each capturing fragments of a life she was now preparing to leave behind.
Hermione stood at the room's center like a general preparing for war, surveying her belongings with amber eyes narrowed in tactical concentration. Her wild hair, loosed from its usual constraints, caught the sun in shades of auburn and gold, haloing her in unintentional drama. She wore a simple cream sweater that somehow managed to look both practical and elegant—the kind of effortless sophistication that came naturally to her, though she'd never admit it.
"Right then," she muttered, ticking items off on her fingers with the precision of someone who had never met a list she couldn't conquer. "Personal effects. Irreplaceable books. Clothing suitable for both academic rigor and mutant training. Medical supplies—because honestly, with my luck and Harry's propensity for danger, I'll need them. And..." Her gaze landed on the photographs, her expression softening. "Reminders of home."
The words wavered, her usually crisp voice betraying the tremor of someone who knew this was more than another year away at school. This was leaving behind everything familiar, crossing an ocean into a world of mutants, magic, and whatever category Harry Potter currently fell into—something between Greek demigod and walking distraction with criminally unfair bone structure.
Her careful planning was interrupted by footsteps on the stairs—confident, measured, with just enough swagger to be irritating—and a voice that managed to sound both aristocratically amused and entirely at ease in her parents' house.
"Hermione?" Harry called from the hallway, his voice carrying that honey-over-steel quality that had developed alongside everything else that had become unfairly attractive about him. "Storm seems to think I'd be useful carrying your luggage. Something about building character, humility, and—let me check the notes she definitely didn't give me—'learning to use those ridiculous shoulders for something practical instead of just existing to torment innocent witches.'"
Hermione closed her eyes briefly, pressing her lips together to suppress a smile. Of course. Of course the universe had decided to send this version of Harry Potter—taller, broader, with a jawline that could cut glass and eyes like liquid emeralds shot through with molten gold—with his insufferable charm into her bedroom at precisely the moment she was having an existential crisis about leaving home.
"Those are not her words, Potter," she called back, proud that her voice only cracked slightly. "Storm is far too diplomatic to call anyone's shoulders ridiculous. That's pure Harry Potter embellishment."
"Hermione," came his voice, closer now, tinged with mock offense, "are you suggesting I would fabricate Storm's words for dramatic effect? I am wounded. Devastated. My feelings may never recover from such a cruel accusation."
"Your feelings are remarkably resilient," she replied dryly. "They've survived three years of Snape's best efforts. I think they can handle a little skepticism from me. Come on up, but wipe your feet—my mother will have both our heads if you track mud through the house."
A moment later, Harry appeared in the doorway, and Hermione's breath caught despite her best efforts. He moved with that new, fluid grace he had no right to possess, as though he'd been personally choreographed by angels with too much free time and a degree in making teenage witches question their life choices. His dark hair, still perpetually tousled but now in a way that suggested artful carelessness rather than actual mess, caught the sunlight. Those impossible green eyes—now flecked with gold that shifted like sunlight on water—swept across her room with genuine curiosity rather than judgment.
He wore a simple black henley that clung just enough to suggest the lean muscle beneath without being indecent, paired with dark jeans that fit like they'd been tailored specifically for him. Everything about him screamed casual confidence, but there was something in his expression—a softness around his eyes when he looked at her—that suggested the old Harry was still there beneath all the impossible new packaging.
"Brilliant," he said at last, that crooked grin tugging at his mouth as his gaze settled on her bookshelves. "Though I should've guessed, really. You've somehow managed to fit what appears to be three libraries' worth of material into a space that, by all known laws of physics, should have collapsed into a scholarly black hole by now. Be honest with me, Granger—Extension Charms, or are you secretly moonlighting as Mary Poppins in your spare time?"
Hermione felt heat crawl up her neck, partly from the compliment and partly from the way he was leaning casually against her doorframe like some sort of Regency hero who'd wandered off the cover of a romance novel. "Bit of both, actually," she said, lifting her chin in defensive pride. "Professor McGonagall added the spatial charms when I got my Hogwarts letter—apparently, the Transfiguration department has protocols for book-obsessed students. The rest is just efficient use of available space and a comprehensive cataloging system."
Harry's smile deepened into something dangerously close to wicked, and he pushed off from the doorframe to saunter fully into the room. The way he moved should have been illegal—all controlled power and unconscious grace, like a predator who'd learned to walk among prey without causing panic. "Efficient? Hermione, this transcends efficiency and enters the realm of dark sorcery. This is domestic organization as a weapon of mass instruction. Honestly, if Voldemort had walked into this room, you'd have defeated him before he could draw his wand. Death by Dewey Decimal System."
She crossed her arms, though her lips betrayed her by twitching upward. "Better than your organizational system, which I'm fairly certain involves dropping things wherever they land and hoping for the best."
"Wrong," Harry said smoothly, moving to examine her bookshelf with the kind of focused attention that made her acutely aware of how his shoulders filled out that henley. "My system is what I like to call 'strategic chaos.' Everything appears haphazard to the untrained eye, but it's actually a carefully calibrated balance of controlled disorder and instinctive knowledge. When I need something—bam!—there it is, exactly where my subconscious knew it would be. It's an art form, really. Very avant-garde. Witches find it mysteriously attractive."
Hermione rolled her eyes, though the flush in her cheeks refused to cooperate with her attempt at casual dismissal. "Yes, I'm sure your vast fan club is endlessly impressed by your ability to trip over your own trunk while searching for a clean shirt."
"Jealous, Granger?" Harry asked lightly, crouching to examine the bottom shelf where an ominous-looking tome bound in midnight-blue leather pulsed with barely contained magical energy. His grin turned positively sinful as he glanced up at her. "Because I'll have you know, I've recently been voted—by a completely anonymous and definitely not imaginary panel—Most Likely to Accidentally Seduce Someone While Performing Mundane Tasks. It's a very prestigious honor. They're considering creating a trophy."
She grabbed a rolled-up piece of parchment from her desk and swatted at him with it. "You are absolutely insufferable."
"And yet," Harry replied, catching the parchment with reflexes that were frankly unfair and rising to his full height with fluid ease, "you invited me into your bedroom. Alone. Surrounded by compromising amounts of academic literature and—Merlin help us all—color-coded organizational systems. The scandal, Hermione. Think of what the neighbors would say."
Her pulse skipped like a guilty thing, and she tried for her most withering glare, though the corners of her mouth betrayed her with a telltale twitch. "One more insufferably arrogant comment, Potter, and I'll color-code your face with a permanent sticking charm. See how your mysterious attractiveness fares with rainbow stripes."
Harry straightened fully, that grin still dancing across his features like he knew exactly how disarming it was. His eyes, those impossible green depths shot through with molten gold, held hers with an intensity that made her forget to breathe properly. "Worth it," he said simply, and there was something in his voice—something warm and real beneath the banter—that made her heart do complicated acrobatics.
Before she could formulate a response that wouldn't involve stammering like a first-year with a crush, Storm appeared in the doorway with the kind of effortless elegance that made even the simple act of entering a room seem choreographed by the gods of graceful movement.
Every step she took carried purpose and power; every glance held the kind of quiet authority that needed no proclamation. Her platinum hair was pulled back in a style that was both practical and undeniably stunning, framing a face that could calm storms—or summon them with equal ease. Her dark eyes, deep as midnight clouds heavy with rain, surveyed Hermione's room with the precision of someone accustomed to cataloging both potential and problems.
"I thought the three of us could manage the packing more efficiently," Storm said, her voice like silk stretched over steel—smooth, elegant, but with an underlying strength that suggested crossing her would be unwise. There was something else in her tone, though, something that suggested this wasn't merely about logistical efficiency. Her gaze flickered between Harry and Hermione with the subtle awareness of someone who had spent decades helping young people navigate the collision of extraordinary circumstances and perfectly ordinary human emotions.
Harry's grin widened, taking on that particularly infuriating quality that suggested he knew exactly what he was doing and found the whole situation tremendously entertaining. "Storm's absolutely right, of course. Though I have to admit, I was rather looking forward to some quality one-on-one time with Hermione's legendary library. Intellectual exploration, you understand. Strictly academic discourse. I promise to maintain the highest standards of scholarly behavior."
Hermione's fingers froze on the stack of Arithmancy texts she'd been attempting to organize, and she shot him a look that could have melted steel. "Harry," she said, her voice clipped but not entirely unkind, "this is not a library tour, and you are most certainly not capable of 'strictly academic' anything. I've seen you turn a simple Charms assignment into an elaborate discussion about the aerodynamics of Quidditch maneuvers."
"Come now, Granger," Harry said, stepping closer with that fluid confidence that made every casual movement look like it belonged in a carefully choreographed dance. "I have impeccable manners when the situation calls for it. I only touch the books I absolutely must examine for educational purposes. And even then..." He reached up, ostensibly to examine a leather-bound volume on advanced magical theory, but the movement stretched him into a display of lean strength that should have come with a public safety warning. The hem of his henley lifted slightly, revealing a strip of toned abdomen that made Hermione's mouth go dry. "I promise to handle everything with the utmost care and respect. Strictly academic, scout's honor."
"You were never a scout," Hermione managed, though her voice had climbed half an octave and her scientific mind was conducting a thoroughly unprofessional analysis of the way his shoulders moved beneath that criminally well-fitted shirt.
"Details," Harry replied airily, turning to flash her that crooked grin that made her heart perform gymnastics routines she hadn't authorized. "The important thing is my commitment to scholarly integrity. Though I have to say, some of these books look fascinating. This one, for instance—" He gestured to a particularly ancient tome bound in what appeared to be dragon hide. "—'Advanced Theoretical Applications of Sympathetic Magic.' Sounds absolutely riveting. Care to give me a private tutorial?"
Hermione's face flamed, and she could practically feel Storm's knowing gaze cataloguing every subtle shift in her expression. "That's not—you can't just—it's not that kind of—" She stopped, took a breath, and tried again with as much dignity as she could muster. "It's advanced theoretical work, Harry. Very complex. Very dry. Definitely not the kind of thing that would interest someone whose idea of research involves asking Nearly Headless Nick about historical Quidditch statistics."
"You wound me," Harry said, pressing a hand to his heart with theatrical devastation that was only slightly undermined by the mischievous glint in his eyes. "My intellectual curiosity is vast and varied. Why, just last week I spent an entire afternoon researching the cultural significance of wizard chess strategies throughout history."
"You spent an entire afternoon losing to Ron at wizard chess," Hermione corrected. "There's a difference."
"Losing strategically," Harry amended with dignity. "I was conducting field research on Ron's tactical preferences. Very advanced social psychology. Universities would pay good money for those insights."
Storm cleared her throat delicately, though her lips curved in the faintest suggestion of a smile. "Perhaps we could focus this considerable intellectual energy on the task at hand? Logan is running final diagnostics on the aircraft, and he specifically requested Harry's input on the navigation configurations."
Harry's eyebrows shot up in genuine surprise. "Logan wants my input? On navigation? Let me just clarify here—I'm well-versed in broomsticks and the occasional flying motorcycle, not exactly high-tech aviation engineering. Are we sure he doesn't have me confused with someone competent?"
"I suspect," Storm said with that subtle warmth that suggested years of experience managing the egos and insecurities of extraordinary young people, "he's less interested in your technical expertise and more interested in your... intuitive grasp of three-dimensional movement under pressure. Consider it practical application of skills you already possess."
"Ah," Harry nodded sagely, "grandfather bonding through potentially lethal educational experiences. My absolute favorite kind of family time. Nothing says 'welcome to the family' like 'here, try not to crash this extremely expensive aircraft while we hurtle through the stratosphere at speeds that would make a Firebolt weep with envy.'"
"You'll be fine," Storm assured him, though there was a glint in her dark eyes that suggested she was enjoying his theatrical anxiety more than was strictly professional. "Logan has excellent instincts about people. He wouldn't have asked if he didn't think you could handle it."
Harry straightened, and for a moment, the playful mask slipped to reveal something more serious underneath—the young man who had faced down Dark Lords and lived to joke about it. "Right then. Navigation it is. Though if I accidentally fly us to Iceland instead of New York, I'm blaming it on the cultural differences between British and American magical transportation."
He moved toward the door with that fluid grace that made even mundane actions look effortless, but he paused at the threshold and turned back. The sunlight caught in his dark hair, and his expression softened into something that was purely, recognizably the Harry she'd known for years—the one who worried about his friends and would move mountains to keep them safe.
"Hermione," he said quietly, and there was no teasing in his voice now, just warm sincerity that made her chest tighten, "if you need anything while I'm gone—anything at all—just call. Don't try to handle everything yourself. Don't overthink it until you've tied yourself in knots. You've got people who care about you now. Use us."
The simple honesty in his voice nearly undid her carefully maintained composure. "Thank you, Harry. Really. I... I appreciate that. More than you know."
His smile returned, soft and familiar and devastating in an entirely different way than his earlier theatrical charm. "Always, Hermione. That's what friends do. Even insufferably attractive ones with questionable organizational systems."
"Go," she laughed, making shooing motions with her hands, "before Logan decides you're not worth the trouble and leaves you behind."
"Impossible," Harry replied with a return of his earlier swagger, though his eyes remained warm. "I'm far too charming to abandon. Logan's already halfway to adopting me—I can tell by the way he threatens bodily harm with genuine affection."
He left with a final grin and that fluid grace that made every step seem purposeful, leaving Hermione staring at the doorway with her heart performing acrobatics her rational mind refused to acknowledge or analyze.
Storm settled into Hermione's desk chair—a beautiful piece of antique oak that had belonged to her grandmother—with the kind of effortless elegance that made even sitting seem like an art form. Her dark eyes, luminous with intelligence and warm with understanding, studied Hermione with the calm perception of someone who had spent decades helping extraordinary young people navigate the collision of developing powers and perfectly ordinary human emotions.
"So," she began, her voice soft but edged with gentle amusement, "shall we talk about it?"
Hermione spun around so fast she nearly knocked over a stack of Advanced Potions texts, her cheeks flaming like she'd been caught red-handed stealing from the restricted section. Her amber eyes went wide with mortification, and she pressed both hands to her face in a gesture that was equal parts embarrassment and despair. "Talk about... what, exactly?"
Storm's laughter was soft, musical, and entirely free of judgment—the kind of sound that somehow managed to be both knowing and kind. "Come now, Hermione. I've spent decades helping extraordinary young people navigate the sometimes overwhelming collision of exceptional circumstances and perfectly ordinary human emotions. And right now, you're standing square in the middle of something very human and very complicated."
Hermione peeked through her fingers like a child caught in mischief, mortification battling with curiosity and losing badly. "I... I don't know what you mean. I wasn't... I mean, I haven't been..."
"Shh," Storm said gently, leaning forward with the kind of maternal warmth that made Hermione's chest tighten with unexpected emotion. "It's perfectly all right. You're noticing Harry differently than you used to. You're realizing that the boy who's been your constant companion for years has somehow become... well, rather difficult to ignore. There's nothing unnatural about that, nothing to be ashamed of."
Hermione groaned—a sound of pure despair that seemed to come from her very soul—and collapsed onto her bed like her strings had been cut. Her wild hair tumbled around her shoulders like a curtain, and she buried her face in her hands with the fervor of someone trying to hide from the universe itself.
"This is ridiculous," she mumbled into her palms. "Three years of perfectly rational friendship, and suddenly he's... he's walking around looking like he was personally designed by Michelangelo and wearing clothes that somehow manage to be both completely appropriate and completely unfair, and my brain has apparently decided to catalog every impossible detail like some sort of hormonal research project!"
Storm's smile deepened, gentle but undeniably knowing. "And your body—clever little survival mechanism that it is—decided to take comprehensive notes while your mind debated the ethical implications of noticing your best friend's... enhanced attributes."
"Exactly!" Hermione wailed, her voice muffled by her hands. "I spent the entire morning trying not to stare, trying not to notice how he moves now, how his shoulders look in that bloody henley, how his voice has gotten all... smooth and confident and... and..." She trailed off, apparently too mortified to continue.
"And how when he smiles at you, particularly that soft one when he's being sincere, it makes your chest feel tight and your pulse skip like a guilty thing," Storm finished calmly.
Hermione's head snapped up, her eyes wide with a mixture of horror and recognition. "How did you—? Am I that obvious?"
"Only to someone who's seen it before," Storm assured her. "Many times, in fact. And you're handling it quite well, all things considered. No dramatic swooning, no complete inability to form coherent sentences in his presence—though you did get a bit flustered during the bookshelf incident."
Hermione buried her face in her hands again with a groan that could have powered a small city. "The bookshelf incident. God, I practically gave him a full anatomical assessment while he was reaching for that book. What is wrong with me? I'm supposed to be the rational one! The logical one! The one who approaches problems with scientific methodology and careful analysis!"
Storm moved from the chair to the bed with that perfect fluidity of movement, settling beside Hermione with a presence that was somehow both calming and grounding. "Hermione, being attracted to someone you already care deeply about does not diminish your intelligence. It doesn't erase your capacity for logic or analysis. It simply reminds you that you're human, and sometimes human hearts and bodies have their own agenda that doesn't align perfectly with rational thought."
Hermione peeked at her again, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth—a nervous habit she'd never quite managed to break. "But it's... it's Harry. Harry Potter. My best friend. The person I tell everything to, the one who's always been there when I needed him. How am I supposed to look at him now without thinking about... about..."
"About how attractive he's become?" Storm supplied gently. "About how the way he moves makes your mouth go dry? About how that particular smile of his makes you want to do inadvisably impulsive things?"
Hermione's face flamed so hot she was surprised her hair didn't catch fire. "You're not making this better."
"I'm not trying to make it better," Storm replied with serene honesty. "I'm trying to normalize it. These feelings, this attraction—it's not a crisis, Hermione. It's not a disaster waiting to happen. It's just... life. Complicated, messy, wonderful, terrifying human life."
Hermione was quiet for a long moment, staring at her hands while her mind—that brilliant, analytical instrument that had gotten her through every crisis so far—tried to process this new information. "And... and what if he doesn't...? I mean, what if I'm the only one who's suddenly developed this... this inappropriate fascination with my best friend's jawline?"
Storm's expression softened into something that might have been described as maternal wisdom mixed with gentle amusement. "Hermione, I've been watching Harry around you. Really watching. The way he positions himself near you, always close enough to step in if you need protection but never hovering. The way his voice changes when you're distressed—softer, more careful. The way he looks at you when he thinks no one is watching."
Hermione's breath caught. "What... what do you mean?"
"I mean," Storm said carefully, "that those little micro-signals, those unconscious behaviors? They matter. They tell a story about someone who cares in ways that go deeper than simple friendship. Harry may not have processed it consciously yet, but his body language suggests he's already begun to see you differently too."
Hermione's eyes went wide, hope and terror warring in her expression. "So it might be... mutual?"
"It might be," Storm replied, choosing her words with the care of someone who understood the delicate nature of young hearts. "But it might also be something that needs time to develop, to be understood and navigated safely. There's no rush, Hermione. No timeline you have to follow. These feelings don't come with an expiration date."
Hermione exhaled slowly, some of the tension leaving her shoulders as she absorbed the older woman's calm wisdom. "Everything else is changing so fast—my abilities, leaving Hogwarts, this whole American adventure. Adding romantic complications to the mix feels like tempting fate."
Storm's smile was gentle but firm. "Or it could be the constant that grounds you while everything else shifts. Human connection, Hermione—real, deep, lasting connection—is sometimes the most powerful magic of all. But you're right to want to take it slowly, to understand what you're feeling before you act on it."
"Right," Hermione said, straightening slightly as her natural organizational instincts kicked in. "Slow. Careful. Analytical approach. I can do that. I'm good at that."
"You are," Storm agreed warmly. "And in the meantime, we focus on practical matters. Starting with packing for this adventure. The rest can unfold in its own time, at whatever pace feels right for both of you."
Hermione nodded, brushing a wayward curl from her face with hands that were steadier now. "Packing. Right. Definitely more manageable than... navigating Harry Potter's transformation into some sort of... of..."
"Walking work of art?" Storm suggested helpfully.
"I was going to say 'romantic disaster waiting to happen,' but your version works too," Hermione replied with the first genuine smile she'd managed since this conversation began.
Storm laughed—a sound like silver bells in a gentle breeze. "Trust me, you'll survive both the packing and the Harry situation. I have complete faith in your ability to handle whatever comes next."
—
# The Granger Front Lawn - Two Hours Later
The morning sun had climbed higher, casting sharp shadows across the meticulously maintained suburban landscape as an impossible collection of luggage materialized on the Grangers' front lawn. Hermione's belongings had been systematically organized with the kind of military precision that would have impressed generals and possibly induced mild envy in professional movers: three identical trunks bound with reinforced leather straps, two carefully wrapped bundles of rare books that pulsed with barely contained magical energy, and a single carry-on bag that somehow managed to look both practical and elegant.
Harry emerged from the house carrying the largest trunk with an ease that defied both physics and common sense, his enhanced strength making what should have been a two-person job look like casual morning exercise. The way he moved—fluid, controlled, with that unconscious grace that seemed to flow through every gesture—made even mundane tasks appear choreographed for maximum aesthetic impact.
His dark henley clung just enough to suggest the lean muscle beneath without being indecent, and the morning light caught the impossible green of his eyes, making the gold flecks dance like captured sunfire. When he set the trunk down with careful precision, the movement displayed the kind of effortless competence that made practical tasks look like performance art.
"Right," he said, straightening to brush an imaginary speck of dust from his hands, "that's the last of the academic arsenal. Though I have to ask, Hermione—exactly how many books does one witch need for a single term? Because I'm fairly certain you've packed enough theoretical material to stock a small university library."
Hermione emerged from the house a moment later, her amber eyes bright with unshed tears but her chin lifted with characteristic determination. She wore a soft blue cardigan that brought out the warm tones in her hair and made her skin glow, paired with dark trousers that were both practical and elegant. Everything about her appearance suggested someone preparing for an important journey while trying very hard not to think about what she was leaving behind.
"Knowledge," she replied with forced lightness, though her voice carried the tremor of someone whose careful composure was hanging by increasingly frayed threads, "is never excessive, Harry. Unlike your commentary on my packing methodology, which has been both excessive and entirely unhelpful."
Storm appeared beside them with that effortless grace that made even the simple act of walking across a lawn seem purposeful and elegant. Her presence carried the kind of quiet authority that made everyone feel simultaneously more grounded and more aware of the significance of the moment.
"Everything secure?" she asked, her voice carrying the professional efficiency of someone accustomed to managing complex logistics while simultaneously monitoring the emotional well-being of extraordinary young people.
Harry nodded, his expression growing more serious as he studied Hermione's carefully maintained facade. "All loaded and properly secured. Though I should mention that one of the book bundles is humming. Not loudly, but... persistently. Should I be concerned about traveling internationally with possibly sentient magical literature?"
"That would be 'Advanced Theoretical Applications of Sympathetic Magic,'" Hermione replied automatically, her scholar's instincts overriding her emotional turmoil. "It resonates with ambient magical fields. Completely harmless, though it does occasionally offer unsolicited commentary on nearby spell work. I've learned to ignore its opinions."
"Of course you have," Harry said fondly, and there was something in his voice—something warm and protective and entirely without judgment—that made Hermione's carefully maintained composure waver dangerously.
Her parents appeared in the doorway, and the sight of them standing together—her father's steel-blue eyes holding decades of military discipline softened by paternal love, her mother's green gaze bright with tears she was trying not to shed—nearly undid all of Hermione's careful emotional preparation.
Richard stepped forward first, his military bearing intact despite the emotional weight of the moment. He moved with the controlled precision of someone who had spent years saying goodbye to people he cared about while maintaining the composure necessary for mission success.
"Sweetheart," he said, his voice carefully steady though his eyes betrayed the depth of emotion he was working to contain, "we're so proud of you. Proud of who you are, proud of who you're becoming, proud of the courage you've shown in navigating all of this."
He pulled her into an embrace that was fierce but controlled, the kind of hug that tried to convey years of love and support in a single moment. "Remember that you can always come home. No matter what happens, no matter how extraordinary your life becomes, this will always be your place to return to when you need grounding."
Hermione buried her face against his shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of aftershave and surgical soap that had meant safety and home for her entire life. "I know, Dad. I'll always remember. And I'll write—constantly, probably annoyingly frequently. You'll be sick of hearing from me within a week."
"Impossible," Helen said, stepping forward to join the embrace with tears now flowing freely down her cheeks. Her professional composure had finally cracked completely, revealing the mother underneath the successful dentist. "We could never be sick of hearing from you, darling. Never."
The three-way embrace lasted several long moments, a final anchor point of familiar love before Hermione stepped into the unknown. When they finally separated, Helen cupped her daughter's face with gentle hands, studying her features as though memorizing every detail.
"You're going to do incredible things," she said softly, her voice thick with emotion and absolute conviction. "I can see it in your eyes—that spark of determination and brilliance that's been there since you were small. The world is about to discover what your father and I have always known: that you're extraordinary."
"Mum," Hermione whispered, her own tears finally breaking free despite her best efforts at maintaining dignity, "I love you both so much. Thank you for understanding, thank you for supporting me, thank you for raising me to be someone who can handle extraordinary circumstances without falling apart completely."
Harry, who had been maintaining a respectful distance while fighting his own urge to comfort her, finally stepped forward with the kind of gentle authority that had become his trademark. His green-gold eyes held depths of understanding and protective warmth as he moved to stand beside Hermione without crowding her.
"Dr. and Dr. Granger," he said, his voice carrying absolute sincerity despite its aristocratic polish, "I want you both to know that I will personally ensure Hermione's safety and well-being throughout this entire adventure. She's not just my best friend—she's family. The kind of family worth protecting at any cost."
Richard studied Harry's face with the analytical attention of someone trained to read people under pressure, and whatever he saw there seemed to satisfy him. "Harry, I'm entrusting you with the most precious thing in our lives. That's not a responsibility I take lightly."
"Neither do I, sir," Harry replied with the formality of someone making a sacred vow. "I've faced down Dark Lords and emerged victorious, but nothing—nothing—is more important to me than keeping the people I care about safe. That includes making sure Hermione remembers to eat proper meals, gets adequate sleep, and doesn't lose herself in research projects that last until three in the morning."
Hermione let out a watery laugh despite her tears. "You're one to talk about proper self-care, Potter."
"That," Harry replied with dignity that was only slightly undermined by the fond smile tugging at his lips, "is completely different. I maintain my mysterious and tragically handsome aesthetic through carefully calculated neglect of conventional self-care protocols. You just get obsessed with academic pursuits to the point of ignoring basic biological requirements."
Helen laughed despite her tears, recognizing the familiar banter that had characterized her daughter's letters for years. "Take care of each other," she said firmly, looking between them with the kind of maternal authority that transcended ordinary circumstances. "Both of you. Promise me you'll look out for each other."
"Always," Harry said simply, and the word carried the weight of absolute conviction.
Storm approached with perfect timing, her presence somehow making the moment feel less like an ending and more like a beginning. "Dr. and Dr. Granger," she said warmly, "Charles wanted me to remind you that you're welcome to visit any time. The Institute has excellent guest facilities, and we believe strongly in maintaining family connections. Hermione's success depends not just on her abilities, but on knowing she has people who love her unconditionally."
"Thank you," Helen said, reaching out to clasp Storm's hand with genuine gratitude. "That means more than you know."
Logan's rough voice carried across the lawn from the direction of the aircraft, though his tone held more affection than impatience. "Hate to break up the family moment, but we've got clearance for departure. Weather patterns look good for the next four hours, but that window won't stay open indefinitely."
Harry moved to collect the luggage with that fluid efficiency that made even mundane tasks appear effortless, but he paused to look back at the Grangers with an expression that was both respectful and absolutely certain.
"Thank you," he said quietly, "for raising someone extraordinary. For giving her the foundation to handle impossible circumstances with grace and intelligence. For loving her enough to let her fly."
Richard nodded, his military discipline holding his emotions in check though his eyes remained suspiciously bright. "Bring her back to us, Harry. Changed, grown, more extraordinary than ever—but bring her back."
"I will," Harry promised, and there was something in his voice—something that spoke of oaths sworn and battles won—that made the words feel like an unbreakable vow.
As they walked toward the impossible aircraft gleaming on the suburban lawn, Hermione looked back once at the house where she'd grown up, at the parents who had given her everything she needed to become someone capable of walking into miracles.
The morning sun caught the aircraft's hull, making it gleam like a promise of adventures yet to come. Whatever waited for them across the ocean, whatever challenges and revelations lay ahead, she was walking into them with people who had become family in ways that transcended blood and circumstance.
---
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