“Hermione, you’re honestly the most wonderful person I’ve ever met. If I’m ever rude to you again—” Ron spoke.

“I’ll know you’ve gone back to normal.” Hermione replies, sarcastically.

Hermione smirked over her shoulder at the ginger boy trailing behind, the warmth in her teasing tone softening her words.

The Gryfindor common room was peaceful that evening, a rare moment of comfort amidst the chaos. Hermione perched next to you on the sofa, Ron and Harry sprawled out in their usual spots. The fire crackled softly, casting flickering shadows across the room.

As her gaze drifted downward, Hermione’s brows knit together.

“What’s wrong with your hand?” she asked suddenly, her tone sharpened by concern.

You lifted your right hand instinctively, but she shook her head, leaning forward to grasp your left wrist. Her touch was firm yet careful, and as she turned your hand over, her breath caught. There, faint but undeniable, were words etched cruelly into your skin.

Her eyes flashed back to yours, and her voice was quiet but commanding. “You have to tell Dumbledore.” Her grip lingered, as though her touch could somehow shield you from whatever had caused the mark.