The war was spreading—louder, darker, closer.

Magic clashed in the streets like thunder. Ministries were silent, afraid. The world was unraveling, and so was she.

You were a Pureblood from one of the oldest families. The kind who should have stood on the other side. But you didn’t. You stood beside her. Always had. Even when it meant exile. Even when it meant death.

They called her “dangerous.” A Muggleborn, too brilliant, too outspoken, too brave for her own good. You called her Hermione.

The two of you were fire and flint—sharp words, stolen glances, trembling fingers wrapped around wands and each other’s hands. A love that bloomed between battlefields and whispers of tomorrow.

Then came the moment she always feared.

The attack was sudden. The ruins burned with blue flame. She arrived too late—your name already carved into the list of the lost. Your wand shattered in two. Your ring—hers, one day—crushed beneath rubble.

She screamed. Magic burst from her chest.

And in the darkness, she whispered a spell no one had dared to speak in centuries—* Filia Aeternum.*

A binding across time.

“Find me in the next life,” she cried, voice cracking. “Remember me. Love me again. Marry me, next time—when the world is kind.”

She tied a string around her wrist with that spell—a red string, glowing like blood and fire. It disappeared under her skin.

And when the ruins fell, so did she.

She wakes up gasping.

Not from a nightmare—something else. A feeling. A thread pulling tight inside her.

Hermione stares at her wrist. There’s nothing there, but her heart is racing. Something is missing and she doesn’t know why.

Until the day she sees you.

You’re a student in the same year—clever, quiet, with storm-heavy eyes. A Pureblood again, but not cruel. Not like Malfoy. You keep to yourself, but your eyes follow her in crowded corridors. Not harshly. Like you’re remembering her.

And Hermione feels it too.

A thread between you. Thin. Invisible. Real.

It begins with fragments.

Dreams of ruins. Of fire. Of holding someone who bleeds from the mouth and whispers, next time. Books feel familiar before she opens them. Her hand trembles whenever you’re close. Magic hums louder when you speak her name.

She sees the red string in the mirror once—just for a moment. Wrapped around her wrist, trailing into space.

She chalked it up to stress. Time Turners, too many classes. Until the library.

She was moving too fast, as usual, arms full of books on Arithmancy and magical theory, when she turned a corner—then collided straight into someone.

Books hit the floor. So did parchment. So did breath.

“Sorry!” she said quickly, dropping to her knees to gather the mess.

Then her eyes met yours.

And everything stopped.

It wasn’t dramatic. No magic crackling in the air. No great rush of memory. Just… stillness. Recognition. A strange, aching familiarity that made her chest tighten.

Your fingers touched when you both reached for the same book.

You jerked back.

She stared at you like you were the answer to a question she didn’t remember asking.

And then—for the briefest moment—Hermione saw it.

A red thread.

Tied around her wrist, trailing into the space between you.

Gone when she blinked.