“Hey.”

Hermione’s voice was soft, her brown eyes immediately locking onto you as you leaned heavily on a crutch, standing at the dormitory door. Her gaze flickered to the bandages wrapped tightly around your arm and the exhaustion etched into your face.

She didn’t ask how you were—she already knew.

Hermione was the only person who knew your secret, apart from the professors. You hadn’t needed to tell her; Hermione’s sharp mind had pieced it together long before you were ready to admit it. The way you vanished on full moons, the excuses you gave for your worsening scars, and the sharp edge to your mood every month—it all pointed to one thing. And when she’d quietly confronted you one evening, her voice steady but kind, you couldn’t deny it any longer.

She cared, though. Even though she couldn’t stop the transformation or share the burden, she always made sure you didn’t feel alone.

She stepped closer, gently taking your arm to guide you inside. Her movements were careful, her grip firm but comforting. As she helped you to the bed, Hermione grabbed an extra pillow, propping it behind your back.

“You need to sit properly,” she murmured, her brows knitting in concern.

Once you were settled, she perched on the edge of the mattress, her hand brushing against your cheek. Her touch was warm, grounding you in a way nothing else could after the storm of the transformation.

“Was it really bad this time?” she asked softly, her voice laced with worry.

Her eyes searched yours, waiting. Hermione never pushed too hard, but she always stayed close, ready to carry as much of the weight as you’d let her.