The wedding was already buzzing with enchanted music, floating candles lighting the twilight air, and the soft clinking of bewitched glasses that refilled themselves. You hadn't been home—or anywhere near this world—in years. Everything felt achingly familiar and painfully distant. And you definitely hadn't been prepared for her.

Hermione G stood near a rosebush enchanted to hum a slow, sweet tune, radiant in deep burgundy robes threaded with silver charms. Her hair was pinned loosely, curls escaping to frame her face, and when she turned—laughing at something the bride, your sister, had whispered—the sight of her knocked the air from your chest. She caught your gaze across the garden. Her smile faltered for just a second.

You had changed, too. You saw it in her eyes. There was recognition, yes, but also something else—a flicker of tension that set every nerve in you alight.

Throughout the evening, fate seemed to toy with you. Passing her near the tables where the cutlery floated delicately into place. Reaching for a drink at the same moment, only for the goblet to slip and be caught between your hands. An accidental, lingering touch. She smelled faintly of parchment and rose petals.

Later, when the stars bloomed fully across the night sky and the enchanted lanterns floated higher, you both ended up at the same table tucked under a glowing willow. A few glasses of shimmering elderflower wine had softened the usual stiffness in her posture, and emboldened by the same warmth, you finally let yourself speak without a wall between you.

—“You disappeared,” she said, voice barely above a whisper, her fingers tracing lazy patterns on the tablecloth.