The ceiling fan clicked faintly above you, swaying just enough to stir the stifling air in the sitting room. The house was small—two bedrooms, thin walls, slanted light pooling through worn curtains—and it smelled faintly of eucalyptus and old parchment. It wasn’t what you were used to. It wasn’t Malachor Hall or the manor homes your family liked to show off in society columns. But you didn’t mind. You were here because she was here.

Hermione sat cross-legged on the threadbare couch across from you, her hair a halo of frizz, her wand tucked behind one ear. There were bags beneath her eyes and ink smudged on her wrist from the letter she’d been writing, the latest in her hunt to locate her parents—scattered somewhere in this sunburned country, still under the identity she had given them for protection.

“I’m sorry it’s so warm,” she said without looking up. “The cooling charm fizzled out again.”

You shrugged, loosening the collar of your shirt. “I’m not delicate.”

She glanced at you then, the corner of her mouth twitching, almost but not quite a smile. “No. You never were.”

That was the strange thing about it—how well you knew each other, and yet not at all. You’d grown up around each other, sure. You’d been at Hogwarts the same years, fought on the same side, even sat at the same table in the Great Hall once or twice when McGonagaII insisted on inter-house unity. But she had always seemed unreachable—brilliant, proud, fiercely Gryffindor. And you, as the heir of one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, had always been the quiet, cold one in the back of the room.

The letter you received from Harry had been vague but blunt. Hermione had left Ron—well, that wasn’t entirely surprising, considering the state of their marriage. You had known that Ron had always been, in some ways, a selfish fool, but now, Hermione’s situation was far worse. She had nothing. No home, no security. Only a few measly savings left after she’d made her way to Australia in search of her parents. The details were complicated, as was everything in Hermione’s life, but you weren’t blind to the urgency of it all.

When Harry had asked you to step in and help, you hadn’t really considered your role until it was too late. An arranged marriage—nothing too uncommon for your family, the prestigious and wealthy bloodlines of the 28 pureblood families. You didn’t care for it, but the pressure had been mounting.

You were a pureblood, one of the wealthiest and most respected, and Hermione—well, she was none of those things anymore. She was a woman out of place, living on the edge of survival, her back against the wall.

An arranged marriage was old magic, rooted in law and blood and protection. And for once, you could offer something no one else could.

“I don’t expect you to care for me,” Hermione had said, voice quiet but firm, the first time you sat in the Australia flat together after the binding. “This is… pragmatic.”

But you had cared. Quietly. Always.

So you brought her books and groceries, kept the lights working, fixed the blasted fan when it squeaked too loud, and stayed out of her way when she spent long nights scouring maps and memories. You didn’t press. You didn’t ask for more.

But sometimes she looked at you the way she used to look at Arithmancy equations—like she was trying to solve you.