When Hermione and I finished our classes for the day, we began gathering the remaining ingredients we’d collected during the day of the Dementor attack. The enchanted ruby and pure silver were vital components for her Sorceress ritual, while the Boggart’s bones were critical for mine. A Boggart—a shape-shifting magical creature that manifests as one’s deepest fears—contained unique magical properties, making it an irreplaceable element for this task. Yet, even with these rare materials in hand, we were still missing a few critical items. To fill the gaps, I’d “borrowed” supplies from Snape’s private stores using the Alohomora spell. But Snape wasn’t a fool; I had no doubt the fiendishly sharp Potions Master had already fortified his storeroom security tenfold.

As I knelt to draw the ritual circle with chalk, a chill ran down my spine. This wasn’t just any circle—it was a design refined over centuries by the great sorcerers and sorceresses of the past, those who had succeeded where countless others had failed. Their hard-earned wisdom had been passed down sparingly, shared only with those willing to risk everything for such power.

Had I not consulted the spirits of these accomplished masters, I wouldn’t have known where so many had gone wrong. Their guidance had been invaluable, revealing nuances and dangers hidden in even the smallest details. Using their insights, I have refined the ritual further, making it as safe as possible. Even so, it was still a perilous undertaking, and Hermione understood the risks as well as I did. One misstep—a faltering will, an imprecise line—and the results could be catastrophic. Failure left participants as lifeless husks, their essence drained away. The art had been lost for a reason: one mistake, one moment of weakness, and it would end in tragedy.

“Is it ready?” Hermione asked, her voice steady, though a hint of nervousness bled through.

“…Yes,” I replied somberly.

She nodded and stepped into the circle, settling into a meditative pose. I carefully placed the reagents into their respective positions: the ruby to the left, glowing faintly with an otherworldly light, and the silver to the right, its pristine surface reflecting the flickering lamplight. These materials weren’t just symbolic; they would fuse their magical properties with Hermione’s very being, enhancing her physical and magical capabilities.

Then came the part I had been dreading. To channel the energy safely, I needed to use a special potion-like ink to draw intricate magical circuits directly onto Hermione’s skin. It was a critical detail I should have anticipated causing trouble.

“YOU NEED TO DO WHAT?!” Hermione squeaked, spinning around to face me, her cheeks blazing red.

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I sighed, already exhausted by the inevitable back-and-forth. “It’s fine if you don’t want to do this. Honestly, it’s safer if we don’t proceed with the ritual at all.”

Her flush deepened, but she raised a hand, her expression determined. “Fine,” she said, her voice firm despite her embarrassment. “Just… just get it over with and don’t look!”

She turned her back to me, awkwardly raising the hem of her shirt to expose her skin. Her attempt at compromise was admirable but impractical.

“I have to look,” I said flatly. “If I don’t, the circuits won’t be precise enough.”

She froze, muttering something under her breath about responsibility—or maybe dignity. I couldn’t quite catch it, nor did I care. Instead, I focused on the task, carefully tracing the intricate runes onto her back with steady hands. The ink dried almost instantly, leaving no room for error.

When I finished, Hermione hurriedly pulled her shirt back down, her face scarlet. “You’re done, right? Please tell me you’re done.”

“It’s perfect,” I reassured her, double-checking my work. “Now, hold still while I activate the circle.”

I placed my hands at the edge of the circle and began the incantation. The room seemed to darken as the magic surged to life. Hermione’s body glowed faintly, and then the power overwhelmed her. She floated off the ground, her back arching as raw energy coursed through her. Her face contorted in pain, but no scream escaped her lips.

“Hermione!” I called out sharply. “Listen to me. Don’t give up. This power will test you—it will show you the lies buried in your mind. But that’s all they are: lies. Hear my voice. Stay here, with your friends. Stay with us.”

Her hands clenched into fists, her body trembling as she fought against the overwhelming force. My heart pounded as I watched her struggle. This wasn’t just a test of magic; it was a test of will. And if anyone could endure it, I knew it was Hermione.

She had to.

The glowing light intensified, then suddenly faded. Hermione’s body went limp, and she began to fall. I darted forward, catching her just before she hit the ground. Her breathing was shallow, but steady. The ritual had worked.

As I carried her to her bed, her eyes fluttered open. “Ben?” she whispered.

“Yes, Hermione,” I said softly.

“Did I succeed?” she asked, her voice weak but hopeful.

I nodded. “Yes, you did.”

She frowned slightly, her brows furrowing in thought. “I think I heard you say that I’d see lies in my mind.”

“Yes,” I confirmed. “The magic will try to deceive you—show you things like the people you care about not loving you. Anything it can to make you give up and accept failure.”

“But… what if some of it wasn’t a lie?” she asked, her voice trembling slightly.

“What are you talking about?” I asked, confused by the sudden shift.

She locked eyes with me, her gaze piercing. “Are you planning to die?”

I froze, setting her gently on the bed. “…Yes.”

“Why?” she demanded, her voice breaking.

“Because I am Death, Hermione,” I said quietly. “Every minute I spend here, away from my realm, the balance grows more chaotic. I am here to stop Voldemort—and then I must return to where I belong.”

Her eyes glistened with tears, but she said nothing, the weight of my words sinking in.

The silence stretched between us, heavy and unresolved.