I kept staring at him in a daze, too stunned to even breathe. For a moment, I genuinely thought my mind was playing tricks on me. But no—standing there beneath the soft hues of the evening sky, with that same gentle, knowing smile, was him.
The same old man who had plucked my soul out of oblivion after my first death. The one who had given me a second chance—and a mission I hadn't fully understood until years later. The one who had handed me the grimoire that changed everything.
My benefactor. My guide. The one who started it all.
His robe shimmered faintly in the dying light, woven from threads of quiet luminescence rather than fabric. His long silver hair drifted like spider silk in the breeze. And those eyes—those calm, endless eyes—glowed with the soft gravity of eternity itself.
"Hello, Benjamin," he said with a smile that somehow carried the warmth of home. "It's been a little while."
Before I could even stand, he walked down the slope and sat beside me on the grass as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Together, we looked out at the Shire—the emerald hills, the winding lanes, the faint glow of lanterns in Hobbiton far below.
He sighed deeply, the kind of sigh that carried centuries in it. "You know," he said, "out of the infinite worlds in the Omniverse, this is one of the few places where a soul can truly relax."
My throat felt dry. "Sir... what are you doing here?"
He turned to me, eyes twinkling. "Checking up on you. Slaying evil dragons, fighting orc armies, toppling Dark Lords... you've been rather busy, haven't you?"
I winced slightly, half-expecting a lecture. "You're... not upset?"
"Why would I be upset?" His tone was amused, like a teacher who's found his student hiding an A+ paper behind his back.
I looked away, fiddling with a stray blade of grass. "Maybe because I changed the script so much."
He chuckled—a soft, rippling sound that carried the same peace as the evening air. "Benjamin," he said, "as a writer yourself, you must know—the first draft of any story, no matter how brilliant, is hardly ever perfect."
I blinked, caught off guard by the simplicity of the truth in his words. A slow breath left me. "So... I didn't mess everything up?"
"Quite the contrary." His eyes gleamed faintly. "I just had a chat with some of the Valar before coming here. They're rather pleased with the work you've done."
My jaw nearly dropped. "Really?"
He smiled and said, "It might be better if I just show you."
He lifted a hand, and the air before us shimmered. Like ripples across still water, a massive image took shape—an aerial map of Middle-Earth, vivid and alive, hanging in midair like a projection woven from starlight.
He began narrating, his words flowing like an old song.
"In the original timeline—the one you know as canon—Thorin, Fili, and Kili died during the Battle of the Five Armies. Dain Ironfoot became King under the Mountain."
The images changed with his words: the battlefield strewn with bodies, the mournful coronation of Dain, the grim faces of dwarves gathered under gray skies.
"Dain never trusted Thranduil," the old man went on. "So the Woodland Realm and Erebor existed in a state of uneasy peace. Tauriel was heartbroken. Unable to bear her grief, Legolas left to join the Rangers of the North. Without him, Thranduil withdrew further from the world. Sauron had fled Dol Guldur, but the darkness in Mirkwood lingered."
The shimmering tableau shifted again—Legolas walking alone through misty woods, Tauriel kneeling in sorrow, Thranduil turning away from the world.
"Meanwhile," he continued, "Bilbo returned to the Shire with the One Ring. It remained hidden there for sixty years, while Sauron quietly rebuilt his strength."
The map zoomed out to reveal the dark lands of Mordor, where Barad-dûr rose once more, crowned with a blazing eye that burned through the haze.
"The tower of Barad-dûr was rebuilt. From his dark citadel, Sauron spread malice across Middle-Earth. By the time Gandalf discovered the truth about the Ring, it was already too late—Sauron had poisoned the air itself. Magic and light struggled to survive. Even after the Ring's destruction, Middle-Earth could not recover its former glory. The Elves and Wizards had to leave, entrusting the new Age to Men."
The images rolled onward like a grim documentary: the Ring melting in the fires of Mount Doom, the Eye collapsing inward, Aragorn's coronation in the High Court at the top of Minas Tirith, and finally the ships of the Elves sailing into the sunset.
Then the images sped forward—centuries condensed into seconds. Cities rose and fell. Crowns changed hands. Magic dimmed. Finally, the scene settled again.
"This," the old man said, "is Middle-Earth a thousand years after the destruction of the Ring—in the original timeline."
He gestured, and the images unfolded like living history. "Gondor stands as the shining heart of civilization, ruled by Aragorn's descendants. Steam lifts and early industrial crafts mark their progress. Rohan remains an ally—its horse-lords now farmers and merchants. The lands of Harad, Rhûn, and Khand are drawn into trade and diplomacy. Westron has become the universal tongue. The Age of Men is in full swing. Nations rise and fall like waves, and myths of Elves and Rings are little more than bedtime stories."
Next came the dwarves—hardened faces and dwindling halls.
"The Houses of Durin still endure," he said, "but their numbers are few. Their forges burn, their craft thrives, yet each generation is smaller than the last."
I frowned. "Why? Why would their numbers decline?"
His face softened, shadowed with something like sorrow. "Because of magic. The Dwarves are deeply bound to it—more than Men, less than Elves. But as Men stopped believing, the very essence of magic began to fade. Dragons vanished. Ents slept. The great Eagles withdrew into myth. And the Dwarves... slowly dwindled with them."
The image shifted again—to cheerful Hobbits tending gardens and smoking pipes under the afternoon sun.
"The Shire," he said, "remains protected under the crown of Gondor. A royal decree kept it safe through the ages. By the Fourth Age 1000, it still exists—peaceful, rural, self-contained. They have windmills and clocks now, but little else. Outsiders seldom see Hobbits anymore. They survive precisely because they've stepped out of history's way."
The scene faded, leaving only the glow of twilight and the whisper of the wind through the grass.
"Though Sauron is gone," the old man said quietly, "so too is much of the old magic. The world grows rounder, more mundane, more human. The seas have widened. Valinor is unreachable. The enchantment of the world is fading."
He turned to me, and for the first time, his voice carried the weight of loss.
"To put it simply, Benjamin—" he said, pausing to look out across the fields of the Shire, "—the age of miracles is over. It is now the age of Men and Reason. Nothing terrible... but terribly boring, nonetheless."
The screen of light flared back to life, washing the Shire's gentle twilight in hues of gold and azure. The old man smiled, eyes twinkling with that maddening blend of wisdom and mischief.
"Now," he said, "let's take a look at this delicious new timeline—where you basically speed-ran world salvation. Welcome to Year 1000 of what scholars will one day call The Age of Enlightenment."
I gave him a look. "Speed-ran world salvation? That's a new one."
He chuckled. "Well, you did clear multiple apocalypses before breakfast."
The image shifted, centering on the Lonely Mountain.
"Let's start with your friends," he said. "The Dwarves of Erebor—undisputed technological and magical titans of the world."
The mountain's forges came alive before my eyes, glowing with auroral light. Great furnaces pulsed like beating hearts, casting golden veins through the halls.
"From the books you left them," he continued, "they pioneered the Science of Magitek—the fusion of runic geometry and elemental power. They learned to harness sunlight and lightning, storing them in crystal capacitors. Thus began an age of radiant machines."
The screen flooded with wonder: airships drifting gracefully across sapphire skies; levitating carriages gliding down luminous streets; Dwarves tinkering with clockwork beasts that looked suspiciously like steampunk cousins of Slugterra's Mecha Beasts.
"Erebor became the beating heart of innovation," he said. "Dwarves from across Middle-Earth now journey to study under the Master Enchanters of Erebor. The mountain is powered by the Heart of the Star—an artificial miniature sunstone suspended in the Great Hall of Durin. Khazad-dûm has been reclaimed and reborn as the City of Resonant Stone. The Dwarves trade with all races, crafting wonders and custom artifacts. Their race flourishes—wealthy, proud, and alive with purpose."
I watched the joyful faces of smiths and artisans at their craft, and something warm and fierce stirred in my chest. The descendants of my friends would live, not fade into myth. They had carved out a destiny of light and brilliance.
The images shimmered, giving way to forests glowing under the dawn.
"With Sauron gone before he could poison the air," the old man said, "the Elves chose to remain in Arda. But instead of falling into stagnation, they found a new purpose."
He glanced sideways at me. "The books on Light and Healing Magic that you entrusted to Gandalf eventually reached Rivendell. Saruman wanted to keep them confined to the White Council, but Gandalf—being Gandalf—refused. He said he'd promised you to spread that knowledge to all worthy hearts. Galadriel and Elrond agreed."
The screen showed Elves singing over the sick and wounded, their songs weaving threads of radiant light. Hands glowed softly as wounds closed and fevered brows cooled.
"Lothlórien, Rivendell, and the Greenwood became sanctuaries of healing and enlightenment," he said. "Light Magic evolved into the Art of Luminal Healing—a harmony of spirit and matter. They can mend bones and souls alike, even purify corrupted land. Tauriel, now Lady of the Greenwood, is revered as the greatest healer since Galadriel herself. Legolas became the first ambassador of lasting peace between Elves and Dwarves, his friendship with Erebor ushering in an era of unity. The Elves—once isolationist dreamers—are now the teachers and healers of a brighter world."
My heart swelled as the screen changed again—this time to the realms of Men. I saw cities of marble towers, gardens that floated midair, and luminous streets powered by Dwarven crystal-tech.
"The Codex of Civilization you gave Bard," the old man said, "became humanity's greatest catalyst. Dale became the nucleus of progress—a city combining Dwarven precision, Elven grace, and human imagination. Medicine and education are universal; disease and famine nearly extinct. Leadership passed from monarchs to the Council of Dale, composed of Men, Dwarves, and Elves.
"Rohan remains loyal and free, their steeds now clad in lightweight rune-armor that amplifies strength and speed. Gondor no longer bows to a Steward—it is now the Scholarium Imperium, a democracy led by philosopher-statesmen."
It was breathtaking. A civilization where intellect ruled, not fear.
The scene shifted again—to the Shire. I smiled the instant I saw it.
The Hobbits were still their cheerful selves, laughing over mugs of ale and pipeweed. But now, in the fields, they rode machines—small tractors and runic harvesters, all glinting with Dwarven craft.
"Though the Shire remains idyllic," the old man said, "it's not untouched by progress. Hobbits now use Dwarven contraptions inspired by the eccentric Bilbo and his ward, Frodo. They send scholars and gardeners across the world, sharing their botanical wisdom. Their wines, pastries and pipe-weed are prized everywhere—but their greatest achievement is remaining themselves: peaceful, humorous, and unbothered by the noise of greatness."
I laughed softly. "That sounds about right."
Then the image darkened and reformed into shapes of light-clad figures—five of them, walking among men and elves.
"The Istari," the old man said, "chose to remain as well. Having mastered Light Magic, they now guide the spiritual and ecological well-being of the world. Radagast restored the wilds—Mirkwood is now the Emerald Heart of Arda, filled with luminous flora and rivers that sing softly with magic. Gandalf founded the Academy of Luminar in Rivendell, where Men, Elves, and even Dwarves study Light Magic, Elemental Harmonization, and Healing. Magic is no longer a mystery—it is a shared heritage of the wise."
The panorama unfolded: forests alive with gentle light, skies brushed with auroras born from Dwarven storm-towers, ships flying through glowing clouds, cities connected by floating communication crystals.
"This Middle-Earth," the old man said softly, "is not an age of decline. It is a second dawn. An Arda perfected—not through conquest, but through compassion and courage. You didn't just save this world, Benjamin. You helped it become what it was meant to be."
I let out a long, quiet breath I hadn't realized I was holding. For so long, the doubt had been eating at me—whether I'd done too much, interfered too far. But now, seeing it all unfold like this, I felt the knot in my chest finally unravel.
And yet, one question still lingered.
"Did Aragorn become King of Gondor in this timeline?" I asked.
He shook his head. "No. With Sauron gone early, Mordor never became the threat it was. Gondor reclaimed Osgiliath, then Minas Morgul—renamed it Minas Ithil once more. But Aragorn's path took another turn."
"What happened to him?"
"He joined the Rangers of the North," said the old man, smiling faintly. "He helped the scattered peoples of Eriador rebuild and unite. When the time came, he became King of the Reunited Kingdom of Arnor. A leader of peace, not war."
A slow smile found its way to my face. "Good. That's good." I hesitated. "And... Arwen?"
He didn't answer—just waved his hand.
The screen shimmered, showing a sun-dappled glade. Aragorn and Arwen sat beneath a tree, speaking softly, their faces alight with love. A little girl ran to them, giggling, and they both welcomed her with open arms.
"They look happy," I murmured, feeling my last worry fade away. "When is this?"
The old man's lips curled into a secretive smile. "A thousand years from now."
For a moment, I just stared. Then I blurted out, "What?! Aragorn was eighty-seven at the time of the War of the Ring! That makes him twenty-seven right now!"
"Twenty-six," he corrected with a faint smirk.
"Right—twenty-six! But even as a Dúnedain, he shouldn't live more than two hundred years. How in Merlin's name is he still alive and young a thousand years later?"
He chuckled. "You're a clever young man, Benjamin. I've no doubt you'll figure it out on your own."
My eyes narrowed. "Maybe. But why not just tell me?"
His smile faded into something solemn. "Because telling you now," he said quietly, "might just make it so that it doesn't happen."
I looked at him closely, half curious, half wary. "Fine. But I hope you can at least tell me what happened when I was about to put on the Ring."
He gave a slow nod, as if he'd been expecting that question all along. "That I can do. Do you remember when we first met, I told you I had snagged your spirit while it was on its way to the afterlife?"
"Yeah," I said, brow furrowed. "You mentioned that. Never got around to asking how one even does that, but… sure."
He smiled faintly. "Well, I meant it quite literally. I reached out with my intent and grabbed your spirit. When that happened, a minuscule amount of my divine intent remained latched onto your essence — like a palmprint left on glass. It was that trace which perceived the One Ring's influence on your spirit… and promptly removed it."
"I see." I folded my arms. "No offense, but is there any way you could remove that leftover intent of yours from my soul? I'm not a fan of divine graffiti."
He gave a wry little grin. "Sorry, kiddo. No way to remove that mark without performing what you'd call a soul surgery. And trust me, you donot want to experience that unless absolutely necessary. Losing even a sliver of your soul is… unpleasant."
"Noted," I said, shuddering slightly.
"Besides," he continued, "while I may not have intended to leave that mark, carrying it has a few benefits."
My eyebrow went up. "Such as?"
He raised a finger. "First, as you've already seen, no one will be able to possess or corrupt your spirit without removing my mark first — and that would be notoriously difficult for anyone less than a god."
"That's… actually really good," I admitted.
"Second," he said, "the mark passively hides your spirit from detection. Even local gods would struggle to find you by magical means."
I let out a low whistle. "Impressive. So basically, I've got stealth mode on my soul."
He chuckled softly. "You could say that. And lastly — powerful beings will recognize that mark for what it is. It will make them wary of crossing you. Think of it as… a cosmic do-not-disturb sign."
That made me laugh. "Well, then — thank you, sir. For saving me. Again."
He waved it off. "Don't worry about it. You underestimated the Ring — that's all. Even the wise have fallen to it. The only true mistake," he said, eyes glinting, "is the one we refuse to learn from."
"I understand," I said quietly. "Maybe it's time I started learning some proper psychic defense."
"Perhaps." He smiled and looked skyward. The sun was almost gone now — streaks of violet stretched across the Shire's horizon, and the first stars blinked awake. The air was cool, still, and faintly sweet with clover.
He stood up, brushing grass from his robe. "I should get going."
I rose too. "But before I do," he said, tilting his head at me, "have you figured out a way to remove the inherent dark magic from Smaug's corpse?"
I blinked. "Wait, you know what I plan to do with it?"
He looked amused. "Obviously."
I scratched the back of my neck. "Not completely sure yet. I was thinking of using phoenix tears — enhanced with evolution magic — to purify it."
He nodded approvingly. "A plausible approach. However, since I'm here, let me save you the trouble."
Before I could ask what he meant, he snapped his fingers — and the world shifted.
Suddenly, we stood in the middle of an endless grassy plain under a boundless night sky. There was no sun or moon, just the vast sprawl of the cosmos above us — stars and nebulae painted in luminous swirls. It felt infinite, sacred, and terrifyingly beautiful.
"Where are we?" I breathed.
"In a pocket dimension," he said casually, as if we'd just stepped into his backyard.
He turned around, and so did I — and my heart nearly stopped.
Lying before us was Smaug's corpse. I had been keeping it inside a separate storage ring, but somehow, he'd retrieved it without so much as touching it.
After the battle, the dragon had been a ruin of shredded wings, scorched scales, and gaping wounds. I'd restored the body with magic, but even now, seeing it whole again — it didn't look dead, merely sleeping.
The old man raised a hand.
Dark energy began seeping from the dragon's body — sluggish, tar-like tendrils coiling into a swirling sphere above his palm. As he drew it out, Smaug's crimson scales slowly shifted color, glowing faintly until they turned a radiant gold. The dragon seemed transfigured — no longer a symbol of ruin, but of regality.
The sphere in his hand grew pitch black, vibrating with malignant power. He regarded it with a weary sigh. "What a pity," he murmured. "If not for the malice Melkor bound into their souls, the dragons of Arda might have been creatures of wisdom, not ruin."
Then he clenched his hand — and the darkness shattered like smoke in the wind.
In an instant, we were back in Bag End. No wind, no sound, not even a hint that the last few minutes had ever happened. Only the quiet hum of reality reasserting itself.
He turned to me, eyes kind but distant. "Well, Benjamin. It's time to say goodbye."
I smiled faintly. "Will I ever see you again?"
He smiled back. "When you need me most."
We shook hands. His grip was firm but warm — like holding the memory of sunlight.
Then he said, "Every world needs both shadow and light, Benjamin — but not necessarily the same shadows. You chose compassion over prophecy. And that," he said with quiet pride, "is always the right choice."
I could only nod, words caught in my throat.
And then, as if the breeze itself took hold of him, his form began to unravel — threads of silver light drifting upward into the darkening sky until all that remained was the soft whisper of his voice.
"Well done, Benjamin Carter. Until we meet again."
---
Seated at the small wooden table in Bag End's cozy kitchen, I watched with an amused smile as Bilbo bustled about in his dressing gown, muttering something about "second breakfasts being essential for proper thinking" and "never trusting a journey that begins on an empty stomach."
I took another sip of tea and said, "You do realize I'm just stepping through a door, right? Not walking to Bree."
Bilbo paused mid-toast, gave me a look over his shoulder, and said primly, "All the more reason to eat well. Can't travel across worlds on an empty stomach. Sounds dreadfully unhealthy." He turned back to the counter, muttering, "And besides, no respectable guest leaves Bag End on an empty stomach."
"Interesting," I said, grinning. "Would you say the same if Lobelia Sackville-Baggins were here?"
Bilbo stopped buttering his toast, turned to me with an utterly unimpressed expression, and said, "I said respectable guest, not scheming, spiteful relatives."
That made me laugh. The kitchen was warm, smelling faintly of toast, jam, and the faint earthy aroma of Hobbiton soil wafting in through the open window. The morning sunlight spilled across the table in soft golden bands, catching the dust motes that drifted lazily through the air like tiny, aimless stars.
For a fleeting moment, I was tempted to stay, to just… stop. To spend a few quiet months here in this little hole in the Hill. But as Frost once said:
"But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep."
When the meal was done and Bilbo's fussing finally reached critical mass and fizzled out, we left the kitchen and walked toward the front door. The round door creaked softly as he opened it, and we stepped out into the morning light. The air was crisp, birds were chirping, and the grass glittered with dew.
We walked in companionable silence through the garden until we reached the same spot where I had first arrived — the place where the Anywhere Door had brought me into Middle-earth all those months ago.
"So this is it, then," Bilbo said quietly. His tone was light, but I could hear the weight behind it.
I nodded. "It's time."
He hesitated, hands clasped behind his back. "I suppose I ought to say something terribly wise here. Something Gandalf would say. About roads going ever on and all that."
I smiled. "I think you just did."
He chuckled — a sound that was somehow both warm and sad. "You've been a good friend, Ben. A strange one, mind you, but a good one."
"Thanks, Bilbo," I said. Then I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out a small silver ring. "This is for you."
He blinked. "A ring?"
"A storage ring," I clarified, handing it to him. "It's not as big as mine, but it should be able to hold everything inside Bag End if you want it to."
Bilbo's eyes widened in awe. "That's an awfully generous gift, Ben."
I waved a hand dismissively. "Don't worry about it. You lost one ring because of me — seems only fair I give you another."
He laughed, shaking his head. "Oh, no, my dear Ben. The ring I lost was the One Ring, belonging to Sauron himself. You did me a favour by taking it away. And now you're doing me another by giving me this." He turned the silver band over in his fingers, admiration in his eyes.
"What's a little favour between friends?" I said with a grin.
He looked at me then — truly looked — and sighed. Stepping forward, he wrapped his short arms around me.
It surprised me at first, but I returned the hug, holding it a moment longer than I'd meant to.
When we finally stepped apart, I said softly, "Take care of yourself, Bilbo."
He nodded, eyes twinkling faintly. "Will I ever see you again?"
I smiled. "I believe you will. Though it might take a few years. And next time…" I smirked. "I'll be bringing friends."
Bilbo brightened at that. "Well then, I'll make sure to keep the pantry stocked and the kettle warm."
That earned a laugh out of me. "Deal."
With that, I turned around and raised my hand. The air shimmered in front of us, rippling like disturbed water — and from that ripple, the Anywhere Door materialized: an oak door framed in gold light, hovering just a few inches above the garden path.
I turned back to him. "Goodbye, Bilbo."
He smiled, his eyes warm and kind. "Goodbye, Ben. Safe travels — wherever you end up."
I took one last look at the Shire — the green hills, the round windows, the smell of earth and grass and comfort. Then I looked at Bilbo Baggins of Bag End — dressing gown, toast crumbs, and all — and smiled.
With a final nod, I reached for the handle, opened the door, and stepped through.
---
6th May 1994
Hogsmeade
It was Sunday, and the sun had laid a soft golden sheen over Hogsmeade. Laughter drifted through the air as students from third year and up roamed the village — some crowding the Three Broomsticks for Butterbeer, others raiding Honeydukes to replenish their stash of sweets. It was a day for noise, warmth, and friends.
Hermione Granger, however, was far from the bustle. She wandered along one of the quieter paths leading toward the Shrieking Shack, her shoes crunching softly over the gravel. She wasn't entirely sure why she had come this way. Perhaps it was the silence. Or perhaps it was that lonely, weathered house on the hill — the one that looked as hollow as she felt.
Ben had been gone for months. No letters, no messages — nothing. She didn't even know where he'd gone, if he was safe, or when he might return. Everyone kept saying he was fine, that if anyone could look after himself, it was Benjamin Carter. But knowing that and believing it were two very different things.
She kicked at a pebble, sighing as it bounced down the slope. "Honestly, if he doesn't show up soon, I might just—"
Hands suddenly slipped over her eyes.
"Guess who?"
Hermione froze. Her heart gave a lurch so violent it nearly stole her breath. That voice — she knew it. She'd never forgotten it.
"Ben?" she whispered.
She spun around, and there he was — standing in the morning light, a roguish grin on his face.
"Hey," he said.
"Hey?" Hermione's voice rose in disbelief before she threw her arms around him. "You saunter off to another world for months, and you come back and say, Hey!"
He laughed, catching her easily in the hug. "Good to see you too, Hermione. I was worried you might have replaced me with another genius by now."
"As if Hogwarts could produce another menace like you," she said, swatting his arm. "The universe isn't that reckless."
"Ah, you wound me," Ben said with mock despair. "I defeat Dark Lords and save lives, and this is the welcome I get?"
"You disappear for months without a word, and this is the welcome you get," she retorted, crossing her arms. "I had to tell everyone you were on some secret research trip! Do you have any idea how many people started thinking you'd been kidnapped by the Unspeakables?"
Ben chuckled. "Well, that does sound like something that could happen to me."
Hermione's irritation faltered beneath the weight of his smile. He looked older somehow — not in years, but in presence. There was a quiet steadiness in his eyes now, the same spark as before but deepened, refined.
"I really did miss you, you know," she said softly.
He looked at her for a long moment. "Yeah," he said, voice warm. "I missed you too."
Something shifted in the air — subtle, electric. Hermione realised she was still standing very close. The world seemed to narrow to the space between them, to the sound of their breathing, to the racing beat of her heart.
Before she could stop herself — before she could even think — she leaned forward and kissed him.
It wasn't careful or rehearsed; it was instinctive and bright and a little clumsy, the kind of kiss that felt like a heartbeat finding its echo. For one stunned moment, Ben didn't move — and then he did, his hand rising to her cheek as if afraid she might vanish.
When they finally pulled apart, Hermione's eyes went wide. "Oh, Merlin— I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have—"
Ben's reply was wordless. He kissed her.
This time slower, surer — the kind of kiss that lingered. One that spoke of relief, of reunion, of everything words could not.
When they drew apart again, Hermione's cheeks were flushed and her expression dazed.
"Still think I'm a menace?" he murmured, teasing.
She laughed breathlessly. "You're incorrigible."
"I'll take that as a compliment," Ben said, offering his hand.
Hermione hesitated only a heartbeat before slipping her fingers into his. His grip was warm and steady — reassuring.
"So," she said, her smile turning mischievous, "are you planning to make a dramatic entrance back at Hogwarts, or should we tell our friends in Hogsmeade that Benjamin Carter has returned from the dead?"
"Let's go with the second one," he said. "There will be time for theatrics later."
Hermione laughed — that bright, unguarded sound he'd missed more than he'd ever admit — and together, hand in hand, they started back toward the village, leaving the Shrieking Shack and the long months of silence behind.