Thick, shadowy fog from the Boggart curled around the hospital room, cloaking everything in a murky haze.
Inside the room, Hermione lowered her head slightly when she heard the term "Blood Pact."
Especially after learning that the pact was forged through both blood and emotional ties—her cheeks flushed a pale pink.
Granted, ghosts couldn't technically blush, but embarrassment? That was universal.
She stared at her toes, hands folded awkwardly over her abdomen, saying nothing for the moment.
Meanwhile…
Watching Hermione's silence, Ino found himself at a rare loss for words.
A Blood Pact. It was the best solution he could think of—an oath of mutual prosperity or mutual destruction.
He couldn't command Hermione through the Sanctuary; that would count as a form of harm. And the foundational rule of the pact was simple: no harm shall come to either party.
As for the added emotional connection… well, the moment Hermione had leapt to shield him, many things had become painfully obvious.
After Snape had left the night before, Ino had taken some time to reflect.
If their positions had been reversed—if it had been Hermione lying on the ground with a Killing Curse hurtling toward her—would he have stepped in front of it?
The honest answer had left him speechless.
And then, profoundly moved.
The human heart was complex and ever-changing, like a kaleidoscope that never stopped turning.
But sacrifice—that was humanity's most brilliant light.
Hermione had made her choice.
He had hesitated.
That was why he was willing to stake the Sanctuary as a token of trust.
Because when faced with kindness, one should always respond with equal sincerity.
But judging from her expression, Hermione was clearly torn.
After a moment's thought, Ino finally broke the silence. "If you really don't want to, I—"
"No! I do!" Hermione looked up sharply, her voice firm and unwavering.
Gone was the bashfulness—if she hesitated any longer, who knew what else might happen?
"You're sure?" Ino met her eyes.
"I'm sure." She nodded with equal seriousness.
"Good. Then leave the rest to me. I'll need a little time to make preparations." For the first time in a full day, a faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips.
"What about my mum and dad?" Hermione asked again, her tone soft but hopeful.
"The resurrection process won't take long. And as for the rest—leave it to me. As it happens, I know a wizard who's quite the expert with memory charms."
Ino smiled, his eyes drifting toward the door, still shrouded in Boggart mist.
Now that his mind was at ease, he could sense someone waiting outside—and some matters were best handled by others.
"Well then, I'm off! Time to enjoy this whole being-a-ghost experience! Oh, and Ginny—I'm absolutely going to give her a fright…"
With a mischievous grin, Hermione floated up through the ceiling. A moment later, her head popped back down through the plaster.
"Right—let me know when you're ready!"
"Of course," Ino said with a nod, his tone steady and resolute.
Once she was gone, he gently rested a hand on the icy crystal casket. A moment later, his form faded away from the room.
Second Floor Corridor
Professor McGonagall and Minister Fudge stood in silence, side by side, outside the hospital wing.
Just when they thought they might not see Ino today, the swirling black mist around the door suddenly dissipated like a retreating tide.
The door creaked open.
"Sorry, Professor," Ino said as he stepped out. "I was just talking to Hermione."
Just a single sentence—but it made McGonagall's composed eyes shimmer with emotion.
"No, I should be the one apologizing," she said, taking a deep breath. "I haven't been a very good Deputy Headmistress."
She composed herself quickly and gestured to the man beside her. "But for now… Minister Fudge has something he needs to discuss with you."
The moment the words left her mouth, Fudge's eyes widened as if someone had smacked him with a jelly-legs jinx. He slowly turned toward McGonagall, face stiff and blank.
It was a rare sight—a career politician visibly panicking.
Shock. Confusion. Betrayal. Powerlessness. A dash of self-pity. And maybe… was that resentment?
Fudge was, quite frankly, offended. He hadn't even wanted to come. He'd been dragged here!
And now she was throwing him under the Knight Bus?
But he couldn't protest. The student in question was already looking at him expectantly.
"Ahem—yes, well, Mr. Swinburne," Fudge began, his words clipped and awkward. "It's… ah… due to Professor McGonagall's very strong recommendation that I've come to see you."
No point dodging anymore—he laid out his purpose succinctly.
"I understand," Ino said with a calm nod. "But not right now. I have more important matters to attend to."
"Oh—of course! That's perfectly fine!" Fudge replied a bit too quickly, relief flooding his features.
"You handle your affairs. As for the Ministry and the Wizengamot—leave them to me! We can't punish a student for an accident. Justice must be impartial…"
At that moment, Fudge practically radiated righteousness.
Totally forgetting that not long ago, a 17-year-old Muggle-born girl had been tossed into Azkaban just for conjuring a flower over her mother's grave.
Meanwhile, McGonagall said nothing more. Now that Ino had made up his mind, there was little she could do.
Fudge stepping in would give them all more room to maneuver.
But in her eyes, a deep and tangible worry lingered.
Over the decades, she had seen far too many wizards driven to extremes by vengeance.
Yet, in times like these, it was better to let them walk their path. Forceful persuasion often had the opposite effect.
In the meantime, Ino turned back to Fudge with a polite nod.
"Thank you for understanding, Minister. But—there is one more thing I need your help with…"
Time passed quietly as they spoke.
And when Hermione finally floated into the Gryffindor common room, it sparked pure chaos.
Honestly, it was understandable.
Sure, Hogwarts students were used to ghosts. They saw them gliding through hallways all the time.
But when someone you actually know suddenly turned up see-through and glowing pearl-white?
Yeah. That hits different.
In the Gryffindor common room, Ginny stared up at her former friend with teary eyes, trembling.
Not just her—every Gryffindor wore the same stunned, mournful expression. Even Fred and George had lost their usual grins.
Harry, Ron, Neville, Dean, Colin, Angelina… even Lavender Brown, who rarely saw eye-to-eye with Hermione, was quietly wiping away a tear.
Meanwhile, far below the castle…
In the dim light of a secret chamber, Snape reached up to a high shelf and retrieved a sealed box.
He opened it to reveal rows of neatly arranged Mute Bird feathers—the most crucial ingredient for Veritaserum.
After hearing the full story the night before, something about the situation had struck him as eerily familiar.
It was just like Godric's Hollow.
The Killing Curse. A single, fatal strike.
This time, he wasn't going to sit idly by.
Magic could be broken. Legilimency could be blocked by Occlumency. Even magical oaths had workarounds.
But Veritaserum?
No one had cracked that one.
And the version he was about to brew… had been quietly refined for the past fourteen years.