An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
The laboratory glowed faintly with firelight when Lucius entered. Hermione was waiting, a velvet box in her hands. She opened it, revealing a circlet of polished platinum, runes etched with surgical precision. The metal pulsed faintly, alive with protective wards.
Lucius’s breath caught, ever so slightly. “What is this?”
“The PsyShield Crown,” Hermione said softly. “It shields against Legilimency, Imperius, even psychic attack. It is…the perfect Occlumency focus. I named it Lucius’s Crown.”
He stared, silent, then lifted it with trembling fingers. The circlet flared as it touched his brow, runes glowing like fireflies. Hermione whispered the activation charm, and Lucius’s mind felt suddenly encased in marble and diamond—absolute, unbreakable.
He removed it slowly, reverently. His face, usually carved in marble composure, softened—creased with an emotion Hermione had never expected to see.
“My daughter,” he whispered, voice low, roughened. “My clever girl. My little storm. My jewel.”
And then, breaking all precedent, he stepped forward and embraced her. Arms firm, paternal, protective. He held her as if she had always been his child.
Hermione stiffened—then, unbidden, her throat closed with a sting of tears she refused to shed. She let him hold her.
