Different People, Different Morning18Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡs6lTOTvRFM
The world was still when woke with a gasp. Her breaths came short and fast, like she’d been running for miles—but she hadn’t moved. The sheets were tangled around her legs. Damp with sweat. Her hair clung to her neck.
That nightmare. Again.
She didn’t scream this time. But her heart pounded so violently, it felt like it might rip straight through her ribs and spill onto the mattress.
She clutched her chest, pressing her palm flat against the skin, as if she could hold it in place.
The sky outside was dark grey, hovering in that in-between hour where the night wasn’t gone, but the day hadn’t yet arrived. The moments before dawn.
She didn’t move.18Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡoRr6bUM9r2
She didn’t cry.18Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡvttnZszJAL
She just stared at the ceiling—wide-eyed, unblinking, silent.18Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡXtRPxpWEQS
She couldn’t remember the dream.18Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡJ7v8iJLSu1
But the fear still lingered. Like smoke after a fire.18Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ8pvdm67qdc
And somehow, she knew.
It would come again.
The sky had just begun to blush with the colors of dawn—cool blue bleeding into faint streaks of apricot and gold. The street was quiet except for the rhythmic sound of sneakers pounding pavement.
A boy—tall, lean, with a mop of untamed brown curls that fell over one eye—jogged down the empty road, earbuds dangling from his collar. He wasn’t pushing himself. Not this morning. This run was more for pleasure than performance.
He smiled to himself, no real reason. Just the air, the light, the rhythm of his own heartbeat.18Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡLARgVXGqEV
His storm-grey eyes scanned the horizon, like he was chasing something good.
A shout broke his trance.
“Yo, wait up!”
Another figure caught up beside him—slightly shorter, still athletic, with cropped hair and a faint scar across his jaw. Derik. Always five minutes late, always catching up.
He didn’t stop running. “You need to work on your timing, man.”
“Or you need to slow down,” Derik shot back, panting.
The two fell into pace. No words for a moment—just the shared silence of friendship and morning air.
Then Derik grinned. “Lane’s got a football match today. He’s expecting you.”
He raised an eyebrow, still jogging. “Lane Marks? From Engineering?”
Derik smirked. “Yeah, him.”
“Huh,” He said, almost to himself. “I thought he quit the team.”
"Apparently not. Said he wants to prove something.”
That earned a laugh from Cassin. He didn’t ask what Lane wanted to prove. He didn’t need to. This boy Lane Marks was always an unexpected thing.
As Cassin and Derik rounded the corner, he slowed.
Only for a second.
A girl was walking ahead of them—uniformed, rigid, her face turned slightly down.
He didn’t see her completely, yet something about the way she walked—like she was running from something invisible—made his gut twist.
“You okay?” Derik asked, noticing him slow down.
Cassin blinked, shook his head. But said nothing. And then he jogged past her. No names. No words. Just fate breathing down their necks.
Hermione sat on the bench, spine curling slightly as she leaned forward, elbows on knees. A damp leaf clung to her boot like a ghost of autumn. The drizzle didn’t bother her anymore. It was just... there. Like the feeling not being able to come upon your friends' expectations.
There should be a person finder gadget, she thought bitterly. A bloody magical GPS.
Then immediately, she scoffed at herself.
No. No, don’t be stupid. If it were that easy, they'd have found her years ago. The Ministry would've had her cataloged, collared, and questioned. And we wouldn’t have needed to find her.
Her lips twisted into a tired smile. Harry. Ron. For a second, she missed them with all her heart.
My innocent friends- still trusting me with impossible cases. Still asking me to fix things magic can’t touch.
She glanced down the road. A car splashed through a puddle. A child tugged at her mother’s sleeve, skipping beside her under a neon umbrella. Just... life. Ordinary. Unbothered.
And Hermione? She was stuck chasing a ghost.
Ten days. Ten long, cold, utterly useless days.
What if the girl was gone? What if they were wrong? What if she wasn’t even in this part of London?
No. Stop it.18Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡikLU4HqgSj
You’re not giving up. That’s not who you are.
She sat up straighter. Her hands were cold inside her sleeves, fingers curled into fists.
She didn’t notice the girl on the other side of the street.
Black curls. School blazer. A flash of unnatural orange—like the dying embers of a fire, flickered in her eyes.
She blinked in disbelief. As she opened her eyes, she was still there. Visible after the blink. Yes. It wasn't the dream in which she opened her eyes and found herself sleeping on footpath, or the dumping area. She was real. The girl was real. It was no thought. It was no dream.
She jerked her head up—heart skipping.
No way...
Hermione’s breath hitched.18Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ6LcEvPJOe4
She stood up so fast that the bench scraped back with a shriek against the pavement. Her eyes locked on the girl across the street. Just for a second.
Black curls. A school blazer.18Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡNL4P6QET4O
And eyes—orange.
Not brown. Not amber. Not BLUE - Orange.18Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡTw5DsuQ1lw
Like firelight. Like a warning.
That’s her. It has to be.
She didn’t think. She ran.
Dodging a cyclist, ignoring the angry honk of a car, Hermione splashed through the street, her boots slipping on slick concrete. Her heart pounded. This was it—this was finally it—
But by the time she reached the other side, there was no one except the crowd. No one with orange eyes. No girl wearing fire in her eyes.
Hermione spun in place, chest rising and falling as she scanned the crowd.
Just faces.18Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡFVcnQlAt49
A person walking with headphones. A woman juggling groceries and a toddler. Two boys jogging. A man in a brown overcoat. A girl with her puppy. No one with orange eyes.
The crowd swallowed her like smoke.
Hermione’s hands trembled as she turned her head in slow circles, refusing to believe it.
No. I saw her. She was right there.
Her pulse thudded in her ears. Cold air traced down the back of her neck.
Did she notice me? Did she run? Or was I just too slow?
Something bitter rose in her throat.
You had one job, Hermione. One.
She stood still for a long moment, the little sunlight hitting her sleeves, her cap now flying lightly with the soft breeze.
And across the street, a shadow detached itself from a doorway.
A tall figure. Blond hair. Dark coat.
It watched her. Silent. Calculating.
Draco Malfoy?
Morning at Malfoy Manor. (NOT DAWN, MORNING, TOTAL COMPLETE MORNING)
The silver cutlery gleamed too bright. The eggs were too perfect. And the silence at the table could’ve shattered glass.
Draco sat at the far end of the long dining table, stirring tea he had no intention of drinking. His father’s eyes—sharp as they had always been—were already on him.
“I received another message this morning,” Lucius said calmly, too calmly. “From Rowle.”
His mother’s fingers tensed around her teacup. Draco didn’t look up.
Lucius continued, slicing a bit of toast with surgeon precision. “It appears I’m being blackmailed. Again. Can you imagine, Draco? The indignity.”
He didn’t need an answer.
“A whole month, and still nothing. Are you even trying?” Lucius’s tone cracked then—controlled fury, but old and tired too. “Why must I bear the brunt while you lounge about, pretending the world ended with the Dark Lord three years ago?”
Draco said nothing. He hadn’t spoken since he sat down. His jaw was locked so tightly that it ached.
Lucius’s fork clinked against the plate. “It was your generation that failed him. Your cowardice. He spared you. He hugged you. You were chosen once, Draco. Are you so proud of hiding now?”
That word again. Hiding. Hugging.
Draco didn’t respond. He couldn’t. He was still that seventeen-year-old boy, wrists bloodied by war, mind unravelled by guilt and terror. The boy who watched his parents plead and bow and beg, while he stood behind them—mute, motionless, broken.
And yes, he had already found her.
But what was he supposed to do with a girl like that? A girl with orange eyes and a strange silence, who looked like she’d been running from something since she was born?
He wasn’t sure what she was yet. But he knew what she wasn’t.
She wasn’t another pawn.
He pushed his plate away and stood quietly.
“I’m going out,” he said.
Lucius didn’t stop him. Narcissa didn’t look up.
And Draco, still carrying the echoes of a war he never truly left, walked out into the morning light—his father’s accusations lingering like smoke behind him.
Just after Iris woke up...
The sun hadn’t fully risen, but now light leaked through the blinds like an apology. Her sheets were tangled around her legs, evidence of the restlessness she couldn’t escape, not even in sleep.
She, who had been sitting still for the last thirty minutes as if waiting for someone or something, finally moved and rubbed her arms for warmth—though it wasn’t cold.
The dream still clung to her. Not just the images… but the feeling. That knowing.18Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ1KLOuxTWrQ
That she was seen. Hunted.
The room was quiet, but her chest felt loud. Tight. She stood slowly, her limbs mechanical, moving out of habit rather than purpose.
The room was silent, as always. Her sister and brother-in-law were barely home.18Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ147RS1hLHc
She padded to the bathroom and flicked on the light. Turned towards the basin and turned on the tap letting the cold water out. She bent. Splash! She was throwing water on her face as if hitting herself with stones. Water splashed on her face, falling on sides. Then, she stopped and looked up.18Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡtOXB7uhXUa
Her reflection in the mirror was real and raw. The water poured down from her chin.Pale face. Shadowed eyes. Tangled black curls. And those eyes—
Those cursed orange eyes.
She leaned over the sink again and splashed cold water on her face like it could wash the memories off. But when she looked up again, the mirror hadn’t changed.
Slowly it came into her mind again, like everyday she sees herself in the mirror.
I had them from birth, she thought, staring. Just like Mum.
Her lips pressed into a flat line, her throat tight.
Ava didn’t even have orange eyes. And yet… she got to live with Mum longer.18Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ6Y3YGqFc8s
She had time. 19 years. Time to know her laugh, her voice, her warmth.18Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡMRVwxCK1SP
And what I had. Just seven?
The thought sliced through her like broken glass. Her fingers dug into the edge of the sink.
Every morning, she saw her mother's eyes in her own. Every morning, they stared back with quiet blame.
And with that came the question—what had the magic taken from her? The most important thing of her life? Her heart shattered everyday with the line 'most important'.
Her chest heaved with something close to a sob—almost.
But then, like a wall slamming up behind her ribs, she snapped out of it.
"No," she whispered to the girl in the mirror. "No. There is no such thing as magic."
She said it firmly. Like a mantra that was repeated everyday. Then louder. Fiercer.18Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡxlIBIM9j56
“NO. There is no such thing as magic!”
Her voice echoed in the tiles. Her fists unclenched. Her face returned to neutral. Cold again. Blank again. (But what about her heart? can it be colded too?)
She turned off the light and stepped out of the bathroom, leaving the girl with orange eyes behind the glass.
FlashBack-Days ago...
“So what do we do?” asked Lavender, voice soft but sure.18Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡG5647J5mns
“Do we find her?”
Harry looked back at the photograph. That burned memory of a girl no one knew.
“We don’t find her,” he said.18Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡOhCl6ddbCa
“Hermione will.”
She nodded, slow. Tired. Already carrying the weight of it.
Harry threw the photograph on the table.
Neville leaned forward, squinting at the photo focusing on the leftover of the burnt face. “Is that… real?” he asked. "I mean the eyes?"
“They have to be real.” Harry said with a worried look. "This is the only clue and proof we have for her existance."
Seamus let out a low whistle. “Bloody hell. It looks like trouble.”
“When did we not have troubles,” Ron said with a spoilt mood.
“And she looks scared.” Luna added softly, dreamily, but firmly.
“Still could be dangerous," Dean muttered. “Orange-eyed girls don’t exactly walk around Diagon Alley. How do we know she’s not part of… you-know-who’s leftovers?”
Hermione’s jaw twitched. “Because if she was, Voldemort would’ve found her first.”
Everyone went quiet again.
She stood and went near the door, arms folded, her coat already on. She didn’t say anything — she didn’t need to. The mission was hers. Everyone knew that.
Hermione looked back.18Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡze3W987Qtt
“I’ll find her.” Her voice was tired but unwavering. “Even if I have to walk every street in Britain.”
She turned and exited the room carefully, making sure that no one sees her.
Iris didn’t reach for her contact case today.
For the first time in months, maybe even years, she stood in front of the mirror and let her real eyes stare back. No blue shield. No disguise. Just raw, gleaming orange—striking, unnatural. A color that didn’t belong here.
They shimmered in the light like twin embers, flickering with everything she wanted to forget.
She tilted her head slightly. “You don’t even look like her,” she whispered to her reflection.
Her voice had no bitterness, just… exhaustion. A tired ache that pressed between her ribs and settled like a stone in her gut.
Her mother’s eyes. That’s what people used to say—before they stopped saying anything at all. Before her mother was gone. Before everything became whispers and glances and rumors. Before Ava stopped meeting her gaze.
She used to think the color was rare. Beautiful, even. Now? It was a curse. A flare in the dark that screamed “different” louder than words ever could.
His voice echoed in her skull suddenly as she saw her eyes and now it won't go away. It felt like a bruise that wouldn’t fade.
“I see you’ve camouflaged very well.” He had said.
Camouflaged? She scoffed under her breath, staring herself down in the mirror, those fire-glow irises staring right back, defiant.
She was hiding? No—she knew she wasn't hiding. But it weren’t her eyes. It weren’t her name. It weren’t even her silence.
It were her memories. And the memories she never wanted to revise. The memories she’d buried so deep they came clawing back only in dreams. Her mother’s voice calling her “my strange little flame.” The sound of Ava laughing in the hallway. The scream that split the night when everything fell apart. Seven years old. Seven. And they expected her to keep breathing after that?18Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡwJYU0WFGt9
So she started wearing lenses.
She looked back at the mirror.
"So turned out I was already hiding." She whispered bitterly. Or was she a coward for never speaking about it? Was it weak to pretend she didn’t remember the way her mother’s hand went still in hers?
She had told herself for years that survival meant silence. That looking forward was braver than looking back.
No hiding now, she whispered to herself and grabbed her backpack. The contact lenses were lying on table, untouched.
She walked along the footpath. It was early today. So early. Just the colors of dawn, nothing else. She was lost in her thoughts. She wasn't looking at anyone, but still could feel them...
And their stares. The stares on her for being unusual. She was used to of them when she was a kid, but back then she always raised her head up to let everyone see the rare beauty of her irises. But today, her head was down. Bent.
She was not like before. Nothing was like before. That girl was long gone long ago.
And then, unexpectedly—a memory.
She’d been maybe six. In the park. Someone had tried to convince her that her eyes were just fancy contact lenses. She'd puffed up and said, “Then go buy them, genius.” That little voice. The sheer nerve of it. She remembered the other kid's face and laughed softly, surprising herself.
Just then, she passed from the area near the zebra lines without thinking. There was a huge crowd. She looked around and tried to escape. And yes, she escaped.
(Should she really have escaped?)
She continued her walking. Just then - a sound stuck to her heel.
She paused.
Chewing gum, of course. She glanced down, rolled her eyes, and kept moving. The sole of her sneaker scraped gently against the pavement as she picked up speed, dragging it behind her, trying to rid herself of the sticky hitchhiker.
Her pace quickened, head still down.
To anyone watching, she might’ve looked like she was running from something.
But she wasn’t.
Not anymore.
Today was the day Iris Everlyn decided to change herself. Decided to stop hiding.18Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡffHSUZyclh
And it was lucky for her - according to her.
Until she didn't knew what was gonna happen next. Did she?
The sky hadn’t even stretched out its full dawn when Hermione’s feet hit the pavement. She moved fast—her eyes locked ahead, her wand discreet beneath her sleeve, her breath fogging in the chill.
Up ahead, that girl. The girl they’d been hunting.
Iris.
But Hermione wasn’t the only one who had seen her.
There was a shadow watching.
Not Draco.
It shifted too still. Too silent.
This one didn’t breathe as heavy. Didn’t carry regret in his chest.
It leaned against the brick, just outside the flicker of a streetlamp, like it’d been waiting there for hours. His eyes—hidden behind the shimmer of a low-tier Disillusionment Charm—didn’t blink as he tracked her. Not Hermione. Her. The girl. The target.
It didn’t flinch when Hermione ran past. It didn’t move when Iris turned the corner.
It just watched.
Then, slowly, deliberately, it stepped backwards.
5 Days later when Hermione left them...
Back in the room of requirement, just like the muggle's apartment, everyone sat in the same order. This time Harry sat too.
Ron paced. “She’s been out there too long.”
Harry sat with his elbows on his knees, staring at the shut door. “She can handle it.”
“She shouldn’t have to. Why her?” Ron’s voice cracked. “Why always her?”
Harry didn’t answer.
Dean stood in the corner, arms folded, silent. Seamus muttered something under his breath.
Neville tried to calm them. “She asked to go.”
“She offered because she knew no one else would,” Ron snapped. “That doesn’t mean she should have gone alone.”
“She’s not alone,” Luna said softly, fiddling with her charm bracelet.
Harry finally looked up. “You know why I sent her there, Ron? She is a muggle-born. She fits better in that world. In the world where that girl is. Everyone had been calling her mud-blood in the first year especially Malfoy. But if he were here surviving what we are now, he would have knew, what good is to be a mud-blood when all the wizards and witches are useless.”
Ron’s eyes burned. “That’s not good enough.”
Silence.
The door remained closed.
Ginny, who’d been sitting quietly on the windowsill, finally spoke. “She’s done worse, Ron. All of us have. It’s been three years since you left Hogwarts. Hermione hasn’t stopped fighting since.”
She glanced at Harry. “Two (years) for me. Still feels like we never really left.”
No one corrected her. They couldn’t.
Because it was true. They’d graduated. The war had ended.
And yet—here they were, still hiding in Hogwarts. Only Mcgonnical knew they were there still fighting ghosts.
Chapter 2 ends. 18Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡOf88DA28U6
Let me know you views and thoughts along with questions in the comment section below. If you've read till here, then Thankyou for it.18Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡi47zruD6Um
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