Winter had crept in quietly.
The once shimmering, rippling surface of the river now slumbered beneath a thick sheet of snow and ice.
…
By the riverbank, nestled in a hollow tree sheltered from the wind—
A tiny otter wriggled its way under the wing of a black swan.
The downy feathers—real, luxurious, and velvet-soft—made the little otter half-close her eyes in contentment.
After a long silence—
"Ino… I kind of don't want to go back," Hermione said softly.
This quiet life—peaceful, serene, far from all the clamor—had brought her more happiness than she ever expected.
Sure, the forest had its annoyances. That sly fox she couldn't stand. The flock of noisy waterfowl who were a daily menace. But even they couldn't ruin things.
Ino, curled beside her, could feel her mood—but there was nothing he could do.
"No one gets to stay inside a story forever. When the story ends… we leave with it."
Hermione frowned slightly. "But what about after? What happens then?"
"We'll leave that to 'after' to figure out," Ino replied calmly. "I don't know the answers either."
Hermione didn't push. She'd spent over a year living side by side with Ino, and had long learned that he wasn't always the one holding the pen. More often than not, he was just… along for the ride.
Their conversation faded, and the little hollow fell into silence once more.
Only the sound of the wind outside—howling with icy breath—remained as the melody of the world.
…
They say that the arrival of winter means spring isn't far off.
When the snow melts and the first shoots of grass peek through the thawing earth, a new year is ready to begin.
And the forest—blooming, vibrant—was just as beautiful as ever.
Up in the sky, clear and blue as a freshly scrubbed window, two swans soared side by side—one black, one white.
And on the back of the black swan?
A little otter, just about a foot and a half tall, clung on tight.
Tied across the otter's back with two pieces of string was a small leather suitcase. From a distance, it looked exactly like a student commuting to school on a very feathered flying mount.
"Odette, you don't have to see us off any farther. You don't belong in the world ahead," Hermione called over her shoulder.
The white swan beside her—no longer the awkward duckling she'd once been—looked wistful.
"Will I see you again someday?" Odette asked, her voice tinged with sorrow.
"I don't know," Hermione said, her tone soft. "But I'll never forget you."
Ino didn't say a word—he simply flew on, the perfect, silent carriage driver.
Honestly, he didn't know what to say. Hermione had been the one who'd taken care of Odette for a year and a half. From the duckling days of feedings and bedtime cuddles to lessons on how to swim and not get bullied by the geese, it was always Hermione doing the heavy lifting. In fact, every time Odette got picked on, it was Hermione flailing her tiny otter paws to the rescue.
Truthfully? Odette had grown up under Hermione's wing—quite literally.
Eventually, the white swan seemed to understand. At Hermione's urging, she stopped following.
Before turning back, she gently plucked one of her own rose-tinted feathers and passed it to Hermione in her beak—then soared back toward the enchanted forest that had raised her.
…
Just like how they'd arrived, their departure came at dawn.
With the sunrise at their backs, Ino carried Hermione through the sky.
By evening, they had arrived once more at the coastal fishing village.
The same beach. The same bitter-leaf tree.
And beneath that tree, the same man.
Middle-aged Hans sat exactly as before, as though he'd been waiting for them all along.
Ino gently descended. The moment his feet touched the ground, the black swan and the otter vanished—replaced by two human silhouettes of similar height.
Eighteen months had passed. Hermione had long shed the awkwardness of youth. She now looked more like a warrior from Beauxbatons—tall, striking, with mature, defined features.
"I'll wait for you over there," she said with a small shake of her head.
She understood. There were some things she could be part of… and some things she couldn't.
This was one of the latter.
Ino nodded, then walked alone toward the tree.
…
Underneath the bitter-leaf tree—
A year and a half later, Hans looked much the same, though his face wore a deeper sorrow than before.
Ino sat beside him in silence. No small talk, no questions—just like the first time he'd entered this strange fantasy world.
"It all started with a mistake," Hans said after a long pause.
"All of this—was an accident. I just… wanted to make my story a little more exciting."
As he spoke, Hans reached into a worn cloth pouch and pulled out a book—a thin, crudely bound thing.
"Take a look. Everything you want to know is inside."
Ino had already guessed as much, but he still took the book.
…
The pages were rough, likely made from pressed palm leaves. As he opened it, the writing inside became clear—written in both red and blue ink.
Familiar names. Familiar tales.
This… had to be the original Hans' Storybook.
As Ino flipped through, the pattern became clear: the red ink was sparse—just three or four lines per tale—always appearing at key plot points. The rest of the story, about 95%, was written in blue.
Take The Ugly Duckling, for example.
Red ink: the swan egg ends up in a duck's nest.
Red ink: the duckling gets bullied.
Red ink: the duckling becomes a swan.
Everything else was blue.
There were dozens of these—some short, some long. Ino finished most of them in under an hour.
Then, he reached the section that confirmed his suspicions:
A young boy, by chance, opened a bathroom door and stepped into a magical world…
No surprise there.
But what came next—now that was unexpected.
The story became longer, following the boy's escape from an orphanage and his various fantasy adventures.
So far, so normal.
Then came the chapter about Old John the Cobbler.
And after that… things got weird.
Massive sections of the pages were blank. Or worse—filled with snowflake-like symbols, glowing runes, or mystical alphabets straight out of Greek mythology.
When Ino finally reached the last page, the red ink returned—and this time, there were three full red lines:
"The boy, now grown, returns to where it all began."
Beneath that, the blue ink continued—describing the war in Hogsmeade, Hermione's death…
And then, just as grief hit its peak, the red ink interjected again:
"The boy used the Golden Apple to save his friend."
The remaining pages described Ino and Hermione's year in the forest together.
At the very bottom, a final red line appeared:
"And so, Hans' story… ends here."
—