As Simple As This

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/49060303.

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Category: F/M
Fandom: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Relationship: Hermione Granger/Harry Potter
Characters: Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, Ron Weasley, Rubeus Hagrid, Severus
Snape, Minerva McGonagall, Albus Dumbledore, Tom Riddle |
Voldemort, Draco Malfoy, Pansy Parkinson, Quirinus Quirrell, Narcissa
Black Malfoy, Lucius Malfoy
Additional Tags: Friendship/Love, Eventual Romance, Fluff, Self-Harm, Friends to
Lovers, Slow Burn, Pranks and Practical Jokes, Bullying, Not Canon
Compliant, Horcruxes, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, characters are out of
character, but not too much, Falling In Love, First Kiss, Draco Malfoy &
Harry Potter Friendship, Severus Snape Has a Heart, everybody needs a
hug, this might make you cry, Found Family, Soulmates
Language: English
Stats: Published: 2023-08-02 Completed: 2024-01-12 Words: 125,283
Chapters: 41/41
 As Simple As This
by anoukmaree

Summary

A girl with wild hair and a suitcase full of books bursts into his life, and Harry can’t do
anything else but fall. He falls into friendship, into love, into her tender arms and into the
magic of it all. Only will it all be enough to save him?
***
They find themselves lying down on their sides, their knees touching, Harry’s hand on
Hermione’s waist and hers on his chest. The mood shifts so abruptly that he is giddy with it.
For the first time ever, Harry thinks what it would be like to kiss Hermione. He licks his lips
at the idea, and his heart beats faster. Only it won’t be fair on her, will it? He doesn’t want to
break her heart more than he has to. Harry has already decided that he would die for her if he
had to, and now he knows he has to. It’s okay, really. It’s okay.
He makes the thought of kissing Hermione as small as possible, until it’s smaller than a grain
of sand, until it’s so tiny it’s barely there at all, and then he stuffs it into the deepest corner of
his mind and builds a wall around it, just like Snape has taught him to.
“Who do you have a crush on?” Hermione whispers as she moves infinitesimally closer.
“Horcruxes can’t have crushes.”

Notes

Underage magic is allowed in this universe.

This is just me, having fun with the characters that are not my own, alas.
Prepare for a long ride.

Playlist: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6vqZGY4le2KsGYaXVl0mWb?si=w8Gv07-
OSA6d7jlkdwoK4g&pi=e-4LSQ87-5SL6f
 Chapter 1

1st August, 1991

“Oi, freak!”

“We’re gonna kick your arse!”

“Grab him! Grab him!”

“You’re dead!”

Harry is running down Magnolia Road and he is fast. He is faster than his obese cousin
Dudley, faster than his skinny sidekick Piers, faster than any other kid at his school. He is
faster even though his trainers are too big, and the soles are peeling off. He turns a corner at
full speed, and nearly comes crashing into a man - a giant. Harry hears the skidding of shoes
from behind him. Somebody swears. He nearly laughs when he hears his pursuers scatter in
the opposite direction. Harry doesn’t run away. He tilts his head up and looks at long tangles
of the giant’s bushy hair and beard, at the hands that are at least five times larger than his
uncle’s, at massive feet in leather boots. The giant would have looked menacing if his dark
beetle eyes weren’t full of jolly mischief. Harry thinks that it must be easy to be happy when
you know that nobody is going to mess with you.

“Harry Potter,” the giant says, and Harry thinks. If he knows his name, he must be looking
for him. If he is looking for him, he needs something from Harry. If he needs something from
Harry, Harry might be able to get something in return.

“What’s that to you if I am?” He tries to stand as tall as he can, which is hard to do when you
are eleven years old and facing somebody twice the height of a regular man. He stares
challengingly into the stranger’s eyes, and it makes him feel taller.

The giant chuckles. “Call me Hagrid. I’m Keeper of Keys at Hogwarts. I’ve yer letter.”

He says it all like Harry is supposed to know what Hogwarts is and what kind of letter Hagrid
is delivering. Harry hates feeling stupid, but he also knows that people who don’t learn the
things they don’t know will remain stupid forever.

“What is Hogwarts?” He makes his voice sound casual.

What Hagrid tells him turns Harry’s world upside down.

***

Harry walks into number four Privet Drive, Hagrid behind him with all of Harry’s new school
things. Aunt Petunia shrieks, uncle Vernon bellows, Dudley squeals like a pig, Hagrid
guffaws, and Harry thinks that it’s the best day of his life. It’s all quite mad, and all the adults
are arguing now, but Harry feels safe because he’s got somebody grown up, strong and so
very clearly magical on his side. And when aunt Petunia spits, “Now what? You want him to
go to that special school for freaks?” all that Harry can hear is “School for Witchcraft and
Wizardry”.

Late at night, he sits crosslegged on his bed, which barely fits into his cupboard, in the dim
light from a single lightbulb, his new trunk shoved all the way back, some of the more
interesting books arranged on the little shelves above the bed, his wand next to him. He can
hear his uncle’s snores from above and he can swear that the whole house is vibrating with
them. Harry can’t sleep. Harry is thinking how he’s been lied to all his life. His parents were
not drunks, they didn’t die in a car crash, they were not useless. They were war heroes and
they loved Harry. They loved Harry, and cradled him in their arms, and sang nursery rhymes
to him, and called him ridiculous names like my little sausage or sweat pea - They loved him.
Somebody in this world a long time ago loved him, and his aunt and uncle have been lying
all this time. Harry feels a familiar itching all over his skin, and a pressure inside his skull,
and he realises that the house vibrating is not uncle Vernon’s snoring at all, it is him, Harry,
and his freakishness that he must keep inside. He rolls the sleeve of his left arm up to expose
a range of shallow cuts going from the crease of his elbow nearly all the way to his wrist.
Some lines are thin and white, some are glossy pink, while others are puffy and scabbed over.
Harry reaches for a yellow craft knife he keeps on one of the shelves, which now rests next to
Magical Drafts and Potions. Looking at the book, Harry remembers that his freakishness is
not that at all, it’s magic, he is magic. So Harry reaches for his wand instead, and pleasant
warmth spreads from the tips of his fingers all over his body, red sparks shoot from the wand
like fireworks, and the light in his cupboard flickers on and off. The itchiness leaves his skin,
and the pressure - his scull. He puts his wand back and rolls his sleeve down. He listens and
is relieved to hear no footsteps thumping down the stairs and no shouts of “Boy!”. His uncle
is still snoring. The walls around him don’t vibrate anymore. Harry sleeps.

***

18th August, 1991

Harry is wandering around Little Winging thinking that it must be the longest August in
history. He nicks a peach when he passes the greengrocer’s and bites into the juicy flesh
straight away. He doesn’t feel even a remote pang of guilt licking the juice off his fingers. As
Harry sees it, it is the Dursleys’ fault that he had to learn how to steal food. And anyway, they
tell everybody who will listen that Harry is being sent to St Brutus's Secure Centre for
Incurably Criminal Boys, so he feels like he needs to live up to his reputation.

Harry needs to last two more weeks, not even that, thirteen days. Thirteen days and he will be
on his way to Hogwarts.

Harry has leafed through most of his books and read the chapters that he’s found most
interesting. He has memorised some spells and did his best to copy wand movements from
diagrams and descriptions, but for now he can only do Lumos, possibly because it doesn’t
require any wand movement at all. Harry thinks of all the kids who are born into wizarding
families, and how they probably look at all the books that Harry has studied with fascination
like regular kids look at Maths and English and Science textbooks. In the muggle world,
Harry gets tucked away into a dark cupboard under the stairs like a dirty little secret because
he does not belong. He definitely belongs in the world of magic though, because his name is
right there on the pages of “The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts”, Harry Potter, The Boy Who
Lived.

***

1st September, 1991

Harry is standing in front of the wall that supposedly leads to Platform 9 3/4. What is it with
wizards and walls? First Diagon Alley, now this. He starts to scratch his head in confusion
but stops with a wince. Dudley decided to present Harry with a parting gift and knocked him
on the back of his head with a fire poker. Harry kicked him right in the balls though.

Harry touches the wall, and it’s solid. What if Hagrid has made a mistake? What if Harry
isn’t enough of a wizard to go to Hogwarts? The Dursleys refused to take him to King’s
Cross Station. “You want to get to that freak school of yours? You’ll have to find a way
yourself then. We refuse to have anything to do with such nonsense!” Harry had to take the
train, owl in a cage, a large old-fashioned trunk and all. People stared, and Harry pretended
not to care, but he really doesn’t fancy dragging it all back to Surrey.

He takes a few steps back, squeezes his eyes shut, and runs at the wall. He feels it before he
sees it. The air is different, the sounds, the smells. He opens his eyes to a scarlet steam train
with people all about. Children of all ages and adults. Families. Mothers wiping their kids’
faces, fathers giving them pep talks or telling them off, siblings fighting, laughing, teasing…
Hugging. So many parents hugging their children goodbye. “We’ll miss you baby!”
“Remember to write at least once a week.” “Love you so much!” Harry can’t stand it. He
goes to board the train. The Dursleys didn’t say “Goodbye”. They said “Good riddance.”
Harry doesn’t care. He. Does. Not. Care.

It’s still early and Harry manages to find an empty compartment with ease. He looks at the
luggage rack, then at the size of his trunk, and decides to not even try. He sits down, places
Hedwig in her cage by his side and resolutely refuses to look out of the window. He looks at
the writing on the compartment walls instead.

The usual collection of “cock”, “cunt” and penis drawings.

“You’re ugly.”

“BW was here.”

“L+J” in a heart.

“Be fearless. Fart as loud as your anus will allow.” This one makes him snigger.

He examines his surroundings until a yelled “Freak!” from outside makes him look out of the
window. For a moment, he thinks it’s about him, but for a change it isn’t. He notices a girl
with untameable chestnut curls and large front teeth. “Mudblood.” He sees two girls of about
the same age sneer at her. One of them looks like a pug. Harry watches the girl with bushy
hair. She doesn’t cry or look around for her parents. She fearlessly stares at her offenders,
lifts her chin up high and calmly goes to board the train. Harry likes her.

***

His compartment door slides open, and Harry is pleasantly surprised to see the girl from
before. “Hi. Do you mind if I sit here? Everywhere else it taken.” Harry shakes his head “no”,
and the girl drags her trunk in. He helps her put it on the seat just like he did his own, but hers
is at least twice as heavy.

“What do you have in there? Bricks?” Harry asks.

“Books,” the girl looks defensive, as if she expects Harry to tease her for bringing books to
school.

“I’m Harry.”

“Hermione.”

The train jolts to life with a screech, and they quickly take their seats. Harry wants to ask her
about her parents, and what “mudblood” means. He realises it’s probably rude, but he is
curious, and he has never learned to keep his mouth shut, not even with the help of his aunt’s
smacking or his uncle’s bellowing.

“Why were you alone at the station?” Hermione’s eyes go wide for a second when she
realises that he’s seen her, but otherwise she looks unperturbed.

“They couldn’t cross the barrier,” at Harry’s puzzled look, she adds, “They are both muggles.
It’s a shame they couldn’t see me off properly, but at least they’ve seen Diagon Alley.”

“I didn’t believe that magic was real until I stepped into Diagon,” Harry recalls Hagrid
tapping the wall with his ridiculously pink umbrella creating a passage to a whole new world.

“Are you muggle-born too?” Hermione leans forward in her seat and looks hopeful.

“Not exactly. I live with my aunt and uncle. They’re muggles.” He scratches the back of his
head and winces again. Dudley is such a prat. He realises something then.

“That’s what mudblood means! Muggleborn. They knew because you were alone at the
station.”

“It doesn’t matter. It’s either that, or because of my hair, or my teeth, or my brains. People
have made fun of me all my life. You will too, when you realise how unpopular I am,”
Hermione states it like a fact, and Harry wonders what her story is.

“I’m not exactly popular where I come from either,” he confesses, and Hermione studies him
as if she is trying to figure out what he might have been bullied for.

“Is it because you’re wearing clothes that would better fit an elephant?” A surprised laugh
bursts out of Harry at that.
“It’s a part of it, but it’s got more to do with the elephant.” Hermione lifts an eyebrow at him,
and Harry tells her about Dudley and his gang, and a bit about his relatives. He doesn’t tell
her about the cupboard though. He is certain that living under the stairs is freaky in both
worlds, unless you are a ghost that is, or a spider.

“You are Harry Potter, aren’t you?” Hermione is looking at Harry with an odd expression that
he can’t decipher, but before he can ask her about how she knows, their door slides open with
a timid tap-tap-tap, and a chubby boy puts his head through. “Hi, I’m Neville. Have you seen
a toad? Trevor. My gran will kill me if I lose him.”

“Hi. I’m Harry, and this is Hermione. Can’t you ask an older student to summon him with a
spell or something?” Neville hits himself on the forehead with a palm and mutters, “Of
course. I’m an idiot.”

They all go in the end, and Harry takes note of the pug-faced girl in one of the compartments
that they pass. There are a few other kids with her: a stocky girl with a square jaw, two large
boys who strongly remind him of Dudley, and a posh blond boy.

They finally stop at a compartment with an open door and a bunch of readheads inside.

“You can’t bring this to school! Mum would kill you both if she knew!” Harry sees a
pompous looking teen just inside the doorway who is pointing at a pair of twins, who, in turn,
seem to be hiding something behind their backs, and Harry is curious.

“Don’t tell her then,” they both say at once as if they’ve been rehearsing.

“Excuse me!” Harry cuts in and addresses the bossy boy. “Can you help Neville find his
toad? We thought somebody older and smarter might be able to summon him, and you’ve got
a prefect’s badge,” It works like a charm, and off the boy goes with Neville to use Accio in
different parts of the carriage.

The twins jump up and bow before Harry.

“Kind Sir”

“Our saviour”

“Let us serve your Highness”

“And repay you for exiling Percy the tw-“

“Twit. Percy the twit.”

By the time Percy, Neville and Trevor are safely back, Harry knows that the twins are called
Fred and George, their younger brother is Ron, and that they are hiding a box full of joke
products, and Harry is in a possession of a Dungbomb as a payment for being their saviour.

“I’ve seen the girl who called you a mudblood,” Harry says as he and Hermione make their
way back.
“I have as well. So what?” Hermione tosses her hair.

“You should throw this,” Harry puts the bomb in her hand, “into her compartment.”
Hermione’s eyes widen, and for a moment Harry thinks that he’s judged her wrong, but then
she grins, and her grin is wicked. Harry’s answering one looks just the same.

They bend low so that they are not seen through the window, Harry slowly and carefully
opens the door just a crack, and Hermione launches the stinky ball inside with a flick of her
wrist.

“What’s this?”

“Eww!”

“Gross!”

“Run!” Harry grabs Hermione by the elbow and they dash away as fast as the narrow corridor
will allow. They hear a door behind them open with a slam and children retching and
swearing.

“I’ve never done anything like this before,” Hermione shuts their compartment door behind
them, then turns around and slides down to the floor, her shoulders shaking with laughter.
Harry fits himself close to her in the narrow space between the seats, his back to the door as
well.

“You know there is plenty more room to sit?” Hermione looks at Harry as if he isn’t making
any sense.

“There is, but if they come looking, they’ll think that there’s nobody in here.” Hermione’s
mouth forms an oh. “I’ve always thought that I was smart,” she says, “but it seems that books
can’t prepare you for this.”

“You’re book smart, I’m street smart. We’ll make a great team.” Hermione is still smiling,
but there’s wariness in her too.

“I just don’t understand why you’d want to be friends with a swotty girl.” Harry shrugs at
that, but then says, “I’ve never liked boys anyway.”

“I’ve never liked girls.”

“See? At least we meet one of the initial requirements for friendship. I’m not a girl, and
you’re not a boy.” Hermione smiles properly at that.

“Are there more? Requirements?”

“I’ve no idea. I’ve never had a friend.”

“Neither have I.”

“Your glasses are broken,” Hermione changes the topic.

“Dudley,” Harry says, and his name is an explanation enough. Hermione teaches him Reparo,
and Harry thinks that it’s not hard at all when you know what a proper wand movement is.
Then the Trolley Witch comes by, and they both get some snacks, which they share. Harry
doesn’t know exactly what being friends is supposed to be like, but this feels like a good
beginning.

***

Everything is huge and breathtaking. The lake they are crossing is dark and deep, and Harry
swears he can see a large tentacle in the distance appear out of the water and disappear with a
splash. The sky is clear and full of stars, which reflect in the surface of the lake, and for a
moment Harry feels like he is floating in space, but the castle is right there, looming ahead of
them, and it’s as large as everything else, and solid, and saturated with magic. When they are
inside, children gape with their mouths open and talk in hushed voices. Everything is alive.
Portraits move, stairs move, Harry sees a door appear and disappear, tapestries shift as if
there’s somebody behind them, the Great Hall has a sky for a ceiling, and it seems endless.
Even the Sorting Hat is so big that it falls all the way down to Harry’s nose. Harry doesn’t
remember ever feeling so small or insignificant. It's like he is sitting in front of the judges,
helpless and blind, while the voices around him whisper, and the whispers echo around the
vast hall. Harry Potter Harry Potter Harry Potter. His magic is prickling his skin, and he
clenched his fists and digs his nails into the flesh of his palms.

The Sorting Hat wants to place him in Slytherin, but Harry doesn’t want it. He doesn’t want
Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff either. There is a girl that feels like the only familiar thing in this
immense and alien place, and this girl has been sorted into Gryffindor. So that’s where Harry
is going, no matter what a silly old hat has got to say. The said hat laughs, and its laughter
vibrates inside Harry’s head. He has no idea what is so funny, nor does he care, because the
Hat shouts out “Gryffyndor!” and Harry pulls it off as quickly as he can, in case it changes its
mind. The applause at the Gryffindor table is the loudest he’s heard today.

“I knew you’d be sorted into Gryffindor,” Hermione has to shout right into his ear because
everybody at their table is still cheering. “That’s why I asked the hat to place me here as well.
It wanted to put me in Ravenclaw!”

At once, the hat’s glee makes a lot of sense.

***

He wasn’t lying to Hermione when he said that he didn’t like boys. He really doesn’t, so
when they are all at the dorms, he surreptitiously watches his peers unpack. Everybody has
got something. Neville has got a tank for Trevor, Ron has a rat and a few bright-orange
quidditch posters, Dean has got his drawings, Seamus has some quidditch posters too and a
chess set. For a moment Harry feels like he’s got nothing at all, but then he remembers
Hedwig, and takes the treats he bought for her out of his trunk and places them into the
bedside table. It’s not a lot, but it’s a start.

They all change into pyjamas and chat for a bit. Who grew up where and such, and if their
parents were magical or not. They all seem friendly enough. Everybody looks surprised that
Harry didn’t grow up in a castle, and Harry wonders what other legends people might have
created about him while he was hidden away from the world. He could create a whole new
personality for himself and nobody would know any different.

When it’s finally quiet, Harry thinks about his cupboard, and he misses the familiarity of it
just a little bit. He doesn’t understand it, and he tells himself it’s stupid, but he misses it all
the same.
 Chapter 2

2nd September, 1991

“This is ridiculous,” Hermione hisses through her teeth. There are on their way to breakfast,
and nearly everybody is staring at Harry.

“Look! It’s him!”

“Where?”

“Next to the girl with crazy hair.”

“Have you seen his scar?”

“Have you seen his eyes?”

“The colour isn’t natural, I’m telling you. It’s because of the killing curse.”

“I can’t believe you’re amused,” Hermione watches Harry, baffled, as his shoulders shake
with suppressed laughter.

“Do you think I should ask for money for my autographs? I could do a special offer, like
three for two,” Harry can’t help but be entertained by this madness. Two days ago, he was
running from bullies, and now he needed to escape his admirers. Life just didn’t make sense
sometimes.

“And charge double if they want you to sign a piece of clothing,” Hermione humours him,
but then stops abruptly in her tracks.

“Oh my,” she breathes. There is quite a mob at the entrance to the Great Hall.

“Err…” Harry has an urge to laugh hysterically, which he suppresses. A couple of first years
stand on their tiptoes to see better. Harry thinks he knows exactly how that Boa Constrictor at
the zoo felt. Then he asks himself, what would Harry PotterTM do? “Right,” he says, takes
Hermione by the hand and confidently marches through the crowd. People part for him as if
he is some sort of a saint. Madness.

“So… what were you saying about the autographs?” Hermione asks when they finally
squeeze in between other students at the Gryffindor table. All it takes is one look at each
other, and laughter bursts out of them together with the tension.

Harry piles his plate with food and reminds himself that there’s no need to wolf it down
because nobody will take it away from him, not here. It will take some getting used to.

Something soft brushes against Harry’s legs and he looks down to see a scrawny grey cat
with protruding eyes. Used to Mrs. Figg’s pets, he scratches it behind the ears and feeds it a
bit of his bacon. The cat reminds Harry of himself, a little bit. Thin, unkempt and begging for
food. It jumps on his lap.

“Are you mental? This is Mrs. Norris!” Ron looks at Harry as if he is feeding the devil
himself.

“Huh?” Harry gives the cat a bit of sausage and strokes its back just to see Ron’s reaction.
The redhead’s eyes bulge.

“It’s Filch’s. My brothers told me all about it. This vicious creature follows students around
and runs to get Filch if they’ve done something wrong.”

“Doesn’t it make sense to be friends with Mrs. Norris then? If she likes you, there’s a chance
she’ll leave you alone,” Fred and George look at Harry like he is a revelation.

“You’re not vicious at all, are you?” Hermione murmurs at the cat and rubs her between the
ears. Mrs. Norris splays herself over Harry and Hermione’s laps, which makes them move a
bit closer together.

“Why do I get the bottom half?” Harry complains with put upon indignation.

“Because I’m much nicer to look at,” Hermione’s eyes twinkle.

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Harry turns to see Pansy Parkinson sneer from behind

them, together with a few other Slytherins. Hermione doesn’t even flinch.

“How long have you been standing there waiting for the right moment to say something
nasty? Your life must be excruciatingly boring,” Hermione deadpans while lazily stroking the
cat. All the Gryffindors who are close enough to hear her snigger.

“What is going on here?” McGonagall approaches them with a stack of parchment.

“Nothing, Professor, we’re just talking,” Parkinson replies, as polite as you please.

“I suggest you go and talk with the members of your own house, Miss Parkinson. Professor
Snape is about to hand out your schedules. You wouldn’t want to be late for you first class.”

“You’re right,” Harry says to Hermione later. “Girls can be pretty nasty too.”

***

5th September, 1991

After a few days, Harry knows a bunch of things about Hogwarts. He knows which sets of
stairs change direction and when. He knows a couple of shortcuts that are not on the map that
all the first years have been given. He knows that ghosts make for the most boring teachers
ever and that McGonagall is not to be crossed. He knows that Quirrell is a joke, and his class
gives Harry a horrible headache. And he knows that Draco Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson are
the vilest people he has ever met.
“Oh dear,” Madam Pomfrey rushes towards Harry as he enters the hospital wing. “What
happened?”

“A tripping jinx. My face had an encounter with the stairs.” One of his front teeth is broken,
his top lip feels all swollen, and he can taste blood. Not the worst he’s had, but still pretty
annoying. Bloody Malfoy.

“Come, sit down, dear. Drink this.”

The potion tastes nasty, but the pain disappears straight away.

“Wow,” Harry says.

“Wait until I fix you up properly, then it will be a wow,” She waves her wand in an elaborate
pattern, mutters something, and everything is back to normal just like that.

“Wow,” Harry says again, this time with feeling, while feeling his teeth with his tongue.

“As I’ve said, as good as new. Run off to class now before you’re too late.”

Harry thanks her and is about to leave, but then he has a brilliant idea.

***

Harry is feeling pretty pleased with himself, but it quickly changes the moment he knocks on
the Potions classroom door.

“How kind of you to join us, Mr. Potter,” Snape’s voice is menacingly quiet, and it sends
unpleasant shivers down Harry’s spine. “It seems our new celebrity does not deem it
necessary to be on time.”

“Maybe you should ask Malfoy why Harry is late,” Ron speaks up and Hermione shushes
him while Snape ignores him completely.

“I’ll give you a chance, Mr. Potter. If you can answer my question, you may enter. If you
cannot, you will have to wait until next week. Am I being clear?”

Harry thinks it’s horribly unfair, and his first impulse is to walk away and slam the door as he
does, but he reckons ruining his relationship with a teacher in the beginning of the year is
most likely not a good idea, so he nods, and says, “Yes, Sir.” And he even manages not to grit
his teeth.

“Where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?”

“A stomach of a goat,” Harry says confidently, and then he adds, not able to help himself.
“But it’s probably easier to check in your storage cupboard first.”

“Don’t give me cheek, Potter! What is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?”

“There’s none. It’s the same plant.” Snape raises an eyebrow at that but doesn’t comment.
“What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?” And
that, Harry is sure, is not in their first year textbook.

“I don’t know, Sir. What would I get?” Harry curses himself for asking the question because
he is sure Snape will snap at him. He does not though.

“They make a sleeping potion so powerful it is known as the Draught of Living Death. Come
in and sit down, Potter. Five points from Gryffindor. Do not be late again.” Snape may be ill-
tempered, but the lesson doesn’t go all that bad. Harry even manages to brew a decent boil
cure despite the fact that he has been paired with Neville, who is a menace to himself and the
people around in every class but Herbology. Snape looks unimpressed, but, as far as Harry
has heard, he always does.

***

“I’ve told you his dislike for me was personal,” Harry tells Hermione as they stand just
outside Hagrid’s hut and pick blackberries that they’ve spotted at the edge of the forest. They
are plump, juicy and sweet despite it being September.

“It’s a shame Hagrid wouldn’t say any more,” Hermione has collected a handful of berries
that she puts all in her mouth and chews, her eyes closed. She hums.

“Yer dad an’ Professor Snape didn’ exactly see eye ter eye at school,” Harry quotes. “What
does it even mean? You don’t terrorise your ex-schoolmate’s son just because of a bit of
rivalry.”

“Don’t exaggerate. He wasn’t terrorising you.”

“He so was. He would’ve carried on asking his questions until I got one wrong.”

“Maybe,” Hermione replies distractedly and continues to diligently pick the plumpest
blackberries in the palm of her hand, and Harry moves closer pretending to reach for a berry
in the bush, but instead he grabs Hermione’s wrist, leans forward and eats all the berries right
out of her palm.

Hermione turns towards him with an indignant intake of air. “You will pay for this!”

Harry is too busy laughing to realise that Hermione has got a few more blackberries in her
hand, and she walks up to him and rubs them right into his face. He stops at once, grabs her
and digs his fingers into her ribs. Hermione shrieks, and squirms, and giggles, “No, no -
tickles.”

When they get back to the castle, they are covered in purple patches and grass stains, and
their hair is a mess. But they are smiling, and Harry has forgotten all about Snape.

***

13th September, 1991

Harry wonders if he died and got resurrected as somebody else. Only a little while ago he
was a scrawny friendless kid wandering the streets of Little Whinging. Now he is a famous
and even somewhat popular, albeit still scrawny, wizard, and the youngest member of a
Quidditch team in a century as of yesterday, and he is wandering a magic castle at midnight
because Malfoy has challenged him to a wizard’s duel. Hermione, Ron, Neville, Seamus and
Dean are all with him for support, even though it is stupid and they will all definitely get
caught, but Harry is delighted because he has got friends. And even if it all feels surreal and
too good to be true, Harry is determined to enjoy it while it lasts.

They are heading for the trophy room where Harry is supposed to meet Malfoy, only they
hear a noise, and then Filch croons, “Sniff around, my sweet, they must be lurking nearby.”

Mrs. Norris appears from behind the corner, and her eyes are on them. Only she doesn’t call
Filch with a yowl. She comes up to Harry and rubs agains his legs, and then Hermione’s and
purrs.

“Oh my god,” Ron mouthes.

“Have you found them, my dear?”

Mrs. Norris trots back to Filch, and they all back away, and when they are far enough, they
run.

At breakfast, when Malfoy asks him about last night and if he and his beaver girlfriend are
having their last meal before being sent off home, Harry hits him with an engorgement charm
right on the mouth, and watches as his teeth grow past his chin. Everybody laughs at
Malfoy’s horror, even some Slytherins, and Harry thinks it serves the blond prat right. It’s so
worth the detention that he gets. Besides, receiving a Nimbus 2000 later that day more than
makes up for it.

***

19th September, 1991

“Why are we at the Hospital Wing, Harry?” Harry feels awkward, and he has no idea how
Hermione will take it. It will either make her very cross, or very happy.

“Um… I wanted to give you something for you birthday, and - I don’t want you to think that
you need to change anything about yourself, and I know it won’t stop the teasing, but I know
how much you hate them, and I wanted to give you the option-“

“Harry, you are not making any sense.”

“I asked Madam Pomfrey if she could fix your teeth, and she said that it would only take a
second, and that she could change it all back with ease. I thought you might like that-“ Just
for a moment, Hermione looks hopeful and excited, but then deflates.

“I really would, but Harry, you know that my parents are dentists, they’d never approve of
it.” The corners of Hermione’s mouth turn down and there’s a sad little crease between her
eyebrows, and Harry doesn’t like it.

“Can I tell you a secret?” He asks conspiratorially. Hermione nods, and Harry leans to
whisper right into her ear, “You don’t have to always listen to your parents.” It feels exactly
like the moment before she threw a dungbomb into the Slytherins’ compartment, and
Hermione grins exactly like she did then, too.

“You are such a bad influence, Harry Potter!” And Harry supposes that he is, but maybe
Hermione needs a bit of that, because when Madam Pomfrey is finished, she brings
Hermione a mirror, and when Hermione looks in the mirror, she smiles, and then laughs, and
then cries, but they are happy tears, Harry is sure. Because then she wraps her arms around
Harry, squeezes him, and whispers right into his neck, “Thank you thank you thank you.” But
all Harry can think of is that it’s his very first hug, and that it feels really really good. And
that he likes making Hermione happy.

The thing is, he is friendly with so many people now, but he feels like Harry PotterTM with
all of them, and only with Hermione he feels like just Harry.
 Chapter 3

15th October, 1991

“I - hate - written - assignments,” Harry thuds his head on the table with every word, which
makes the rolls of parchment scattered around the surface quiver and ink bottles rattle. He
hears Madam Pince shush him from across the room and rests his forehead on his unfinished
essay, and closes his eyes. He is just so tired. He’s got Quidditch practice every other day, and
at least one detention with Snape a week. Ron’s been teaching him how to play chess, and
Hermione found a book called “One Hundred Spells Every Witch and Wizard Must Know”,
and they’ve challenged themselves to learn them all before the end of the school year. All this
leaves barely any time for homework.

Harry feels the parchment under him being tugged at, so he lifts his head just enough to allow
it, then drops it back down.

“It’s not so bad, you just need to expand on the history and add a couple more examples for
its usage,” Hermione suggests and sighs when Harry doesn’t respond in any way. He hears
her scribble something, then open and close a couple of books, then scribble some more. He
looks up just in time to see her pass his parchment back to him with two green Post-it notes
attached to it.

“I’ve listed what you can add and included the books and page numbers.”

“What would I do without you?” Harry feels like he’s spent days walking through the desert
and Hermione has just handed him a glass of water.

“Only get Ts and Ds and be expelled after your first year here.”

“Oh, come on! I’m pretty sure I’d be able to scrape an Acceptable most of the time.”

“And even if you didn’t, you’d still get Outstandings for your practicals, which-”

“Anyway,” Harry interrupts. “What I meant to say was thank you.” At that, the look in
Hermione’s eyes goes soft.

“Any time.”

***

31st October, 1991

On top of everything, his Quirrell-induced headaches are getting worse. The one time he told
Hermione about this, she seemed confident that it was that weird garlicky smell that follows
the stuttering Professor everywhere. Only to Harry, it doesn’t smell like garlic, at least not
just garlic. It smells like decay. It smells like that dead dog he stumbled upon once. And the
way Quirrell looks at him sometimes, like a predator, gives Harry the creeps. Everybody else
seems absolutely fine with the Professor though, and Harry doesn’t want to sound crazy, so
he keeps it all to himself for now. Besides, nothing has happened so far anyway, so maybe
Harry doesn’t need to worry at all. Maybe everybody is right, and the only member of staff
Harry needs to be concerned about is Snape.

It’s strange though, with Snape. He will pick on Harry during class, and take points for petty
things, like breathing too loudly, and give him detention for showing off or not cleaning his
station fast enough. However, during detentions, he will make Harry prepare ingredients for
some complex potion Snape is brewing, and he’d explain things, like the difference between
chopping and dicing and slicing, and how different ingredients react, and why stirring
clockwise or counterclockwise matters. He is never nice about it, but Harry is not that
bothered. In fact, he is much more comfortable with Snape than with cheerful Sprout or soft-
spoken Flitwick. It makes sense, in a way. The Dursleys have never been kind to him, and
aunt Petunia would always boss him around, and uncle Vernon would yell at him for every
little error. Dealing with Snape is a piece of cake after that.

He’s got Potions now, and it’s the last class before the Halloween feast. Harry is finding it
hard to concentrate because the castle is saturated with delicious smells: pumpkin, and roast
meat, and gravy, and pastry… Snape keeps on asking his relentless questions about dittany,
and bat spleen, and gnat heads, and dozens of other things. Hermione lifts her arm up high
every time and bounces in her seat. Harry likes this about her, that her eagerness never
diminishes no matter how much people torment her for it.

This time though, Malfoy leers at Hermione and drawls, “Somebody should give her
something to bounce on.” Most of the Slytherins snigger, some of them look like they don’t
understand what exactly Malfoy has just said, but some do, and Hermione definitely does,
because she turns scarlet and puts her hand down right away. Harry is enraged, because they
are all just kids, because Hermione is his best friend, and how dare Draco Malfoy say
something like that!

“Mr. Malfoy,” Snape says barely above a whisper, but everybody can hear him nevertheless.
“Stay after class,” then he carries on as if nothing has happened. Harry whispers to
Hermione, “After class, we wait and we get him.” She nods resolutely. She doesn’t raise her
hand and she doesn’t bounce in her seat though, and it makes Harry want to punch Malfoy
right in the face and break his pointy nose.

***

They try and listen by the door, but there is nothing, and Harry wonders if Snape has silenced
it with magic somehow. When Malfoy finally exits the classroom, he doesn’t stand a chance.
Hermione has her wand ready, and she stupefies him with ease, as if it’s something she does
every single day.

“Come on, let’s drag this,” Harry prods Malfoy with his foot, “into the toilets. Snape might
come out any second.”

They do, and Harry thanks heavens that Malfoy is nearly as skinny as he is.

“Let’s sit him on the loo,” Hermione says, breathing hard.

“We could pull his trousers and pants down,” Harry suggests. “Imagine somebody finding
him like that.”

Harry expects Hermione to protest, but she doesn’t. He can see a corner of her mouth twitch
as if she’s fighting a smile.

“Oh, fine! But you have to do it. I have no desire of seeing his… bits,” Hermione scrunches
her nose up, and Harry snickers. They drag Malfoy into one of the stalls, and manage to
arrange him on the loo, between the two of them.

“You’re a really bad influence on me, you know,” Hermione elbows him on his ribs on the
way out, and he jumps away from her with a squawk. Their shoulders shake with suppressed
laughter.

“You’ve said it before.”

“And I’m sure I’ll say it again.”

“But how fun your life is right now compared to -“

“Are you going to take all the credit for that now?”

They banter all the way to the feast, and there is a note of desperation to it. Harry can’t be
sure how Hermione is feeling, but he is still pretty upset.

They only realise how late they are when they sit at the table and see dessert being served.

“Where the hell have you been?” Ron’s mouth is so full it’s a struggle to understand him.

“Hell describes it rather accurately, don’t you think, Harry?”

“Hey! Boys toilets are not that bad!”

“I meant the dungeons!”

“What were you doing at the dungeons? Wait! Hermione, what were you doing in the boys
toilets?”

Before they can tell Ron anything, the Great Hall doors burst open with a bang, and Quirrell
runs in with a shout, “Troll! Troll in the dungeons!” It takes a few moments for things to sink
in, but eventually they do.

“Malfoy!” Harry might not like the blond prat, but he doesn’t want his death to be on his
conscience.

“Malfoy,” Hermione agrees. In all the commotion, nobody notices a boy and a girl run
towards the dungeons and not away from them.

***
They follow the stench, which reminds Harry of a very ripe Camembert aunt Petunia once
got that nobody wanted to eat, and it leads them all the way to Malfoy, and when they hear a
piercing shriek coming from the toilets, he’s not even that surprised. “It looks like luck is on
our side,” he mutters sarcastically.

“At least he’s no longer stunned,” Hermione deduces.

Harry pushes the door open, and he sees lots of rubble from broken sinks and splintered
wood from the stalls, and Malfoy crouching in the corner, and the troll standing above him
and swinging his club. Harry thinks he must be insane as he runs at the troll and jumps right
on his back grabbing him around the meaty neck. He shoots a stunner, but it only annoys the
troll, and he tries to shake Harry off. Hermione, brilliant as she is, levitates the troll’s club
high into the air and drops it right on his ugly head, at which the troll crashes to the floor with
a loud thud. Harry crashes with him of course, but somehow he manages to remain
unscathed. He jumps back to his feet and looks around. Hermione is pale but she seems
otherwise fine. Malfoy, on the other hand, looks like he’s about to faint.

“We should get Madam Pomfrey,” Hermione says.

“I’m fine,” Malfoy’s voice sounds more like a squeak, and he clears his throat. “I’m fine,” he
repeats and gets to his feet shakily. Harry noticed that his fly is still undone, and he points at
it. “Malfoy,” he says, “Your trousers…” Malfoy flushes, turns away and fixes the problem.

“That was quite evil of you,” when he turns to face them again, his flush is barely there, and
Harry is reluctantly impressed at how unbothered he looks.

“You deserved it. You deserved the troll, too,” Hermione tells him, her voice icy and chin
lifted up.

“I might have been out of line, but we’ve all got roles to play. A teacher’s pet,” his eyes move
from Hermione to Harry. “The Boy Who Lived.” He spreads his arms wide as if he’s on
stage, “A Death Eater’s son.” Harry wants to point out how stupid it is of Malfoy to admit
which side his family fought on, but instead he asks, “Do we have to play them?” Malfoy
looks at him steadily for a moment, then says, “Don’t expect me to treat you any differently
in public just because you’ve come back for me.”

***

It’s nearly midnight, and Harry can’t sleep. His body is still pumping adrenaline through
every cell in his body, and everything seems uncomfortable. His blanket is too lumpy, the
sheets too scratchy, and Dudley’s large pyjamas twist around his slight frame. It almost feels
like before, when he was in his cupboard, and his magic wanted to burst out of him. There is
no struggle to control his magic right now, but he still wants his yellow craft knife, which is
in the bottom of his trunk, and if he tries to get it, he very likely will wake one of the boys up.
He gets up, slips out of the room and heads downstairs instead. Maybe sitting by a hot fire
will do the job.

“Couldn’t sleep either?” Hermione’s voice makes him jump. He doesn’t know how he hasn’t
spotted her straight away, right there, by the fire.
“No,” he descends the last few steps and approaches her. He wishes he’d put a dressing gown
on, and some slippers too, but Hermione doesn’t seem to care about his ugly stretched
nightwear. Hermione’s pyjamas are pink, Harry notices, and they’ve got tiny kittens all over.
It doesn’t seem like her at all, and it make him wonder how much about Hermione he still
doesn’t know. “Everything inside is kind of… buzzing,” Harry tells her as he lowers himself
down next to her.

Hermione hums in agreement as they both sit there and stare into the fire.

“Malfoy could have died because of us,” she says eventually, and it’s barely above a whisper.

Harry wants to tell her that it’s not their fault he’s a right git, and that what Hermione said
about Malfoy deserving it was true, but somehow he knows that’s not what she needs. He
says, “He could have. We could’ve too.” Hermione hums again, then she says, “Can we sit
here and not say anything for a while?”

“I’d like that,” Harry replies. He doesn’t understand what kind of strange mood Hermione is
in, but he doesn’t understand what kind of mood he’s in either. So they sit, and they watch the
fire, and when they finally say goodnight and go to their beds, Harry falls asleep the moment
his head touches his pillow.

***

1st November, 1991

“Mr. Potter, Miss Granger, please stay after class,” Harry doesn’t think Professor McGonagall
looks any more stern than usual, so it can’t be all that bad. He and Hermione gather their
things and wait for everybody to leave. Harry is leaning against a desk and Hermione is
standing as straight as a rod and chewing on her lip. “Relax,” he tells her in a low voice.
“Otherwise you’ll look guilty.”

“That’s because I am guilty,” she whispers back to him, but leans against the desk anyway.

“Can you two enlighten me,” McGonagall starts, “why the whole school seems to think that
you were responsible for the state the troll was discovered in last night?”

“I wouldn’t say it’s the whole school, Professor. The Slytherins seem convinced that it was
Draco Malfoy,” Harry tries to deflect without hoping that it will work.

“Draco Malfoy is not in my house. However, you two are, and I am asking you.”

“It’s because we were late getting to the common room,” Hermione answers, and Harry
hopes she’s got a good idea.

“And why were you late, Miss Granger?” McGonagall is watching them with such intensity
that Harry wonders if she can read minds. Hermione looks at him apologetically.
“Malfoy said something horrible to me yesterday, and I stunned him after class. We left him
in one of the alcoves in the dungeons. I was simply meaning for him to miss the feast… but
then Quirrell rushed in shouting about the troll, and Harry and I ran to rennervate him
because we were worried that the troll would get him. Malfoy was late to his common room
too, that’s why Slytherins say it’s him.”

Professor McGonagall asks a few more questions after that, admonishes them for not having
got a teacher instead, and takes a few points. No harm done really, but Harry is still a bit
frustrated with Hermione.

“You didn’t need to tell her all of this,” he complains when they are on the way to their next
class.

“What was your story going to be then?” Hermione crosses her arms and looks sternly as him
as if she is channelling McGonagall.

“No story, really. I was going to play I’m the famous Harry Potter card. I defeated
Voldermort, it would make sense for others to think that I have defeated the troll too,’ Harry
declares pompously and Hermione snorts.

“You’re famous, but not that famous,” Hermione bumps him with her shoulder.

“What are you talking about? I’m plenty famous!” He bumps her back a bit harder, his
annoyance mostly gone, and then stops abruptly. “Wait, we’ll need to tell Malfoy so that our
stories match!”

Later, Harry purposefully barges past the blonde in the hall.

“Watch where you’re going, Malfoy!” he says.

“I’m not the one who needs glasses, Potter!”

“Did it work?” Hermione asks when they’re a safe distance away.

“Yup,” he wiggles his fingers in the air that no longer hold the note.

“Good. Let’s have a calm couple of weeks now, deal?”

“Deal! I’ve had enough excitement at least until January.”

***

9th November, 1991

In the end, it hasn’t even been two weeks. At least Harry is safely back on the ground now,
and he’s got the snitch, and his team is exuberantly jumping around him, and the stands are
cheering, most of them anyway. And if his legs feel like jelly and his fingers are trembling, it
will go away soon. He is resolutely not thinking about clinging to his broom with his
fingertips just minutes ago. Instead, he is cheering with everybody else. The snitch is still in
his fist, and he pumps it in the air a few times. He can deal with everything else later.
“I thought you would die!” Hermione’s hair is in his face and her arms are tight around him,
and somehow it calms Harry right down. It’s just like after the troll when they both couldn’t
sleep.

“Yeah,” he says. “You and me both.”

They go to Hagrid’s after the excitement dies down. Hermione tells Harry about Snape and
how she set fire to his robes, and Harry tells her that she is the most brilliant person he
knows.

“Did you see where Quirrell was at the time?”

“Quirrell? Why?” Hermione looks confused, and Harry doesn’t blame her. Maybe he should
have talked more about how Quirrell makes him feel.

“Just a hunch.”

“He was just behind Snape… But, Harry, you don’t think that it was… I mean, he’s so
pathetic.”

Harry thinks about how to explain it. “He is pathetic, but remember what Malfoy said? What
if Quirrell is just playing a part too?” When Hermione looks at him dubiously, he adds, “Just
trust me on this one, okay?”

“Fine,” she agrees, but she doesn’t look happy about it. “It still doesn’t make any sense to
me.”

They’ve reached Hagrid’s hut now, and there is tea on the table, and a platter of rock cakes.
Hagrid’s baking might be atrocious, but his tea hits the spot. Hagrid wraps a blanket around
Harry too, and he wonders if it’s something a loving parent would do after a near death
experience. Wrap you up in a blanket and give you tea, and look at you with worried eyes.
Harry can’t remember anybody ever fussing about him like that.

They all talk about it for a while, Snape and Quirrell and dark magic. Harry even tells him
about his persistent headaches, and they don’t look at him as if he’s lost his mind, which is a
relief. Harry thinks that Hermione looks cold, so he shares his blanket with her. After that,
they sit with their shoulders touching and finish their tea in silence. It’s comfortable, and
warm, and Harry closes his eyes and rests his head on the wall behind him. Somebody takes
his empty mug from him, his fingers twitch, and he thinks that they should go. It’s probably
getting - darker now - and his teammates - they will - want to - c e l e b r a t e

When he wakes up, Hermione’s head is resting on his shoulder, and it seems that the match
happened weeks ago, not mere hours.

“Finally awake, eh?” Harry sees Hagrid pottering about the house.

“What time is it?” When Harry asks this, Hermione jerks awake.

“Nearly dinner. Come on, yer two sleepy heads, I’ll walk yer back ter the castle.”
Everybody at the Gryffindor table welcomes them with a loud cheer, and the mood seems just
as cheerful as before, but this time Harry is able to properly enjoy it.
 Chapter 4

5th December, 1991

“Madam Hooch!” Harry calls out at the end of their last lesson before the final test. “Can you
leave the hoops for now?” All the first years have spent the last hour in the bitter cold
manoeuvring battered school brooms through a series of glowing hoops that Madam Hooch
has spelled around the Quidditch pitch, and Hermione has been failing miserably.

“I want to try and help Hermione,” he adds.

“I know a lost cause when I see one, Mr. Potter. I don’t think an hour with you will make a
difference when weeks of flying lessons couldn’t. Don’t waste your time and go warm up in
front of the fire.”

At that, the flying instructor vanishes all the hoops with a flick of her wand and ushers the
children to put the equipment away. Harry makes a face at Hooch’s back and looks around for
Hermione. She is too far away to know for certain, but Harry thinks she looks relieved to
finally be back on the ground. Maybe Madam Hooch has got a point, and he should let things
be. It’s only that he can’t imagine his friend failing a class, even if it is not an essential one.

He watches Pansy Parkinson and Millicent Bulstrode make their way to Hermione, and his
legs move before he can really think about it. Parkinson smiles in a mockingly sympathetic
way and pats Hermione on the shoulder, while Bulstrode says something clearly offensive
because Hermione looks furious with her shoulders tense and hands clenched in fists. Harry
starts walking faster, and now he is close enough to hear his friend’s reply. “What about you
being inept at Herbology, Pansy?” Hermione’s voice is saturated with fake sweetness despite
her hostile body language. “Does it mean you’ve got muggle blood in your line too? Jeez,
everybody will find out how fake your blood superiority nonsense is. How sad for you.”
Parkinson looks like she wants to hit something really bad, and Harry decides that it’s a good
moment to cut in.

“I came to see if you needed any help, but it looks like you’ve got it under control,” he stands
next to Hermione, shoulder to shoulder, and stares the girls down. “Problem?” he asks.
Parkinson actually growls and stomps her foot, then grabs Bulstrode by the hand and drags
her away.

“That was quite dramatic. Are you okay?”

“Mostly… it was just the usual rubbish anyway. She says I can’t fly like a proper witch
because my parents are muggles.” Harry thinks it’s the most idiotic thing one can say to the
best student in their year.

“You know it’s not true, right?”

“I do… it’s just that… it still hurts. I try so hard because I want to prove everybody that I do
belong. And this stupid broom is refusing to behave.” She kicks it, and Harry is grateful that
Hooch is too far away to notice.

“Hermione,” Harry stands in front of her, puts his hands on her shoulders and looks her in the
eyes, which are a bit red as if she wants to cry but is holding herself back. “You’ve got so
much magic in you. There is nobody in our year who gets spells as quickly as you do. You
deserve to be here, okay? You deserve to be here,” he says it with all the conviction that he’s
got, and Hermione allows her tears to spill.

“Do you really believe that?”

“More than anything else in this world.” He gives her a gentle hug because she looks like she
needs one, and because he wants her to feel like she belongs. Holding her still feels awkward
and new, and he doesn’t quite know where to place his arms, but hopefully Hermione won’t
care. “I’m so happy you are here,” he says into her hair. “Hogwarts wouldn’t have been even
half as fun without you.”

“If Harry Potter himself says I belong, it must be true,” Hermione tries to joke through her
tears, and Harry gives her a little squeeze before he lets go.

“Exactly!”

He picks her broom up, having put his away already, and they start towards the shed.
Hermione takes his free hand and softly says, “I’m happy that you are here too.” She gives
his hand a squeeze and lets go, just like he did when he hugged her. His mouth involuntary
stretches into a smile.

***

7th December, 1991

It’s a brilliantly sunny, albeit bitingly cold, Saturday, and Harry had convinced Hermione to
give flying with him a go. They are hovering just above the ground on an old Comet. It is the
broom that Hermione has been using since school started and it has clearly seen much better
days. Harry is sitting right behind her, and he’s got his hands firmly on the handle.
Hermione’s grip is so tight though that her knuckles have turned white.

“Do you trust me?” Harry asks.

“I do, but it’s not you I’m worried about, it’s the broom.”

Harry laughs, “The broom will do what I tell it to.”

“I wouldn’t be so confident. It’s a temperamental one.” The broom jolts to the side as if to
confirm Hermione’s words.

“Hey!” Harry rights it right back, and he thinks he knows what the problem might be.

“We’ll do a gentle loop around the pitch, and I’m going to tell you something, deal?”
“Deal,” Hermione squeaks, and Harry has a feeling she wants nothing more than to be back
on the ground. Harry is stubborn though. He directs the broom up and forward as slowly and
steadily as he can, but Hermione still gives a little yelp.

“Ron has been teaching me how to play chess, as you know,” He starts loudly, speaking over
the wind in their ears. “You also know that wizarding chess pieces are alive, sort of. They
always listen to Ron and do what he says without a peep. They wouldn’t obey me at all in the
beginning, not when I had no idea what I was doing and no confidence either.” They have
made half their way around the pitch now, and Hermione’s knuckles seem a little less white.
“The pieces would yell at me, argue with me and insult me too. One even tried to poke me in
the eye! But as I started to understand the rules better and got more confident, they stopped
doing that. Mind, Ron is still loads better and wins every time, but I don’t get shouted at any
more, even if I’m still pants at it.” They are back to where they’ve started, and Harry eases
the broom to the ground.

“The broom hasn’t bucked a single time for you!” Hermione says incredulously.

“Because I am confident that I am the one in control.”

“Fine, it can feel that I’m scared. It makes sense. But I don’t know how not to be scared!”
Hermione turns back to give Harry a disgruntled look.

“Why don’t we start with you flying me around the pitch?” He beams at her, unbothered by
her attitude.

“And it’s different from me flying by myself because…”

“Because you will know that if something happens, I am right here to rescue you.”

“I’m not a damsel in distress!” Harry just rolls his eyes at her and directs her to face back
forward, then he takes her hands in his and puts them on the broom handle. The moment he
lets go though, the broom starts vibrating violently.

“Wow,” he puts his hands back on hers. “Come on, Miss bossy know-it-all, show the broom
who’s in charge here.” Very suddenly, the broom zooms forward and up, and Harry laughs
while Hermione shrieks.

They fly for a good hour after that, and there are moments when he thinks that Hermione is
getting it, and others when she is a complete disaster.

“I don’t think it’s helped,” she says when they land.

“Maybe not,” Harry agrees. “But at least we’ve tried. Besides, I’ve had fun.”

Hermione looks like she’s about to protest and tell him that it’s the least fun she’s had in her
life, but she cocks her head to the side and seems to think about it.

“You know what? I’ve had some fun too!”

“No need to sound so incredulous!”

“I still think I’ll fail though.”

“Yeah, you probably will,” Harry scratches the back of his head and wishes he could’ve
helped somehow.

“It’s okay though. I’ve decided it didn’t matter.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Good.”

***

18th December, 1991

It’s exactly a week before Christmas, and Harry can’t remember ever seeing this much snow.
It lies on trees and makes their branches look like giant paws, and it cowers the grounds and
the frozen lake in a carpet so thick that when you step outside you fall right through and all
the way to your waist. That is, until Hagrid and Filch clean it up a bit and leave visible paths
around the castle, which look like a maze.

Fred and George are full of mischief as usual, and they charm snowballs to follow Quirrell
and hit him on his turban repeatedly. They even try to do the same with Snape, but one look
from the bat-like Professor, and the snowballs turn back and chase the twins instead. Harry
notices a corner of Snape’s mouth twitch and his eyes glint just for a moment, and it’s the
most human he’s ever seen the Potions Master.

Inside the castle, there are lush Christmas trees in glowing ornaments, and holly and
mistletoe hanging all around, under which several girls and one boy have asked Harry if they
could kiss him. He doesn’t know whether to feel worried, flattered or amused, so he settles on
a mix of all three. Harry has all the mistletoe locations memorised now and avoids them all at
any cost to Hermione’s great amusement.

“At least they ask you first,” she makes a point, and Harry shudders to think what it would be
like if they didn’t.

***

20th December, 1991

Harry and the rest of the Quidditch team believe that Oliver Wood is clinically insane. It’s
hailing, and it is the last day before most students will return home for the holidays, but
Wood still wanted to gather the team for last Quidditch practice. Thankfully, it’s over now,
and all Harry wants is to peel his wet clothes off and jump in a hot shower. He is walking
down a deserted corridor leaving a trail of melting snow in his wake. When he turns a corner,
he comes face to face with Professor Snape. Just great.
“Mr. Potter,” Professor Snape stops him, and Harry hopes that even Snape is not petty enough
to give him detention right before Christmas break is due to start.

“Yes, sir?”

“Don’t stay alone with Professor Quirrell while so very few people remain at the castle.”
Snape looks him in the eye in that unreadable way of his. “Am I clear?”

“Can you feel something odd when he’s around too?” Harry asks before he can think about it.

“Why, Potter, can you feel something odd?” Snape raises an eyebrow and waits.

Everybody tells Harry that Snape hates him and is after him, and that Harry shouldn’t trust
him at all. However, despite all that, Harry opens his mouth and the truth comes out, “Every
time he’s around, I get a headache.” It’s a relief really, to be able to tell it to a teacher.

“Hm,” Snape replies. “If anything seems out of the ordinary or bothers you, go straight to the
Headmaster.” Harry hesitates at that, but then says, “I’m not so sure I trust the Headmaster,
Professor.” Snape barks a laugh at that, and Harry is confident that he’s just travelled to a
different dimension.

“You’re less dim than I expected, Potter.” Harry isn’t sure if he’s supposed to take it as an
insult or as a complement. “You are right to be wary of Professor Dumbledore as he sees
people as chess pieces only. However, right now you are an extremely useful piece on his
board. He is unlikely to cause you harm.”

“You realise that this makes me want to ask tons of questions?”

“Do you realise that you are not addressing a Professor appropriately? Two point from
Gryffindor,” Snape walks around Harry and sweeps away without saying anything else, his
robes billowing behind him.

“Christmas is officially the weirdest time of the year,” Harry mutters to himself.

***

When Harry is finally at the common room, he spots Hermione with Lavender and Parvati.
All the girls are sitting around a small table, their heads nearly touching, and discussing
something animatedly. He gives Hermione a wave when she lifts her head up, and jogs up the
stairs.

When he is back down, all warm, dry and fresh, Hermione is lounging on the sofa by the fire
and examining her nails in a mostly empty common room. Everybody must be packing to go
back home, and Harry tries not to be bitter about it. He will have much more fun alone at
Hogwarts than he ever could with his so-called family.

“Nice nails,” he tells Hermione as he throws himself next to her. The nails are nice, colour
slowly changing from glittery red to gold and back again. “Very Christmassy.”
“Ha! I think the girls have taken me up as a challenge. Lavender is going to research hair
potions and charms as home in the hope of taming my curls.”

“Sounds a bit scary. Do I need to defend you from Lavender and her potions?” Hermione
laughs.

“I think I’m safe for now, but I’ll let you know if they get over enthusiastic.”

“Don’t let them change you too much though, alright?” Harry’s tone turns serious all of a
sudden. He knows how much Hermione wants to belong, and she’s never got on with girls
until just now. Thinking about it, they’ve never talked properly about the past or the bullying
that they’ve mentioned only in passing, and Harry has no idea what it was like for his friend
before.

Hermione opens her mouth like she wants to say something, then closes it again, then frowns
and falls silent.

“Did I say something wrong?”

“No. I’ve just remembered something… Last year, I convinced my mum to straighten my
hair. It took over an hour with a hair iron, but we did manage to make it look all sleek and
shiny for the first time in my life. I was elated. At school though, Mandy, one of the popular
girls, pointed at me and said that I looked like a drowned rodent.” Hermione was staring at
her nails pensively, and her face was mostly hidden by a curtain of her hair. Harry wasn’t sure
what to say to that. Mandy really sucks? Thanks for sharing a bit of your past with me? I like
your hair? All seem so stupid. A secret for a secret maybe?

“Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia yell at me and smack me sometimes for every little thing I
do wrong. They love Dudley though. I’ve never heard them shout at him. When I was really
small, I thought that maybe I needed to be more like my cousin. One time I watched Dudley
walk up to aunt Petunia to hug her and say “I love you, mum”, and aunt Petunia hugged him
back, and kissed him, and gave him a sweet. So, I did the same. I hugged her and said, “I love
you, mum”. She smacked me, and shouted that she wasn’t my mother, and locked me in my
cu… my room for the rest of the day.”

After Harry says this, they simply sit there for a bit, leaning on each other silently. They seem
to do that a lot. Sit quietly with their shoulders touching. Harry rests his head on the back of
the sofa and contemplates the ceiling, then changes the topic. “Will your parents be mad that
you failed flying?”

“I don’t think so. They are more likely to be mad about my teeth,” Harry has forgotten all
about it, it seems like ages ago.

“What are you going to tell them?”

“The truth,” Hermione rests her head back as well. “They need to understand that I’m a
witch, and that things can be done differently. There is no way I will suffer through braces
just to please them.”
“That’s pretty brave of you.”

“Maybe being in Gryffindor is rubbing off on me.”

They stay up way too late, but it’s not like there are lessons tomorrow. It’s as if they are
trying to spend as much time with each other as they can to compensate for the time apart.
Harry tells himself that it’s stupid, and that being attached to somebody like this isn’t right,
and that two weeks are nothing. He tells himself all this, but it doesn’t make any difference at
all.

***

21st December, 1991

Harry is watching the carriages make their way through the snow and towards the train
station in the pale winter light. It is only him now. Him and Dumbledore, McGonagall,
Quirrell and Filch. A few older students. And Malfoy. Brilliant. Just brilliant.
 Chapter 5

22nd December, 1991

The castle is eerily quiet, and only now Harry notices how much his steps echo when he
walks down the long corridors, or how vast the expanse of the snow covered grounds is, or
how painfully lonely it is to be without friends. It never used to be a problem before
Hogwarts, but it was mostly because he had no idea what friends were.

He plays with Mrs. Norris using a shoelace from his old trainers that are still in his trunk but
will no longer fit. He writes a letter to the Dursleys saying that he won’t be coming home for
Christmas and sends it off with Hedwig. He sees Malfoy at meals, and they look at each other
but never say anything. Harry wonders if he should antagonise him later just for the sake of
some entertainment.

Harry remembers that Hagrid should be here too - although he’s been missing from meals -
and goes to visit him in the evening. The door opens just as Harry is about to knock, and
Hagrid tells him that he is heading to the Three Broomsticks in Hogsmeade for a pint, but
that Harry could visit tomorrow in the afternoon.

Harry wonders if he could bury himself in the snow and hibernate until the rest of the
students come back.

Get a grip, Potter, it’s only been a day.

He trudges back to the castle, then through the deserted corridors and back to his empty
dorm. He falls asleep before it’s even nine.

***

24th December, 1991

Harry can’t take it anymore. At breakfast, he walks up to the Slytherin table and plops
himself down right next to Malfoy.

“Has the last of your brain leaked out through your scar, Potter?” Malfoy stares at him as if
Harry has lost all of his marbles, and maybe he has.

“Let’s go flying after breakfast.”

“And why on earth would I want to do that?” Malfoy is eyeing him now as if he’s a mouldy
piece of bread or something, but Harry is so bored out of his mind that he doesn’t even care.

“Because it’s sunny, and none of your friends are here… but if you’re scared that I’m a better
flyer than you, then never mind…” Harry gets up to leave, but Malfoy grabs him by the
sleeve of his stretched jumper. Gotcha, Harry thinks triumphantly, but tries to look bored.
“Fine!” Malfoy spits, then realises that he’s still clinging to Harry’s jumper and lets go with
disgust. “Don’t you have something more decent to wear?” Harry simply rolls his eyes and
doesn’t dignify this with an answer.

“Ten o’clock at the main entrance,” Harry throws back over his shoulder as he is walking
back to his table. Maybe he can drive Malfoy nuts by simply ignoring all of his nasty
remarks.

***

Malfoy is late, but Harry expected him to be anyway, so he leans on the wall and waits, his
Nimbus 2000 resting by his side. After fifteen minutes though, Harry reckons Malfoy won’t
show up at all, so he makes his way to the pitch by himself. Only there are footprints in the
snow, and when he arrives, Malfoy is already zooming up in the air.

“I thought I said the main entrance!” Harry yells into the sky.

“I never confirmed!” comes back to him. How can one slight eleven-year-old be so extremely
annoying? Harry mounts his broom and chases after Malfoy.

They fly for a bit, and then they get practice Quaffles and a snitch out, and Malfoy is
definitely better with a bat, but Harry is faster.

“It’s only because you are the one with Nimbus 2000, Potter!” Malfoy scowls at him after he
looses a race.

“Wanna swap? I bet I’ll still beat you.” It’s a bit of a risk, but Harry is pretty confident.

“This is why you are not in Slytherin,” Malfoy drawls as they swap the brooms. “No
Slytherin would ever give up something that gives them an edge.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Harry replies with a mischievous grin, “The hat wanted to sort me
into Slytherin. And maybe I just want to feel superior knowing that I’m faster than you even
on this old broom!” Harry speeds away at that, and Malfoy swears behind him and rushed to
catch up.

“You, cheat!” He yells when Harry wins the first round, but he wins the second one too.
Malfoy wins the third one though, and he makes up a whole song about it, and god, he is
annoying. However, Harry is smiling despite himself, and maybe his Christmas holidays
won’t be so grim after all.

“Anyway, why are you here and not home with your family?” Harry asks after Malfoy puts
the broom away.

“Father has some business to attend to. He’s been meeting with a lot of people recently, old
friends and such.”

“Sounds a bit fishy.”

“Sounds like it’s none of your business,” Malfoy stalks away, and Harry wonders whether old
friends mean the ones that Malfoy Senior made during the war. Could he be meeting with
Death Eaters?

***

Hedwig comes back with a note written by his uncle.

See if you can stay at that school of yours during summer too.

Merry Christmas.

From Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia

Harry flips the note to see a 50p coin taped to the other side.

He ignores any emotion that comes with it, and strokes Hedwig’s soft feathers instead.

“It’s generous of them, really,” he tells her. “I can buy some sweets, or even a loaf of bread if
they decide to starve me again.” He swallows past the lump in his throat and distracts himself
with Quidditch Through the Ages.

***

25th December, 1991

Harry doesn’t expect any presents, so when he wakes up and spots three packages at the foot
of his bed, he looks around first to make sure there is no other boy sleeping in the dorm to
whom the presents belong. But there is no one else, and the packages are definitely by
Harry’s bed, so he tentatively reaches for the lumpiest one, and opens the letter attached to it.

Merry Christmas, Harry!

I told mum that you didn’t expect to get any presents, and she didn’t like the sound of that at
all. I hope you don’t mind! Now you’re a honorary member of our Weasley Christmas Jumper
Club.

Eat the fudge straight away! It’s fantastic and best when fresh!

Ron

Harry unwraps the package to find a clearly handmade green jumper with a giant H at the
front, which he puts on straight away, and he pops a cube of fudge in his mouth just as
instructed, and Ron’s right, it is fantastic.

The next present he unwraps is a hand carved flute from Hagrid, and Harry plays a tune on it,
or at least tries to.

There is a lump in his throat again and his chest feels tight. These people that he only
recently met or hasn’t met at all took the time to make something for him while his own
family don’t even give a damn.

He sniffs and rubs at his eyes with a sleeve.

There’s one more package left. It’s lumpy but light, as if it’s full of feathers. When Harry
unwraps it, silky fabric spills over his lap with a note on the top.

Your father left this in my possession before he died.

It is time it was returned to you.

Use it well.

A Very Merry Christmas to you.

He drapes the cloak over his shoulders. It was my father’s. The fabric feels like liquid. My
father touched it. Harry sniffs the cloak but it doesn’t smell of anything at all, and then he
notices that his feet have disappeared, and his legs, and the rest of him. He rushes towards the
mirror, and all he can see is his eerily floating head.

“Wicked.”

He puts the hood on and disappears completely. Even though Harry is living in the world of
wizards and witches and magic, this is still unbelievable. He wishes Hermione was here to
share his excitement, or the boys, but maybe it’s better like this. The moment feels private.
After all, it’s the very first thing he’s ever touched that belonged to his parents. He wraps
himself in the cloak tightly and lies back on the bed. He closes his eyes and thinks about the
person who’s given him the cloak. Were they close to his parents? A friend maybe? And if it
was a friend, why didn’t they check on Harry? If he was happy, healthy, if the Dursleys were
treating him okay? Why has nobody from the wizarding world ever checked on him?

He jumps up and throws his cloak off his shoulders, leaving it in a silvery heap on the bed. If
he carries on thinking like that, he’ll cry, and he doesn’t want to cry. He is not a baby, and this
is Christmas.

He goes to breakfast and annoys Malfoy by sitting next to him, and asking him questions
about invisibility cloaks, and if they are rare, and when Malfoy mentions the Tale of Three
Brothers, Harry nags him to tell it until Malfoy starts looking extremely irritated.
“Why do you want to know anyway?”

“I will tell you if you tell me the tale.’

“Fine!” And Malfoy does tell it, albeit in a clipped tone of voice, and when he is finished, he
says, “Now your turn.”

“Huh?”

“Potter, stop being obtuse. Why are you asking about invisibility cloaks?”

“Ah… I said I’d tell you, but I didn’t specify when.”

Malfoy seems to be going through a whole range of emotions from incredulity to vexation to
amusement.

“The hat really wanted to place you in Slytherin, didn’t it?”

“Uh-huh,” Malfoy scowls at how pleased with himself Harry looked, but Harry thinks he
looks impressed too, at least a little bit.

He goes to Hagrid after breakfast, and they walk Fang together along the edge of the woods.
Harry makes snowballs and throws them for the dog, who catches them with his teeth and
barks joyfully for more.

He goes flying by himself later, and contentedly zooms above the forbidden forest.
Unfortunately, McGonagall is far from happy with him, and Harry gets scolded quite severely
for having gone so far. At least she doesn’t take points off, it being Christmas and all.

He wanders down corridors for the rest of the afternoon, killing time before Christmas dinner.
He finds a passageway behind a painting of a door, but it turns out to be just another shortcut
and doesn’t lead anywhere interesting at all. He passes Filch and wishes him a Merry
Christmas, and Filch even smiles and thanks Harry for being nice to his cat. He opens all the
unfamiliar doors out of curiosity until behind one of them he catches a snogging couple of
Hufflepuffs. Harry apologises and makes himself scarce, but his blush takes forever to go
away.

He doesn’t open any more doors after that.

Somehow he manages to avoid his dormitory all day and right until Christmas dinner. The
house tables are gone due to there being so very few of them, and the feast is laid out on a
large round table in the middle of the hall. Harry’s stomach growls at the sight of a roast
turkey with sage stuffing, a beef wellington so big it could probably feed a small country,
roast potatoes and carrots and gravy, and Brussels sprouts with chestnuts and bacon. Harry
sits next to Malfoy without even thinking about it and starts piling his plate up with the speed
of somebody who’s been starved. They do Christmas crackers and all sorts of hats spring out
of them. Harry ends up with a cowboy hat while Malfoy has got a red beret, which looks
surprisingly stylish on the blonde.
“Hey, Malfoy,” Harry elbows the Slytherin and unfolds his joke. “What do you get when you
cross a snowman with a vampire?”

“I don’t know, Potter. A cold shoulder?” Malfoy deadpans.

“Haha. Never mind,” a brilliant idea suddenly occurs to him. “Let’s go build a snowman!”

“Now? Why?”

“Yup, now,” Harry pops the P and starts dragging Malfoy by the sleeve. “Because I’ve never
built a snowman.”

“Only if you steal that bottle over there,” Malfoy nods at a mostly empty bottle of amber
liquid.

“The one next to Hagrid? Why?”

“Because I’ve never tried Firewhiskey,” and that makes Harry pretty amused. He looks
around the table. Dumbledore and Filch are exchanging anecdotes and look pretty merry,
Hagrid is whispering something to McGonagall, which makes the normally strict Professor
giggle and blush, Quirrell is thankfully missing and other students are chatting among
themselves. Nobody seems to be paying any attention whatsoever, so Harry flicks his wand
and shrinks the bottle until it is as small as a thimble. After that, he walks up to Hagrid, gives
him a hug, and thanks the giant man for being such a brilliant friend to him. Nobody but
Malfoy, who is watching, notices how Harry sneaks the bottle into his pocket before walking
away with a wave and a “See you later”.

Malfoy catches up to him in the doorway, “I didn’t think you’d actually do that.”

The sound that comes out of Harry is too close to a giggle, but he doesn’t care much. They
walk out into the night, and it’s not even that cold, and the sky is clear and full of stars. Harry
gets the bottle out, returns it to its rightful size, uncorks it, and bravely takes a swig before
starting to cough violently.

“Oh my god, Malfoy, it’s so disgusting! You must try it!” He shoves the bottle at Malfoy, and
soon the other boy is doubled up coughing as well.

“Merlin! Why do they drink it?”

“Maybe it’s an acquired taste? Give that back.”

They take two more swigs each, and while they don’t cough anymore, they agree that the
taste is vile. However, as they start on the snowman, Harry realises exactly why McGonagall
was giggling, and why Dumbledore looked so rosy-cheeked. Harry feels all warm on the
inside, with his head light, as if his brain is made of cotton candy or maybe marshmallows,
and life seems pretty good all of a sudden.

“Oh shit!” Comes a shriek from behind, and Harry spins around to find Malfoy draped over
the snowball he’s been rolling, which is impressively large. Harry erupts in laughter as
Malfoy waggles his legs in the air in an attempt to right himself.
“Not funny!” With these words, Harry gets a snowball right in his face.

It all turns into a brutal snowball fight after that, and by the end of it they are quite exhausted
and rather wet and are barely able to contain their glee.

Somehow they finish building their snowman too. It may not be the most beautiful one, but
it’s definitely snowman-shaped..

“You’re not so bad, Potter,” Malfoy says when they both sit cross-legged in the snow and
admire their work, although it’s too dark to see properly.

“You’re not so bad yourself, Malfoy.” And he really isn’t. Even if he’s a bit too posh and acts
like such a diva sometimes, he can be fun, too. “Do you really believe that pure bloods are
better than muggleborns?” Harry asks all of a sudden surprising even himself.

If Malfoy is surprised by the question too, he doesn’t show it as he carries on examining the
sky, and Harry looks up to do the same.

“I don’t know,” Malfoy says eventually. “That’s what my dad has always said. That we are
better, blood cleaner, magic stronger. But then I came here, and I look and your friend
Granger, for example, and I look at Crabb, whose magic is definitely not stronger, and it
doesn’t make any sense.”

“What about you mum? What does she believe?”

“She believes that… She tells me to do what my father says.” After some time, he adds, “I
don’t think she’s very happy.”

“You father sounds like the sort of man who thinks he’s always right.”

Malfoy gives a humourless laugh at that. “You have no idea.”

“I think that you should think for yourself,” Harry says.

“I think my father won’t approve.”

“It’s not like he can read your mind.”

“I guess not.”

They go inside after a while, and walk together until they reach the stairs descending into the
dungeons.

“Goodnight, Draco,” Harry says deliberately and offers his hand.

“Goodnight, Po…Harry,” Draco shakes it.

***
Harry doesn’t go to bed though. He puts his invisibility cloak on and heads to the forbidden
corridor. The fabric doesn’t make a sound and he can see clearly through the hood draped
over his whole head. He is definitely invisible though, because he passes McGonagall, and
she doesn’t even glance in his direction. Harry doesn’t reach the third-floor corridor though.
He gets distracted by a bluish light that is escaping through a crack under one of the doors.
He turns the handle, opens the door just enough to peak in, but there is nobody inside. The
room is mostly bare, apart from a stack of chairs and a couple of dusty desks by the wall. It’s
not what has caught his attention though. Leaning against the opposite wall and glowing
eerily is a mirror so tall it nearly reaches the ceiling. Harry squints at the inscription on the
top, and it looks like complete gibberish, then he reads is backwards on a whim, and
suddenly it all makes sense. I show not your face but your heart's desire.

Harry tentatively steps closer and what he sees breaks his heart and then mends it again, and
breaks it all anew. He has never sees his parents, but it’s definitely them. He recognises the
mop of black hair and the eyes that are exactly the same shade of green as his. And this is too
much. He can’t swallow past the lump in his throat this time, and he can’t dislodge the
tightness in his chest. He cries.

***

26th December, 1991

Harry doesn’t want to go to breakfast. He doesn’t want to see people. He wants to hide in his
room all day and sleep as much as possible. However, he knows that he will be missed with
how very few students there are, and McGonagall will probably come and check on him if he
doesn’t show up. So he gets up with a groan and goes to splash cold water on his puffy face,
and it helps him feel marginally better. Unfortunately it doesn’t seem to have made his face
any less puffy because the first thing that comes out from Draco’s mouth when he sees Harry
is “Hungover much?” Harry decides that it’s easier to pretend that he is than explain that he’s
spent half the night crying in front of a life sized image of his parents, so he just mutters
something unintelligible and goes to pile his plate with bacon and eggs.

“Come on, you look like you could use some fresh air,” Draco pulls him by the elbow when
they have both finished their breakfast, and Harry doesn’t resist much. When they step out,
they are faced with the last night’s creation. It’s snowman-shaped alright, although it seems to
have three eyes instead of two, a shrunk Firewhiskey bottle for a nose, Draco’s red beret for a
hat, and its mouth is missing altogether. One look at it, and Harry doubles up with laughter,
which feels really good. It feels like letting something go. Harry might not have the family
that his heart longs for, but he can surround himself with friends, and he can share special
moments with them, and laughter, and tears too. And one day he will have his own family
and a home.

One day.

He really wishes Hermione was here.

***
He doesn’t know exactly why he does it, but he shows Draco the mirror. Maybe finding out
what Draco’s heart’s desire is will help Harry understand whether he can trust him or not. Or
maybe it’s something else entirely.

The mirror is still there, in bright daylight, and it looks much less mysterious like this. Harry
resolutely stays away, but Draco approaches it cautiously, as if it’s a wild animal that might
bite. He looks in it and breathes out a sad little “Oh.” And Harry suddenly realised that it
might be something painful for Draco too, and that maybe he wants to be alone. But Harry
doesn’t go away. Selfishly, he wants to know.

“What do you see?” He asks softly, but it echoes as loud as a scream in this half-empty room.

“My dad. He is hugging me and telling me how proud he is of me. That… what did you see?”

And Harry thinks it’s fair enough. “My parents.” Malfoy repeats his little “Oh.”

“I think what I’m seeing is as unlikely to happen as your parents coming back to life,”
Draco’s voice turns hard, and his sneer is back, but somehow it all looks very fake.

“Come on,” Harry takes Draco by the elbow, and it seems to be their thing now. One
dragging the other in various directions. “Let’s not come back here again.”

***

28th December, 1991

“Mr. Potter,” Quirrell gets stuck on a P for what feels like forever before he finally gets
Harry’s name out. “I’ve just finished rereading one of the books in my collection, and I think
you might enjoy it. It’s in my office, so if you may follow me please-“

“Sorry, Professor, I’m in a bit of a rush right now! But it’ll be great if you bring it to lunch.
Thanks!” Harry walks away as quickly as he can without running. He wants to escape both
the man and the headache, which hit him like a hammer the moment the Professor
approached. A book? Really? Like a piece of candy for a clueless five-year-old.

Harry is not surprised when Quirrell doesn’t have the mentioned book with him at lunch, or
at dinner, or at any other time.

***

1st January, 1992

It’s midnight, and they all watch the sky explode with fireworks from the Astronomy Tower.
They are nothing like muggle fireworks at all. A million of shimmering snitches zoom
through the air; an enormous dragon sweeps over the forest; winged horses swerve around
the turrets and disappear the moment they touch the stone. Harry gapes with his mouth open
and hopes that magic will never cease to fill him with awe.

“Hey, Draco?” He says to the boy standing next to him.

“Hm?” Draco gives him a sideways glance.

“Can we still be friends after the term starts?”

“Only in secret.”

Harry reckons that in secret is better than not at all. “I’d like that,” he replies.

***

5th January, 1992

When Harry finally spots Hermione in the sea of all the returning students, his whole face
lights up, and so does hers when their eyes meet. Moments later, she is running towards him,
and he nearly falls with the impact when she launches herself at him. He takes a step back but
stays on his feet and squeezes her tightly. For the first time in the last two weeks he feels like
he is finally able to breathe properly, which is funny, because he hasn’t even realised that
something felt off until now.

“Tell me all about your break,” he says into her hair that’s tickling his face rather badly, but
he doesn’t let her go. He wants to hold her just a moment longer.
 Chapter 6
Chapter Notes

I want to thank everybody who has commented and left kudos on my story. Every word
and every little heart are so precious to me! I'm always full of self-doubt, plus English is
not my first language, so seeing that you are reading and enjoying this is a gift. And it
motivates me to carry on writing.
Anyway, this chapter is basically the reason I've called my fic As Simple As This
(because of Quirrell, you'll see), in case you've wondered.
I hope you enjoy:)

See the end of the chapter for more notes

5th January, 1992

“I can’t believe it works here!” Hermione exclaims while Harry is turning her new Walkman
in his hands, and she is untangling the earphones. “I figured I’d bring it and try, but I never
hoped…”

Hermione chatters about her mum and dad, and a collection of cassettes they bought for her.
Her excitement is contagious. Harry has never cared much for music, possibly because he’s
never been given a chance, and here Hermione is, putting one earphone in his ear and one in
hers, and music blossoms in his head. This moment feels like perfection. They’ve spend a
good few hours talking about their breaks, and everything that’s happened. Harry showed her
the cloak, and Hermione gasped and oohed, and they checked if they fit under it together.
They do, and easily so. Hermione told him about her family, and how they went skiing in
France, and how she kept on falling, and swore to never ski again in her life.

And now they are sitting in front of the fire, shoulder to shoulder, sharing earphones. It’s
strange how much at home Harry feels right now when only several ours ago he was uneasy
and a bit out of place.

“I really like this one,” Hermione says when a man is singing something about losing his
religion, and Harry can only say that he likes it too. He likes every single song because things
are back to how they are supposed to be. He and his best friend, together.

***

6th January, 1992

After Monday DADA lesson, Harry feels grouchy with his headache, and he complains to
Hermione about how the smell that comes off Quirrell seems to be getting stronger - garlic
and rot - and how incredulous he is that their Professors won’t do anything at all about it.
“What do you want them to do, Harry? Can you imagine Flitwick or McGonagall telling him
to go get a shower because he stinks? And remind him to wash behind his ears?” Harry snorts
at that.

“I guess not, but it gives me an idea…”

***

9th January, 1992

Hermione didn’t want to do it at first, because Quirrell is a Professor, even if there is indeed
something fishy about him, but after Harry’s incessant “Come on, Hermione” and “a
harmless prank” and “it will be a lark” and “please please please”, she relented and talked to
the first-year girls, and Harry got the boys on board, and he also told Draco to let the
Slytherins, with whom they share the class, know. It’s so simple, more of a muggle prank
really, but Harry thinks it’s brilliant, because Quirrell definitely needs a wash. So, they all
arrive to class early on Thursday, arrange themselves at their desks, and wait for the DADA
Professor mostly in silence, only an occasional giggle escapes here and there. When Quirrell
finally opens the door, a large bucket of water falls right on his head, and the whole room
guffaws. Quirrell throws the bucket to the floor, and for a moment the look in his eyes is
murderous, but it quickly turns to terrified. He runs out of the classroom, leaving only a
puddle of water behind, and everybody cheers and claps. Quirrell doesn’t come back for the
rest of the lesson.

“It’s odd, isn’t it?” Harry wonders out loud. “He’s a grown wizard. Surely, a quick drying
charm…”

“Maybe he’s got aquaphobia? That would explain why he stinks so much,” Hermione
suggests, and those who can hear her snicker.

The strangest thing is that nobody comes to admonish them, not McGonagall nor Snape,
which means that Quirrell didn’t report the incident to anybody, and that, Harry thinks, is
stranger still.

***

10th January, 1992

“Stay after class, Potter,” Snape snaps angrily, although Harry doesn’t think he’s done
anything wrong, and his potion looks as decent as Hermione’s. Ron throws him a sympathetic
look, Neville whispers “I hope he doesn’t kill you” as he passes Harry on his way out, and
Draco makes some half-hearted mean joke that makes Slytherins snigger dutifully, but Harry
doesn’t even register it.

When the last student leaves, Snape waves his wand at the door, and it slams shut with a
bang. Harry jumps and curses under his breath.

“Mr. Potter,” the Professor starts, than sighs and beckons Harry closer. “Come, take a seat. I
am not going to poison you contrary to what everybody else thinks.”
Harry cautiously does as told, and Snape lowers himself into his chair, which, Harry notices,
looks much more comfortable.

“You said Professor Quirrell’s presence makes your head hurt. Where exactly is the pain
located?” This is not what Harry expected, but, then again, it is not the first time he finds
Snape’s behaviour confusing.

“Right under here,” he points at his forehead where a pale zigzag of his scar marks his face.

“You are telling me that a scar left by the Dark Lord's killing curse hurts every time you cross
paths with Professor Quirrell, and you chose to keep this information to yourself?”

“Voldermort is de-“

“Do not say his name!” Snape hisses as his eyes flash with anger.

“You Know Who is dead,” Harry repeats and forces his voice not to shake. “I’ve read books.
All the sources state that -“

“What if he is not?” Snape interrupts him again. “There are whispers…”

“But if the killing curse hit him, how can he be alive?”

“Aren’t you alive, Mr. Potter?” Harry just blinks at that, but Snape isn’t finished anyway.
“Nobody knows exactly what happened that night, you being the only witness and too young
at the time to remember.” Harry feels too young to deal with this now, too. He is supposed to
be worrying about homework, and messing about with his friends, and he’s just only
discovered Nirvana. He forces himself to focus.

“I don’t understand, sir. Even if he is alive somehow, why Quirrell? I thought that maybe
Quirrell practices dark magic, and my scar, being a dark curse scar, reacts to that. Because,
look at him, he’s a joke, it just doesn’t make any sense…” Harry realises that he’s blabbering
now, and he makes himself stop. He’s not prepared to see compassion in Snape’s eyes, even if
the look is gone within a second and replaced by an unreadable mask.

“I shall talk to the Headmaster about the situation. Go now. I believe your friend is pacing by
the door.”

Hermione is indeed there, wearing a trench in the floor. Harry doesn’t know what his
expression looks like, but it must be bad, because the first thing Hermione asks is a worried
“What’s wrong?”

“Let’s grab some sandwiches and eat outside? I’ll tell you there.” Harry is not that hungry,
but it’s lunchtime, so they go to the Great Hall, wrap some food in napkins, and make their
way towards a bench by the lake, where Harry tells her about his conversation with Snape,
which makes Hermione frown a lot, but then she holds his hand in hers and says, “Professor
Snape promised that he would talk to Dumbledore. So, you don’t need to worry. He is the
greatest wizard of our time. He wouldn’t have hired Quirrell if he thought that he was
somehow connected to You Know Who.” And it’s all very reasonable, Harry thinks, but it
doesn’t make him feel even a tiny bit better.

***

17th January, 1992

“Somebody’s drinkin’ their blood. A monstrous thing ter do. I found another one just this
morning. Just a baby. Dead.” Harry and Hermione are sitting at Hagrid’s table while the tea in
three enormous mugs is getting cold. Harry knows that Hagrid has been anxious about
unicorns for a few months now, but this is the first time he is sharing the details, and
everything he says makes Harry’s blood run cold.

“But who would be doing such a thing, Hagrid?” Hermione looks pale and worried.

“Is it some sort of beast?” Harry adds.

“Nay, no beast, not even the most vicious one would commit such an act… it’s a human. I
saw bootprints.”

Hermione produced something between a gasp and a squeak, and Harry feels his magic churn
under his skin. He has an extremely bad feeling about all of this.

***

Harry can’t sleep, and he is fed up of trying to calm his mind. He throws the covers off,
wraps himself in his invisibility cloak, and slips out through the portrait hole in his socked
feet. He strolls the corridors for a while with no real purpose until he hears voices, one of
which sounds furious and impatient and the other one measured and calm. He follows the
sound until he can see Snape and Dumbledore in the light of a gentle Lumos by the entrance
to the Headmaster’s office.

“What are you waiting for, Albus?” Snape growls through his teeth.

“I am waiting for you to stop interfering so that I could finally go to bed,” comes
Dumbledore’s steady reply, and Snape makes an irritated noise in the back of his throat.
Harry doesn’t blame him.

“It will be on your conscience if somebody dies. The boy -“

“The boy will be fine. We have been through this before, have we not? Go to bed, Severus.
Take one of your marvellous calming draughts if you must. This is not about you.” At that,
Snape throws his hands in the air, spits “Manipulative fool” over his shoulder and marches
away, while Dumbledore turns to the gargoyle, gives the password - Ginger Newt - and
disappears up the staircase.

Harry feels frozen in place. What are you waiting for? And if somebody dies and
Manipulative fool play on repeat in his head.

***
29th January, 1992

Snow gives way to ice-cold rain, and students avoid the grounds at all cost, which works for
Harry and Draco. They haven’t really spoken since Christmas break, so they cast Impervius
on their cloaks, and Harry takes Hermione’s blue flame in a jar for warmth, and they bravely
venture outside.

“You’ve started something previously unimaginable with that prank of yours,” Draco tells
him conspiratorially. “I’ve seen Daphne Greengrass chat to Parvati Patil as if they are best
friends, and Blaise Zabini said, quote, ‘Gryffindors are fun, we should have a party together.’
A party! Together!” Harry chuckles at how scandalised Draco sounds, and then asks, already
knowing the answer, “Does it mean that we can bring our friendship into the open too?”

“If only things were that simple.”

Harry really doesn’t get it why things can’t be simple. They are all just kids at school, aren’t
they? If Daphne and Parvati can be friends, why can’t Draco and Harry?

“I had a somewhat strange letter from my father,” Draco says seemingly out of nowhere. “On
the one hand, it was all his usual pureblood dogma, on the other, he seemed excited. He is
confident that a change is coming, and muggleborns will shortly be put in their rightful
place.”

“Your father sounds like Hitler.”

“Who?”

“A muggle dictator. He - wait. Look. There!” Harry points at a hooded figure walking
brusquely towards the woods. “Who’s that?”

“Somebody crazy. Who’d go into the Forbidden Forest when it’s nearly nighttime?”

Harry tells Draco about the unicorns and the bootprints then, and Draco becomes
appropriately horrified.

“Are you implying that the person whom we’ve just seen is heading to the Forest to drink
unicorn blood?”

“Let’s follow him!” Harry suggests impulsively, and he so would if he were by himself and
had his invisibility cloak with. But Draco hits Harry on the head and tells him off for being
suicidal, and threatens that he personally will stun him and deliver him right to his Head of
House if Harry makes even one step towards the trees. It’s good that Draco is with him,
really. Otherwise Harry would have totally done something irrevocably stupid.

***

30th January, 1992

Harry watched a documentary on parasites once. Larva making home in a persons body,
worms that messed with your digestion and sucked the life out of you… That’s what Quirrell
looks like to Harry. Like one of the people in that documentary. Thin, feverish and with a
desperate glint in his eyes. The dream that he had last night doesn’t help. In it, he saw
Quirrell slowly unwrap his turban, revealing black rotting flesh, and then a huge mouth with
sharp yellow teeth on the back of his head, which opened wide and vomited unicorn blood all
over Harry.

“Maybe we should go to Dumbledore if it bothers you so much,” Hermione suggests, and

Harry can’t make her understand. In her world, adults can be trusted to look after you and
help you when you are in need. In Harry’s world, the only person he can rely on is himself.

The fact that the Headmaster isn’t acting means that he doesn’t want to.

Harry is done feeling anxious and losing sleep over somebody as insignificant as Quirrell. He
is done feeling scared. He is not scared. He is Harry Potter, and Harry Potter hasn’t been
scared a single day in his life.

***

“Wait, Fred! I’ve nearly forgotten! Accio map!” Harry watches as a bit of old parchment
whooshes out of the third-year boys dormitory and into George’s outstretched hand, and
Harry’s eyes light up with an idea.

“A handy spell!” he observes with a grin. “Can you teach me?”

“It’s a fourth-year one,” George says.

“A bit tricky to master for an ickle firstie,” Fred adds.

“Too much effort, you see,” Harry is starting to get annoyed, when Fred carries on.

“But we might make an effort if you tell us what exactly you need it for.”

“If the reason is good enough…”

“We’ll teach you!” They finish together.

Harry beckons them with a finger, and outlines his plan in a whisper, and the twins say,
“Ooooh” and “Naughty” and they teach him.

***

7th February, 1992

After the twins explained the basics, it took Harry a good week of practicing in secret before
he felt confident he could summon anything from a reasonable distance. He’s done is though,
and now he is standing in the middle of the common room, a mischievous smile on his face,
patiently waiting for Hermione to step through the portrait hole. The moment that she does,
Harry enunciates “Accio, Hermione!”, and she comes flying towards him with a shriek. She
crashes right into him, her arms outstretched, eyes huge and her mouth a panicked O, and
they fall in a heap on the floor. Harry is laughing with his arms over his face, trying to protect
himself from Hermione.

“You - are - the most - pesky - person - in this - castle!” Her each word is emphasised by a
punch or a poke in his ribs but, thankfully, Harry’s glee is contagious, and it doesn’t take long
until Hermione’s whole body starts shaking with laughter too.

***

“It’s a very bad idea,” she tells him after they have sorted themselves out and found a couple
of unoccupied armchairs to sit in.

“Not if everything goes to plan,” Harry says defensively.

“If it doesn’t, you’ll be in detention for the rest of the year,” she cautions, as if he doesn’t
already know.

“And it will be worth it,” he argues. “You remember the nightmare I told you about? I just
need to know that there is nothing under that thing.”

Hermione chews on her lip, and looks like she disapproves, but then says, “Fine. But you
have to teach me the spell, and quickly.”

“What for?”

“In case something doesn’t go to plan and you need some help,” she says seriously.

“You are the best, you know that?” Harry grins. Hermione’s answering smile is small, but it’s
there. Harry knows that she still doesn’t approve of his idea, but she is going to support him
anyway.

It only takes one evening and a bit for Hermione to get the spell right. Blood superiority,
Harry thinks, such nonsense.

***

10th February, 1992

“There he is! Come on!” Fred elbows George, and George elbows Harry in turn.

“Let’s do it!” The twins say together.

“Do what?” Somebody asks, but Harry isn’t looking. His eyes are on Quirrell, who’s just
entered the Great Hall

Harry’s palms are sweaty and he’s overwhelmed with dread. It’s nothing, he tells himself.
Another innocent prank. Before he can change his mind, a small firework explodes in the
corner closest to the Slytherin table, and Quirrell, who’s on the way to the staff table now,
jumps with a gasp. It’s perfect, his back is to the Gryffindor table. Harry grips his wand
firmly, focuses, and says quietly but determinedly, “Accio, Quirrell’s turban”. For some
 reason, Harry expects it not to work, but it does. The turban comes whooshing into Harry’s
hands, but he doesn’t even see it, or feel it bump into his hand and drop to the floor. There is
a misshapen face on the back of Quirrell’s head, and its mouth is open in a high-pitched
shriek. The eyes are red, like blood, and full of fury, and are directed straight at Harry. It
hurts. It hurts so much Harry wants to curl into a ball and whimper, but he feels frozen in
place, as if he is in one of his nightmares and he cannot move.

Quirrell starts running, but it’s backwards, with the face facing Harry, Quirrell’s arms
outstretched towards him in a grotesque way. The action snaps Harry out of his shock, and he
shoots a stunner, but his vision is swimming with agony and he misses. He misses, and
Quirrell wraps his bony hands around Harry’s throat and squeezes, and Harry can’t breath, he
can’t… only then Quirrell and the face both scream in torment, and the hands let go of him,
and Harry watches in terror how first the hands, then arms, then the rest of Quirrell’s body
trembles, and blackens, and turns to dust like no live thing should. It’s not over though,
because from the ashes rises… a ghost? A spirit? With that horrible face. It flies at Harry, it
flies right at his face, and the pain is so excruciating that Harry, for the very first time in his
life, wishes for death. And then, finally, everything goes black and there is no pain. There is
nothing at all.

Chapter End Notes

I know you technically can't summon people, but I felt like breaking the rules.
I've also created a little playlist for Hermione's Walkman just for fun. You can find it
here - https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4jRjYE25Kb9ewCpwd5Sqfu?
si=iLP09pVjSNOeNymosvAqxg
 Chapter 7
Chapter Notes

This chapter has got a direct quote from the book (the one about truth), I'm not trying to
steal anything. Also, the minions wanted ad is adapted from something I saw on the
internet.
This one is a bit longer than my normal. I hope you enjoy! And have a great weekend:)

See the end of the chapter for more notes

15th February, 1992

Harry tries to wake up, he really does, but his eyelids are too heavy, and his mind too foggy.
At times, he feels a hand squeeze his and he hears gentle words he can’t comprehend. At
times, something cold will touch his forehead, and his sheets will get fixed. He listens to
harsh voices argue in the distance one time, but the meaning escapes him once again.

When he finally manages to blink his eyes open, it’s to bright daylight, white walls of the
hospital wing, and a blurry figure at his bedside, which turns into Dumbledore when Harry’s
glasses are put back on.

“Welcome back, Harry. I must say, we were beginning to get quite worried about you,”
Dumbledore smiles benevolently at him, while Harry’s mind reels with the memory of the
latest events, and his head gets flooded with questions.

“How long have I been asleep?” He starts with the easiest one.

“A bit over four days. You have got some very good friends, especially Miss Granger,”
Dumbledore gestures at the bedside table, and for the first time Harry notices that it’s piled
with sweets. “She has spent every free moment by your bedside. Even Poppy couldn’t chase
her away.”

Harry studies the Headmaster, the way his eyes crinkle, his reassuring and gentle smile, the
wrinkles his kind face is marked by, and he can’t match this benign old wizard with the harsh
man he saw talking to Professor Snape that sleepless night.

“Sir… there are some things I would like to know the truth about…”

“The truth.” Dumbledore sighs. “It is a beautiful and terrible thing, and should therefore be
treated with great caution. However, I shall answer your questions unless I have a very good
reason not to.” Harry thinks what a lot of bull it is, but replies politely anyway.

“I’d appreciate it, Sir.”

“Fire away.” Dumbledore is studying the ceiling as if he has no care in the world, and Harry
wonders if the Headmaster has got some undiagnosed mental health disorder.

“Umm… That thing in Quirrell’s head, it was Voldemort, wasn’t it?”

“I am afraid so. He seems to be neither dead nor alive, and I suspect he will try to target you
again, as certainly as he will do everything that is possible to regain his power.”

“But why me?”

“Ah, I don’t think you are ready for this truth yet.” Harry translates it into it serves me for you
to know that you are a target but not why, which really ticks Harry off.

“I’m ready to be targeted by a dark wizard but I am not ready to know why?” Harry
challenges and looks straight into Dumbledore’s eyes, which momentarily grow cold, and
Harry feels an odd sort of pressure agains his scull, as if some unseen force wants to get in.
He looks away, and the pressure is gone as if it was never there.

“I understand why you might find this upsetting. Alas, this truth will do more harm than good
right now, therefore I cannot tell you.” Or you won’t, but Harry doesn’t push it. He shrugs his
shoulders instead and pretends not to care too much. He picks up a random get well card
from the bedside table and starts examining it to have an excuse not to look at Dumbledore
anymore, just in case.

“Quirrell turned into ash when he touched me. Why?”

“Nothing so evil can touch somebody as pure and protected by love as you, and walk away
from it unharmed.” Dumbledore explains about Harry’s mother, and how her love for Harry
saved him when he was a baby, and how it saved him again just a few days ago. Harry,
however, finds it hard to believe. His mum can’t have been the only person to stand in front
of the killing curse to protect a loved one, yet Harry was the only one to survive? Ha bloody
ha.

“Do you know who gave me my invisibility cloak?” Harry asks urged by an unexpected wave
of intuition and Dumbledore chuckles merrily.

“Oh yes! Your father left it in my possession, and I thought it was time you had it. It’s been in
your family for generations.”

“Were you friends?”

“Yes, you could say that.”

Harry forgets his decision not to look at Dumbledore, and spits all the questions out that have
been bothering him.

“Why didn’t you visit me then? Who chose to leave me with the Dursleys? Why no one ever
checked up on me? Why nobody explained anything to me about magic?” Dumbledore looks
taken aback for a split second, and then the strange pressure against his skull is back. An
image of his cupboard flashes in front of Harry’s eyes, and then him getting scraps of food
out of the bin at night. He quickly looks away, his heart pounding. What the hell?

“They are your only living relatives, Harry. I did what I thought was best for you, and I do
not regret it. You are a brave and kind young man. Imagine what you would be like if you
grew up spoiled by your fame.” His spoiled cousin Dudley comes to mind, and no, Harry
wouldn’t want to be like that, but he doesn’t believe that being abused or being spoiled were
his two only options.

He realises that he doesn’t want to ask any more questions. What’s the point if the answers
you are getting are misleading and might not even be true?

After Dumbledore leaves, he goes to the bathroom meaning to only use the loo, but ends up
standing in the shower under the spray of hot water for so long that Madam Pomfrey knocks
on the door to check if he is alright. He quickly dries himself, gets his pyjamas on, and, with
his hand already on the door handle, takes a look in the mirror. It stops him dead in his tracks.
His hair is sleeked back with water, and his scar is not a pale line he is so used to seeing. It’s
a shock of inflated red on his otherwise unblemished pale face, and when Harry focuses on it,
he can feel the scar pulse with each beat of his heart. An involuntary shudder wracks his body
as he traces the lightning bolt with a finger. It looks like it should hurt, yet it doesn’t. Harry
tries to calm himself. It is simply because of his exposure to Voldemort, the curse reacting to
the person who cast it or something. He remembers Voldemort’s spirit flying right at him, and
the pain. What if he is inside him right now? What if…

The door opens, and Harry looks up at Madam Pomfrey, her expression somewhere between
stern and worried. Why is he crouching on the floor? He slowly gets up with the nurse’s help.

“I just got a bit dizzy,” he says.

She aides Harry back to bed, all the while muttering about impatient Headmasters and no
more visitors until tomorrow. True to her word, she shoos Hermione away despite Harry’s
pleading, and all the first-year boys and the twins get the same treatment, and some other kids
who are not even Harry’s friends and just want to gawk.

“Madam Pomfrey,” he asks when she brings him a bowl of thin soup for tea and a nutrient
potion. “You-Know-Who… his spirit flying at me is the last thing I remember… where did it
go after?”

“I haven’t been present at the time, but people say they saw it fly out of the hall. I’m certain
it’s found its way out of the castle by now, no need to worry.” Her face turns gentle, and, to
Harry’s surprise, she ruffles his hair, and he allows himself to be comforted. He even falls
asleep after eating. Only his dreams are weird. They are just flashes of things, nothing special
really. A dead rabbit. A box of marbles. Old floorboards creaking under his boots. A pale arm
with a Dark Mark on it. Green light. A golden cup. When he wakes up, he thinks that the
boots looked nothing like his, and the feet were too big, adult feet. But dreams are like that
sometimes. They don’t make any sense at all. When Harry wakes up again, it’s to the the
darkness of the room and a rustle by the side of his bed.
“Shh, it’s me,” Hermione’s voice comes out of nowhere and makes Harry jump a little. The
rustle is back, and suddenly he can see an outline of his friend. “I hope you don’t mind I
borrowed your cloak,” she whispers. “Madam Pomfrey wouldn’t let me in, and I had to see
you.”

“Of course I don’t mind,” he replies in a low voice as he scooches to the edge of his bed
making room for Hermione. She sits next to him on top of the covers, and Harry feels
extremely grateful for her presence and the comfort that it brings. And the fact that he can ask
the question that has been bugging him.

“What exactly happened after I passed out?”

“Nothing much… after Voldemort’s spirit passed through you-“

“Hold on. Passed through me?”

“Sort of,” Hermione sounds a bit uncomfortable at that, and Harry wishes it was light so that
he could see her face. “It flew right at you, you remember?”

“I don’t think something like this will be easy to forget.”

“Right. So, it went right through your head, like a ghost. Only it - it entered through your
scar, as if it got sucked in by it, and then exited through the back of your head.”

“Are you sure it came out? Like, all of it.”

“It looked like it. Everything happened so fast, but I’m pretty sure it looked the same as when
it… entered. And then it flew out through the entrance to the Great Hall. You know what’s
strange though?”

“Like any of this wasn’t strange enough?”

“Oh, shut up,” although he can’t really see, he is sure Hermione has just rolled her eyes.
“Dumbledore didn’t even move. He was still sitting at the teacher’s table when Snape ran
towards you, sent his Patronus to Madam Pomfrey and levitated you away.”

“What’s a Patronus?”

“A messenger of sorts, and a protector… I’ll give you a book,” she says dismissively before
carrying on. “I was so worried, Harry. Pomfrey was saying how you should’ve woken up
much sooner because there didn’t seem to be anything wrong with you. But you just carried
on sleeping.”

“You stroked my hair.”

“You remember?”

“Mmm. I remember you holding my hand too. It was nice. But I felt so heavy, couldn’t wake
up.”
“I’m so relieved you did, you can’t even imagine… if I’d lost you…”

“Shh. I’m fine.” They hug at that, and Harry isn’t sure who initiated it first, but it doesn’t
matter anyway. Their hug isn’t awkward like the first few were. It feels like the most natural
thing in the world, and even when they let go, Harry’s arm stays around Hermione’s
shoulders, and she snuggles into his side.

“I’m scared,” she confesses. “He will be back. What if he tries to hurt you again?”

“Then I’ll make him go away again,” Harry reassures her with all the confidence that he
doesn’t have, and then confesses something that has been on his mind. “I killed him. I killed
Quirrell.”

“Harry…”

“I did. He turned into nothing just from touching me. What if I’m dangerous? Dumbledore
said it was my mum’s protection, but everything he said sounded so full of shit.”

“Harry!”

“Sorry, sorry… It did though.”

“It wasn’t your intention though, was it? You didn’t mean for him to die.”

“No. But he died either way.” Harry isn’t sure what he is feeling about it. He doesn’t regret
anything. There is nothing he would have done differently, but…

“Why do I feel like I’ve done something unforgivable?”

“Because you, Harry Potter, are a good person,” Hermione says gently and puts her hand on
his chest. “You’ve got a kind heart.” More than anything else, Harry wants to believe her.
Maybe it’s enough that Hermione does.

“I have to go back,” she says eventually, but she sounds reluctant, and Harry is reluctant to let
her go.

“Stay a little bit longer,” he murmurs, and she does. He must have dosed off though, because
when he shifts to make himself more comfortable, Hermione is no longer there.

***

16th February, 1992

“Ouch!” he is woken by a painful pinch to his hand, and opens his eyes to see an annoyingly
happy Draco Malfoy. “What did you do that for?”

“I tried calling your name and shaking your shoulder, but you sleep like the dead, Potter,” he
says mockingly.

“Piss off,” Harry replies, too groggy to come up with a better come back.
“How is out Sleeping Beauty doing?”

“Very sleepy but still breathtakingly beautiful,” Harry flutters his eyelashes at him, but it gets
ruined by a huge yawn.

“Charming,” Draco deadpans.

“Is it me, or is it really early?”

“About five,” Draco shrugs.

“Five?!”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I’ll just come back during the day when you are surrounded by Weasleys.”

They banter for a bit, and there is a surprising easiness to it. This is why he likes Draco,
Harry decides. With him, he feels just like any other a kid, at least most of the time.

“I came to warn you about something,” Draco says seriously all of a sudden. “Some kids
have started a rumour that You-Know-Who lives inside your head now, and that you are the
next Dark Lord.” Harry would’ve scoffed if he himself didn’t fear the exact same thing. “I’m
probably going to use it and be mean to you.”

“Jeez, thanks,” Harry makes a face.

“My pleasure.”

“I might have to retaliate.”

“I’ll be disappointed if you don’t.”

***

Hermione brings him homework and her notes later, and they spend most of Sunday sitting
cross-legged on Harry’s hospital bed, catching up. Well, Harry is catching up and Hermione
is leafing through a monstrosity of a tome that she calls light reading. Madam Pomfrey still
doesn’t let anybody else in, but only because Harry asked her not to. He doesn’t feel ready to
answer a deluge of questions from his schoolmates that are sure to come, and if hiding
doesn’t make him a very good Gryffindor, so be it. He is in a happy bubble of herbal smells,
white sheets, and Hermione’s hair tickling his cheek when she leans in to explain something.

“You seem fit enough to be discharged, Mr. Potter,” Madam Pomfrey bursts the bubble just
before dinner. It’s not that Harry likes being contained at the hospital wing. It’s just that
everything that has happened will become real if he steps out of the room. Ignoring his
feelings, Harry dutifully goes to the bathroom to change into his Hogwarts uniform, stuffs the
remaining sweets into his pockets, slings Hermione’s book bag, which seems to weigh a ton,
over his shoulder, and thanks the nurse on his way out.

“No more adventures any time soon, Mr. Potter. I don’t want to see you here at least until
next year.”
“I can’t make any promises,” he grins at her, but something twists his stomach
uncomfortably.

He takes Hermione’s hand in his and holds it for comfort. The corridors are empty enough,
but they still run into a bunch of students. Some nod at him, some smile and say “Hello,
Harry!” cheerfully, some stare and then whisper to each other. It’s very much like his first
day at Hogwarts, and that he can do. It’s nothing new. Harry Potter, vanquisher of wizards
dark and evil since 1981. He lets go of Hermione’s hand just before they step into the Great
Hall, and when the large chamber erupts in cheers and claps and whoops, he is ready for it.
He smiles broadly, and he bows, and tries to look as normal as possible, and not like
somebody who may have a dark wizard living inside his head.

Fred and George high-five him. Ron gives him a quick hug with a pat on his back. Arms
reach to touch him, clap him on the shoulder, prod him to get his attention; questions spill out
of their mouths, and there is so much noise Harry can’t make a single word out apart from his
own name repeated again and again.

“Let a bloke eat first,” he lifts his arms up in an attempt to placate everybody. “Then we can
go to the common room, and you can interrogate me.” It seems good enough, and his
housemates return to their meals. Harry takes this opportunity to glance at the head table.
Hagrid holds his thumbs up at him, Dumbledore raises his goblet in cheers, and Snape gives
him a stiff nod. Harry smiles at them all.

He smiles so much this evening that his cheeks hurt, and he is worried that this expression
will be etched into his face forever. But finally, finally, when it’s past curfew, after all the
cheers and shouts, whispers and questions, the common room is almost back to normal, albeit
busier than it normally is around this time, and all he gets is an occasional glance.

“Phew,” he exhales when it’s just him and Hermione on a couple of chairs in the corner.

“Indeed,” Hermione agrees. “Music?”

“Yeah.” For the first time tonight, Harry’s smile is effortless and genuine. They move the
chairs closer, and share earphones like they normally do in the evenings, and Harry’s stomach
untwists.

***

17th February, 1992

“We really should’ve gone to bed earlier,” Hermione’s last word is stretched into something
barely recognisable by a huge yawn.

Harry yawns his agreement at they step into the Great Hall. “Snow again?” Harry is gazing at
the ceiling, which is also the sky, as they walk to the table. Small white dots seem to be
floating down, then grow bigger and bigger as they get closer to the floor. “Paper?” He
snatches one of the sheets from the air and stares.
MINIONS WANTED

Dark Lord Scarface seeks faithful servants to sacrifice their lives in world domination
attempt. Must be prepared to work 24-7 for no pay. Messy death inevitable, but round glasses
and temporary lightning bolt tattoos provided. No weirdos please.

Under the text, there is a drawing of the promised items, and Harry, not able to help himself,
laughs out loud.

“Hey, Malfoy, do you want to apply?” He shouts over the hall. Draco flips him off and there’s
a nasty grin on his face, but there’s also a mischievous sparkle in his eyes, and for a moment
Harry wonders what it would have been like if he’d allowed the hat to sort him into Slytherin.

When he turns back to his table, the twins are drawing lightning bolts on each other’s
foreheads, and they are both sporting round frames apparently transfigured out of cutlery,
judging by the silvery glint.

“We’re in,” they say together and bow as low as the table they’re sitting at will allow.

“What about you, Hermione, are you in?” Harry nudges her playfully with his elbow.

“Me? A servant?” She exclaims, scandalised.

“You are right… an accomplice? My right hand? Advisor? No… My Mistress of Evil!”

They all laugh, and Harry wonders if Draco - because who else would have done it -
purposefully tried to make the whole situation lighter by this silly prank. However, whatever
Draco’s reasoning was, Harry did promise to retaliate, didn’t he?

***

“Have you forgotten something, Mister Potter?” Snape asks in that even tone of his as he is
sorting through the potion samples when Harry stays behind after class.

“No, Sir. I’ve just got a question.”

“Then you should have asked it during class.”

“It’s not about Potions, Professor.” Snape looks up at that.

“Then what makes you think that I possess the necessary knowledge to answer it, pray tell?”

“As far as I understand, you’ve known Professor Dumbledore for quite some time…” Harry
gets a raised eyebrow in reply. “Do you know if he can,” Harry closes his eyes to try and
avoid the humiliation, because it sound utterly ridiculous. “Read minds,” he soldiers on.

“What gives you the impression that he can?” Snape doesn’t seem angry or think that Harry
has lost his mind, which gives him confidence.
“The Headmaster was there when I woke up. We talked for a bit, and I felt a strange pressure
against my head when I looked in his eyes, and, one time, images flashed in my mind.”

Snape is looking at him shrewdly, and Harry knows that he is right.

“What kind of images?”

“Some things about… my home life.”

“Your home life, hm? The Headmaster has got many talents,” Snape pauses and taps his
index finger agains his thin lips. “I assume you will be interested in the art of protecting one’s
mind, Mr. Potter, known as Occlumency. You may borrow a book.” Harry is eagerly nodding
his head, but Snape is not finished. “However, if you damage it in any way - a dog-eared
page or a tea stain - I will violate your mind until you cannot remember who you are.
Understood?” Harry swallows audibly.

“Yes, Sir.”

“Wait here and do not touch anything.” Snape doesn’t leave through the classroom door as
Harry expects. A painting of a bubbling cauldron slides to the side at his touch. Harry cranes
his neck to see what’s inside but is only met with darkness, and Snape reappears too soon
anyway, an intimidatingly thick tome in his hands.

“Curiosity kills, Mister Potter, did you know?”

“I’m sure it’s saved a live or too,” Harry responds, and Snape huffs a laugh before composing
his features into his regular neutral expression.

Snape baffles Harry. All the people seemed easy in the muggle world. The Dursleys hate him,
and they are not afraid to show it. His primary school teachers were either kind to everybody,
or stern, or whatever. But they didn’t pretend to hate him when they actually didn’t, like
Draco did, and possibly Snape, too.

Professor Snape hands him the book, and Harry nearly drops it because it is even heavier
than it looks. The Potions Master rolls his eyes, a look that strangely resembles Hermione.

“A detention I think.”

“What?”

“Each Thursday after dinner for having wasted my time.”

“Huh?”

“Starting March and until the end of this school year. Read chapters 1-3. Dismissed.”

No, Harry can’t imagine any muggle teacher being as confusing as Snape.

***
21 February, 1992

“It was my idea! You can’t just steal it!” Harry is outraged. He wants to sneak into Slytherin
common room and wreak havoc.

“We are not stealing it.”

“We are executing it.”

“As your faithful minions.”

Harry supposes he should be grateful that the twins at least have stopped wearing round
frames and that the ink has come off their foreheads.

“Then, as your leader, I need to be there to ensure the execution is up to my standards,” he

insists.

“Harry-“

“Our dear friend-”

“Our jumper brother-”

“The team needs you tomorrow.”

“If we get caught, I bet they will not let us play.”

“The team can still win without two beaters.”

“But it can’t win without a seeker.”

Harry relents at that, and even lets them borrow his cloak, but he is still sulking a bit when
the twins disappear during dinner.

“This is the right thing to do,” Hermione tries to reassure him, but Harry only feels annoyed.
"You’ve got detentions with Snape already, you don’t want to get into any more trouble.”

“They are not real detentions anyway,” Harry isn’t completely sure about that, but he is sure
enough. And he knows he sounds a bit snappish, but he can’t help himself. His mood has
been all over the place recently.

“Let’s go study at the library tonight. We’d better be as visible as possible, in case somebody
decides to blame it on you.” Harry thinks that studying is the lamest possible way to spend
their Friday evening, but he also knows that it’s a sensible thing to do. Besides, he’s behind
with his written work, and Hermione likes being surrounded by books.

Unsurprisingly, the library is deserted. Only Madam Pince is quietly sitting at her desk with a
cup of tea and her nose in a book. It’s no so bad really. Harry finishes the essay for Flitwick
that he was supposed to submit on Tuesday, and makes good progress on the one for
McGonagall. They spend some time quizzing each other on the properties of plants and how
to care for them, and when they are all done for the day, neither of them moves.

Harry realises how much he needed some stillness and quiet. It’s been a bit mental these last
few days. Maybe his general grumpiness isn’t due to the strange dreams he’s been having at
all. Maybe he just needed a break from classes, people, quidditch, and Dumbledore, who
seems to have his eyes on Harry more than not. He even invited Harry for tea once, but Harry
made an excuse saying that he was drowning in homework, and it wasn’t exactly a lie either.

“I’ve missed you,” Hermione says wistfully. “I know we spend most of our days together,
classes and such…”

“I know. I’ve been too much in my head. I think I’ve missed you too, but I didn’t realise until
now.”

“You’ll tell me if something is worrying you, won’t you?” I see dead, empty eyes in my
dreams. I wake up tired as if I haven’t slept. At times I feel so angry I want to cut my skin
open. I’m scared that Voldemort did something to me.

“My scar has changed,” he hasn’t mentioned it, and it’s impossible to see behind his thick
hair. Hermione moves his fringe away with one careful finger.

“I noticed how puffy it looked when you were still unconscious… I assumed it got better.”

“No…”

“Does it hurt?”

“Not really. It’s just there… I look at it in the mirror, and I wish I could rip it off my face.”

Hermione runs her hand through his hair, and it feels so good he wishes he could stay frozen
in this moment. He closes his eyes, and Hermione does it again. Harry recalls aunt Petunia
stroking Dudley’s hair. When he fell, or during one of his tantrums, or when she was proud of
him. Never Harry’s though.

“Can you do this for a little bit longer?” He asks in a shy voice, because although he knows
Hermione will not deny him this little comfort, he is still afraid to be rejected. She pulls him
closer until his head is resting on her shoulder, and buries her small fingers in his hair. He
hums.

“I definitely missed you,” he says. She laughs, which makes his head jump up and down with
her shoulder. They stay until Madam Pince ushers them out.

***

“Come on!” Harry pulls a reluctant Hermione by the hand towards the Great Hall.

“You’ll see if it’s worked even if you arrive late,” she complains.

“But I want to know as soon as possible!”

“It’s 6:30 in the morning!”

“It’s not my fault you’ve spent half the night reading. And anyway, what is it so fascinating
that Lavender has lent you?”

“Oh, just a novel,” Hermione blushes, like she blushed the first time she mentioned it, and
Harry just has to tease her.

“Can I borrow it after you’re done?”

“No!”

“Hm… I have a feeling I’m going to really like this book,” Harry doesn’t think he’s ever seen
Hermione so pink.

“No.”

“Please?”

“Definitely not.”

“I could ask Lavender…”

“Not if you still want to be my friend!”

When they arrive at breakfast, there are a few students here and there, and Snape with
Dumbledore, but unfortunately no Slytherins yet. The twins are the only Gryffindors present
for now. They must feel even more excited than Harry. He sits next to Fred and George with
Hermione on his other side, a perfect spot to be able to see both the entrance and the
Slytherin table.

It takes a while, or maybe it simply feels like a really long time due to their eagerness, but
then - finally - Slytherins start to arrive, and…

“Yes!” Both twins exclaim at once and high-five each other.

“Can you be any more obvious?” Hermione hisses, and Harry can’t help but agree, because
Snape is watching, and he is not going to let this go. Harry’s own grin is telling though.
Pretty much every other Slytherin has got red hair with glittering gold highlights. Most of
them are wearing hats, Draco among them, but you can still see.

“How did you manage to sneak up to the girls showers?” Harry asks, impressed with how
many people they’ve got.

“I’m afraid you are too young to know, our brilliant but innocent friend.”

“We’ll tell you in a couple of years.”

Harry just rolls his eyes at their antics and asks something else instead, “Are you sure a
teacher won’t be able to charm their hair back to normal?”
 “Confident.”

“The potion said just one drop in a shampoo bottle-“

“And the effect will last for 24 hours-”

“Resistant to all other potions, spells and counter-jinxes.”

“Zonco’s products have never let us down.”

“Thanks for supporting Gryffindor, guys!” Fred and George bellow when a bunch of
Slytherins from their year pass by the Gryffindor table.“We knew you secretly love us!”

One Slytherin flips them off, the rest scowl and threaten them with bodily harm, but the
Gryffindors are laughing too much to care. That is, until McGonagall and Snape approach
their table, and the twins shamelessly confess. They were right too. They do get banned from
playing in today’s match to Wood’s horror.

It doesn’t make much difference in the end though, because Hufflepuff is rubbish, and Harry
catches the snitch within the first five minutes from the start of the match. Anticlimactic as it
is, his housemates’ cheers are as loud as Slytherins’ faces are sour. For the first time this
week, Harry is not worried about evil wizards, people reading his mind or strange curse scars.
Today, he is just a boy.

Chapter End Notes

Just to clarify: a part of Voldemort's spirit did not stay inside Harry's head, but it awoken
a part of his soul that is already there. Now the question is, how much should Harry be
affected by the horcrux inside him? What do you think?
 Chapter 8
Chapter Notes

Mostly fluff. Enjoy:)

24th March, 1992

“Don’t touch me!” Justin Finch-Fletchley shrieks during a Herbology class and recoils as
Harry reaches for secateurs that are just behind the Hufflepuff.

Harry’s been getting a lot of similar treatment recently - people calling him dark, dangerous,
evil - and he is so fed up. With an unpleasant smirk, he wiggles his fingers in front of Justin’s
face. The boy whimpers, and Harry makes a fist, an urge to punch him is so strong that he
can’t control it. He draws his fist back - and a hand grips his elbow.

“Harry,” Hermione’s voice is quiet but urgent, “He is not worth it. Come on,” she pulls on his
elbow. “I need those secateurs.”

Harry lets her guide him back to their table, but his fists are still clenched, emotions still
ripple through him and he wants - needs - out of the greenhouse and away from the staring
eyes. He looks at Sprout, who is discussing something animatedly with Neville and hasn’t
even noticed that Harry was this close to breaking Finch-Fletchley’s nose.

“I need some fresh air,” he tells Hermione through his clenched teeth. The lesson is nearly
over anyway. “Will you cover for me?” She nods.

“I’ll come and find you after.”

Harry sneaks out through a door in the back and forces himself to take a lungful of air in.
Then another one, and another, just like Professor Snape showed him. It’s funny how he
wanted to protect his mind from Dumbledore, but in reality the person he needs protection
from is himself. He sees some stinging nettles growing along the greenhouse, and,
impulsively, he wraps his fingers around the stems. He squeezed his eyes shut at the burn but
he doesn’t let go, and then he watches in fascination as the skin of his palm turns pink and
blisters. As the greenhouse’s door opens, he quickly hides the hand in his pocket and turns
towards the noise.

“Professor Sprout didn’t even notice,” Hermione says, her smile reassuring. He hears the rest
of the students bustle out through a different set of doors but, thankfully, they are all heading
towards the castle and away from where Harry and Hermione are standing.

“What is going on with you?” She asks, her brown eyes earnest and kind.
“Haven’t you heard? I’m evil and dangerous, my touch alone can kill. Voldemort is my
father. I’ve been secretly trained in the Dark Arts from before I could walk. If you look into
my eyes for too long, you will become my subjugate…” However, the longer Harry lists all
the rumours that have been circulating around, the more laughable it all seems.

“Sorry,” he sighs. “Let’s go to lunch. I’m fine now.” He takes Hermione’s hand in his, which
he’s been doing even more recently. Her touch is something that calms his volatile emotions
better than anything else. Better than breathing, better than cutting, certainly better than
stinging nettles. Maybe if he could hold her hand all the time, he wouldn’t explode like that at
all.

“Granger, you need to find a new boyfriend. This one might accidentally kill you.”

“Or not so accidentally!”

Parkinson and Bulstrode walk past them and into the Great Hall sniggering, and Harry lets go
of her hand with a sorry, suddenly feeling awkward. He hasn’t even thought about how their
friendship and the fact that he’s been a bit clingy recently might be affecting Hermione.
However, she takes his hand back in hers and follows other students in.

“I like it. The rest of the school can go to hell.”

***

2nd April, 1992

“Professor Snape, are there ways to suppress one’s emotions with Occlumency?”

This is their fifth detention/lesson, and so far they’ve been discussing chapters from the book,
and practicing different meditation techniques to clear Harry’s mind. Snape has been
surprisingly civil to Harry, but he normally is anyway, at least when nobody else is around, so
Harry gets bolder. He’s not afraid to ask him questions, even stupid ones. He can also sit
comfortably with his eyes closed while Snape stands above him guiding him through a
meditation. It doesn’t make him tense up or his palms sweat anymore. Harry even notices that
Snape’s got a nice voice, that is when he is not hissing, shouting or threatening you.

“Does your question have anything to do with the fact that you nearly smashed your fist into
your classmate’s face?”

“Does everybody know absolutely everything around here?”

“Rumours travel fast,” is all Snape says as he carries on staring at Harry with his unnervingly
dark eyes, so Harry continues, feeling only mild discomfort.

“I’ve got these outbursts… one moment I’m okay, and the next I’m so angry it feels like I
will turn into a dragon and start breathing fire.”

“Puberty is a bitch,” Snape deadpans, and Harry chokes on air and feels himself going red.
Snape’s eyes glint with amusement.
“You can’t say that!”

“I think I just did.” Snape’s amusement turns into a serious look once more as he says, “Mr.
Potter, it won’t do to suppress one’s emotions even if it is possible. You are a human being, a
developing one at that, not a machine.”

“But what if I do something irrevocably stupid or dangerous?”

“Then you won’t be much different from all the other dunderheads in this institution.”

“You’re not helping,” Harry huffs.

“Am I not? How tragic.”

But he actually is helping. A bit. If Snape doesn’t think that Harry’s over the top emotions are
that unusual, maybe it’s okay. Maybe it is puberty or whatever. Urgh.

***

19th April, 1992

It’s Easter Sunday, and Harry is woken up by two identical redheads making cooing noises.

“Aww.”

“Just look at them.”

“Aren’t they adorable.”

Harry opens his eyes and blearily takes his surroundings in. There are books, parchment and
quills all over the coffee table, and Harry remembers why he is asleep on the sofa in the
common room and not in his bed. They made a pact with Hermione that they would spend
the first week of holidays studying vigorously to free up their Eater Sunday and the week
after. Only there was so much more homework than they realised, and they had to keep on
studying way past midnight.

“Hey, we did it!” He turns to Hermione to share his excitement and freezes. Suddenly the
twins looking at them and calling them adorable makes so much more sense. It’s not because
little firsties are asleep in a tired heap with ink stains on their faces.

Hermione’s got yellow feathers sticking out of her head in every direction in place of her
hair, and her skin is painted in pink, green and purple patterns as if she is one human-shaped
Easter egg. Harry tentatively touches his own hair and, yup, feathers. He examines his hands,
which are blue, yellow and green instead, and slowly turns to face the twins, who are
annoyingly cheerful.

“Zonko’s?”

“Yarp.”
“24 hours?”

“Yarp.”

“I’m gonna kill you!” Harry sprints after the twins and chases after them all over the room
while they laugh maniacally and leap over furniture. He catches both of them with a tickling
hex though, and Fred and George carry on laughing for totally different reasons while
writhing on the floor.

Harry turns back to Hermione, who is giggling hysterically into her knees, and he can’t be
annoyed with the twins anymore, not even a little bit, because he hasn’t seen her laugh like
that in weeks. If he has to look like an Easter chick to achieve it, so be it.

***

Later, when he takes a shower, he finds out that he is blue, yellow and green everywhere.
Everywhere.

***

They enjoy freshly made hot-cross buns for breakfast, and Hermione’s parents have sent her a
giant chocolate egg, although it’s sugar free and tastes a bit funny.

“Dentists,” she shrugs dismissively and reaches for one of the smaller but definitely tastier
eggs, which house tables are full with.

“So, a week of freedom. What are we going to do with ourselves?” Harry asks as they make
their way out while doing his best to ignore snickers, giggles, pointed fingers and mocking
squawking. The day is brilliantly sunny and the air smells like spring. The giant squid is
warming its tentacles in the shallows, the grass looks emerald green, a bunch of first years are
playing chase, some students are lazing by the lake, while others sit in the shade of trees with
their books out.

“Hmm…” Hermione considers his question as seriously as if she is choosing her future
career. “Well, we could start by rolling down that hill over there. Chase you!”

She’s got a head start, but Harry catches up and they wrestle/run the rest of the way, and then
they do roll down the hill laughing like a couple of five-year-olds. They also tickle the
squid’s tentacles with reeds, and it splashes them until they are entirely soaked. They dry in
the sun not even bothering with charms it’s so warm, and they skip lunch and dinner and eat
chocolate all day instead.

“It’s been brilliant, but I don’t think I’ll be able to look at chocolate at least until next Easter,”
Hermione moans rubbing her stomach.

“Same,” Harry agrees and flops on the rug in front of the common room fire. Hermione
lowers herself down with much more grace and folds her legs under herself. It’s been a really
good day, and Harry is even grateful to the twins for turning them into carnival chickens. It’s
like childishness and silliness he’s been missing have been returned to him, and he feels like
himself again. He wishes they could fall asleep together on the sofa once more, because no
strange dreams bothered him last night, and maybe it was a coincidence, but maybe
Hermione chased them away just like her touch chases away Harry’s anger. However, he is
aware that boys and girls are not supposed to be this close, not when they are not dating.
Harry wrinkles his nose at the word. Thinking about it, there are no other boys that are
friends with girls that he knows of, not like Harry and Hermione. Girls hold hands with other
girls, and they hug each other, and Hermione said that Parvati sometimes climbs into
Lavender’s bed to gossip and stuff. Boys don’t do such things. And boys and girls definitely
don’t do such things unless they fancy each other.

“What are you making this face for?” Harry opens his eyes, which he didn’t even realise were
closed, and sees Hermione’s colourful face framed by wild feathers. A grin takes over his
face.

“You look so ridiculous.”

“Pot. Kettle. Black.”

“Ha!”

“No, really. What have you been thinking about?” Harry admires Hermione for being able to
have a serious conversation with somebody who looks like them right now.

“Do you think we are too close?” Harry asks sitting up. Hermione looks hurt, then schools
her features into a neutral expression.

“You can hang out with other people, I don’t mind. I didn’t mean to monopolise you like that
today-“

“Hermione, no! I love spending time with you!” Harry curses himself for not phrasing his
concerns better. “It’s not what I’ve meant.”

“What then?” Hermione’s expression is guarded, like she is getting ready for Harry to say
something hurtful.

“People tease us all the time, and more so recently. I… you know all the little touches that we
share, and hand holding, and how we dose off together sometimes-“

“You want more distance?” She frowns.

“That’s the thing, I don’t. But at the same time, it makes me think that we are not exactly
normal. Doesn’t it bother you? That people constantly call you my girlfriend?”

Hermione chews on her lower lip like she does when she’s contemplating something, then
finally says, “You are right, we are not exactly normal. We don’t fit into a box of what a boy
and girl’s friendship should look like, and maybe it’s because both of us were so lonely for
such a long time that we are desperately clinging on to each other. Or maybe we simply get
each other and are comfortable together, like family. Or maybe,” she smiles at him teasingly,
“we will become a couple one day, and everybody can see something that we can’t.” Harry
blushes but he’s pretty certain it can’t be seen under all the colours his skin is painted with.

“I’m not changing anything for them,” Hermione continues with a nod in the general
direction of other students. “I’m ready to change if you are uncomfortable, but not for them.”
Harry feels such relief at what she’s said. A part of him was anxious that Hermione was
embarrassed, and that she would start pushing him away because of that.

“I’m not uncomfortable,” he says with a grin and throws his arm over her shoulder. “I’m not
uncomfortable at all.”

Hermione is right. There’s no point putting their friendship into a box just to make others
happy. Their friendship doesn’t fit into any box, it is unique, it is theirs, and it is brilliant.

***

24 April, 1992

Hermione has disappeared upstairs with the girls, and Harry pesters Fred and George to show
him where the kitchens are. They refuse at first because it’s their special secret, but he is
persistent enough, and he promises not to tell anybody, no, not even Hermione. So they lead
him through the corridors and passages, and Harry swears they have made the route more
complicated in the hope that Harry won’t be able to find it by himself. Tough, because Harry
has discovered most of these passages anyway during his Christmas and occasional nightly
wanderings, and he has even passed the painting of a fruit bowl a couple of times.

“How did you figure out you had to tickle the pear?” He asks incredulously.

“Just like we did almost all the other things-“

“But it’s a secret-“

“Big secret.”

“Huuuuuuge.”

Harry gets too distracted to be annoyed with them by a spacious room with creatures bustling
about that look like a cross between Santa’s helpers and Chihuahua.

“What are these?” He asks, his eyes nearly as huge as the creatures’.

“House elves,” the twins reply together.

The said house elves spot them, jump and squeal in delight, and fill their arms with various
snacks - sausage rolls, fruit, biscuits…

“This is much easier than I thought it would be,” Harry says on the way out looking a bit
shellshocked, trying to hold on to all the various foods. He isn’t even that hungry.
“Do not tell a soul,” Fred says. At least, Harry assumes it’s Fred because he’s wearing a
jumper with a massive F on the front. “We don’t want the whole school to suddenly find out
and start coming here.”

“House Elves love to serve and help, it’s in their blood…”

“But imagine them trying to cater to each person here individually on top of everything else
that they do.”

“Basically, don’t take the piss, mate.”

***

He’s back in the common room, and Hermione is still nowhere to be seen, but it’s not unusual
for the girls to hide themselves away only to reappear hours later with new hairstyles, make-
up on, extra long eyelashes and painted nails. So he’s waiting patiently while making his way
through a trail mix and turning the pages of Seamus’ Quidditch magazine.

“I want to change it back!”

“Come on! It looks really good on you.”

Harry looks up to see one of the girls being pulled by her arms down the stairs by a mix of
first and second years, and it takes him a moment to realise that the girl is Hermione. Her hair
is long and straight, as if she’s just stepped out of a shampoo advert, and Harry remembers
how she told him about some Mandy calling her a drowned rodent. It she afraid that this is
what she looks like right now?

The girls manage to lead her into the common room, and Hermione looks so uncomfortable
Harry wants to snatch her out of their grabby hands and hide her away from the world.

“Stop pulling her about!” He raises his voice without meaning to and rushes to his friend’s
aid.

“Oh, Harry!” Parvati flutters her ridiculously long eyelashes at him. “Tell Hermione she
looks pretty like that.”

He looks at Hermione, at her shy gaze, at her blush, at her arms wrapped protectively around
her middle. He thinks of Mandy and all the other people that made Hermione feel like she
wasn’t good enough, or pretty enough, and he feels an intense urge to find them and do
something, anything, to humiliate them; something bad enough that they will remember it for
the rest of their lives and cringe. He also thinks about all the times that he has been called a
freak and has been made to feel like one. He thinks how even now, in this world full of
strange and wondrous things, he still doesn’t feel accepted by anybody but Hermione. This is
why he will do everything in his power to make her feel like she is enough just the way she
is.

“You are really pretty,” he tells Hermione ignoring all the others. “You are pretty like this,
and you were pretty in the morning with your hair all over the place. You were pretty with
yellow feathers a few days ago too.” She smiles, and her blush intensifies.

“Do you like it better like this though?” Lavender won’t leave it alone.

“Actually, I like it better when it’s all wild. Or when you make a massive bun on top of your
head and fix it with a single pencil. It looks like magic,” Harry stubbornly addresses
Hermione alone, and her smile is really big now. “I’ve got snacks from the kitchen. Want
some?”

“No chocolate?” Hermione asks suspiciously.

“No chocolate. Promise.”

***

25th April, 1992

The next morning, Hermione’s hair is back to its usual fizzy mess. Harry pulls on one of her
locks gently and then lets go to allow it to spring back into place.

“I do like it better like this,” he tells her.

“You know what? Me too.” She smiles a carefree smile.

Let others think what they wish. That Harry is a boy hero, or a villain, or a funny prankster.
Hermione knows the real him, and she believes that he is good, and whatever is going on
with him, Harry can be good. For her.
 Chapter 9
Chapter Notes

We've reached the end of year one. Woo Hoo! I hope you enjoy:)

6th May, 1992

May turns out to be as rainy as April was sunny. Harry suspects that all the Professors have
conspired together and charmed the sky to produce copious amount of water to force the
students to stay indoors and prepare for the upcoming exams. He doesn’t know if it’s the
dreary weather or some weird infection, but he catches a nasty cold and even Pepper Up
doesn’t help much. He stays in bed, misses all the classes, sneezes what feels like every thirty
seconds and feels terribly sorry for himself. Harry is cocooned in blankets with only his red
nose poking out when Hermione brings him chicken soup and, unfortunately, all of today’s
notes and homework. He groans and buries himself completely in his bedding.

“Oh no, you’re not going to get away with doing nothing just because of some cold. The
exams are just around the corner.” Hermione sounds scarily like Professor McGonagall, and
Harry is even less inclined to leave the safety of his bed.

“Three weeks,” he sniffles trying to sound as pathetic as possible, then sneezes for emphasis.

“I will stroke your hair while you read my notes…” she suggests. Now this is tempting
enough for Harry to reconsider how sick he actually is.

“Are you sure the hat wanted to put you in Ravenclaw and not Slytherin?” he questions
finally emerging out of his blanket cave, but he freezes the moment Hermione takes hold of
his arm and stares.

“What’s that?” She asks, her eyes wide, as she traces a finger along his multiple scars. Most
of them are thin and pale, old. He is not ashamed of them. The ones he is ashamed of are the
fresh ones, they are not even scars but cuts, and it’s painfully obvious that they are self-
inflicted. He curses himself for wearing a t-shirt to bed, for not thinking better, for not being
strong enough, for having cut at all.

“The old ones are from before I knew I was a wizard. My relatives hate anything weird, and
cutting helped me contain my accidental magic. I didn’t do it for months.” He knows that she
will ask about the recent ones now, and he wished he could find a way to escape her
questions, maybe turn the time back or erase her memory. What if she realises how freaky he
is and will not want to have anything to do with him?
“What happened?” Hermione asks, just like Harry knew she would. She doesn’t sound
disgusted or weirded out in any way, but Harry still can’t bring himself to say anything. His
throat is too dry, and it feels like his tongue is stuck to the roof of his mouth. He looks away
and Hermione speaks instead.

“I used to pull my hair out on purpose. I knew that I was doing it, and I knew it was bad, but I
didn’t feel like I could stop myself. I used to have a bold patch on the back of my head,” she
points to where it was. “Thankfully, my hair is too thick, and nobody but my parents knew.
They took me to the doctor, and he prescribed some anti-anxiety pills. I didn’t like them.
They made everything feel kind of… dull.”

“What made you do it?” At some point during her confession, Harry took her hand in his. If
she can be brave about it, maybe he can, too.

“I’m not sure exactly… It was like my hands needed to be doing something, and I had no
control over them. Everybody said it was because of bullying, and that I was stressed.”

“How did you make yourself stop?”

“I didn’t. The pills didn’t help, and I was still doing it. And then I met you and… I don’t
know…I still find my hands in my hair sometimes and I scratch at my scalp. Sometimes I
make myself bleed.”

“Sometimes I feel too much,” Harry says. He doesn’t want to tell her about his dreams, but
maybe he should. And his anger. And his fear. “It’s here,” he touches his chest with the hand
that is not holding Hermione’s. “And here,” he moves it to his throat. “What I feel suffocates
me, and it’s a little bit like accidental magic, like something is about to explode out of me,
but I feel even less in control now. Cutting helps.” Hermione doesn’t push him away or call
him a freak. She covers his hand with her other one then moves it gently up his arm until it
covers the fresher cuts. “It’s okay.” Her voice is a bit louder than a whisper and Harry’s eyes
prickle.

“Umm… I’d really like you to stroke my hair now,” he says and demonstratively picks up her
class notes and starts reading.

She does stroke his hair, and she doesn’t make him say anything else. And Harry eats his
soup after he is done, which is still hot as if it’s only just been made, and they do their
homework together, about which Harry doesn’t even complain.

“Thank you,” he says just before Hermione is about to leave.

“That’s what we do.” At his questioning look, she explains, “We look after each other.”

And they do, don’t they? They really do.

***

8th May, 1992

Owls sweep in and bring letters and packages from home, and an odd copy of the Daily
Prophet here and there. Harry doesn’t expect anything, not even when he spots Hedwig. She
comes sometimes for a treat and a pet, and Hermione has been using her to correspond with
her parents. Otherwise the poor owl would have gone insane with boredom months ago,
Harry having nobody to write to in the outside world. But Hedwig does have a note tied to
her leg, and it seems to be for Harry this time. He unties it and feeds Hedwig some treats out
of his pocket on autopilot.

Harry unfolds the parchment and knows straight away who it is from when he sees the
elegant handwriting.

It will be better if we are not friends anymore.

DM

“Oh,” escapes him and he looks at the Slytherin table. Draco gives him a cold stare.

“Is everything alright?” Hermione asks, and he shows her the message. “He must have a
reason,” she suggests. “You seemed to be getting on, and he hasn’t even been that horrible to
us recently.” They have been getting on. They’ve been meeting in an unused classroom once
a week after curfew, playing exploding snap, chatting about nothing in particular and poking
fun at each other.

“The reason is that he’s a coward and is scared that daddy will catch him. Whatever. It’s not
like we ever were real friends anyway.” Harry knows it’s a lie even before the words leave
his mouth, and so does Hermione, although she doesn’t call him on it. Draco and he were
friends, and Harry is hurt. He just doesn’t want to admit it.

It’s not that surprising when rage consumes him when he catches Malfoy by himself in the
corridors later. Harry barges into him, and pins him against the wall, and spits “coward” into
his face. But Malfoy just looks at him with those cold eyes of his, then sneers.

“Stop acting like a poof with a broken heart, Potter. Get off your filthy hands off me.” Harry
does, but only after he slams Malfoy’s head against the wall. He marches away before he
does anything else stupid.

***

11th May, 1992

Harry is too scared to go to bed. Last night, he watched a muggle woman being brutalised by
a group of men in grotesque masks. Death Eaters. He wanted to turn away, to wake up, to
close his eyes, but he couldn’t. Her screams still ring in his ears. Her pleading, her terror, her
agony, and then nothing at all. Did she lose consciousness or did they kill her? Did they heal
her after just to do it all over again?
Until now, Harry was successfully convincing himself that his dreams were just that, dreams,
figments of his imagination triggered by a traumatic experience. This last one though… there
was no way his imagination could have conjured a nightmare like this. So now he has to
admit to himself something that he’s known pretty much from the beginning. They are not
dreams. They are memories. Voldemort’s memories. Which means that either his scar is a
direct link to Voldemort’s mind, or there is a piece of him in Harry’s head after all, and
neither thought is a welcome one.

“Hermione…” he starts feeling terribly awkward. “Can we sleep in the common room
tonight? On the sofa?” He blurts his question out nervously but Hermione doesn’t even bat an
eye.

“Nightmares?”

“Yeah. I… Remember the time we passed out after all that studying?” She nods. “It was the
best sleep I’ve had since Quirrell.”

“Okay. You’ve been looking horrible recently by the way.”

Harry makes a face. He knows that he looks kind of haunted. More like a drug addict, or a
vampire.

They wait until everybody falls asleep and come back down with their pillows and blankets,
in pyjamas and socked feet. They take the largest sofa, the one by the dying fire, and arrange
themselves with the pillows on opposite sides and their legs intertwined.

“Good night, Hermione.”

“Night, Harry.”

It feels different from accidentally falling asleep together, as if they are doing something they
are not supposed to. As if they are breaking the rules. However,

Harry falls asleep before he can contemplate it properly, and he doesn’t have any blood-
curdling visions. Not a single one.

***

28th May, 1992

“Potter, either stop wasting my time and get out or be the Gryffindor that you claim to be and
just look me in the eyes.” This seems to be exactly the push that Harry needs and he glares at
Snape, all hesitance and worry forgotten, and instantly feels the pressure he once felt in
Dumbledore’s presence. He focuses on the feeling and empties his mind of all else. He resists
just like Snape has taught him, until he feels a bead of sweat tickle his temple. It’s this tickle
that distracts him, but he does exactly like Snape instructed. He throws all the memories that
he doesn’t mind sharing at the professor. Quidditch practices, lessons and homework,
harmless things. Only Snape pushes harder, and he gets a glimpse of something Harry would
have preferred to hide.
Harry is six. He is in the kitchen helping aunt Petunia make breakfast. He’s got an egg in
each hand. One slips out and cracks messily on the tiles. His aunt, her face distorted with
anger, smacks him with the frying pan that she’s holding. Once, twice…

Harry looks away.

“You said you wouldn’t do that,” he mutters sullenly.

“I lied.” Snape’s voice doesn’t have even a hint of remorse, but then he continues in a tone
that is almost gentle. “You’ve done well for you first attempt.”
“Did you just praise me?” Something lights up in Harry at the Professor’s words, and he
realises that he hesitated before not because he was afraid that Snape would see something,
but because he didn’t want his Professor to be disappointed in him.

“You must have misheard,” Snape answers, but there is a smirk on his face, and Harry smirks
back.

“Why aren’t you like this during class?” Harry asks impulsively.

“Out.”

“What? Why?”

“Out.”

“Fine,” Harry sighs. He really doesn’t get Snape, whose eyes still shine with humour, and a
hint of a smirk is still present on his face as Harry gathers his things. Only after Harry leaves,
he realises that Snape never said anything about the memory that he saw. Was it because he
didn’t want Harry to be uncomfortable? Or is it because he doesn’t care at all?

***

5th June, 1992

The castle is bursting with relieved students exiting classrooms, wiping their sweaty palms on
their robes, high-fiving, laughing, cheering and sighing happily. Everybody that is but
Hermione.

“I think my potion wasn’t orange enough. I must not have stirred it properly. What if I didn’t
add enough mistletoe berries. Is it four or five?”

“Hermione, breathe. Four. The colour was just fine. Snape is pretty funny, isn’t he?”

“What?” Hermione looks at Harry as if he’s gone nuts.

“Forgetfulness Potion? During an exam when we need to be able to remember things?” But
Hermione looks like she is too stressed to see the humour.

“Come on.” Harry slings his arm around her shoulders with an exasperated sign. “I’m sure
the twins are raiding the kitchen right this second and there is going to be a party. Let’s go
and celebrate the end of out exam week with cake.”

“But-“

“You can open your book and check the Forgetfulness Potion recipe later.”

“It will only take-“

“Cake.”

“…I don’t like you.”

Harry laughs.

***

6th June, 1992

It’s suffocatingly hot, and all the first year Gryffindors have gathered outside by the lake in
the shade of the trees to try and catch at least a hint of a breeze. Harry has got his shoes and
socks off, and his feet are resting in cool water.

“I don’t see why we are not allowed to swim,” he complains as he picks a stone up and
launches it as far as it will go. It hits the water with a loud plop.

“There are merpeople down there, did you know?” Hermione looks up from the book she is
reading to explain how the merpeople are likely to see their swimming as an attempt at
invasion.

“Are there really pretty mermaids under there?” Parvati asks while poking at the water with a
stick.

“Oh, I wish…” Seamus says dreamily. “They are nothing like the pictures in children’s
books. They look more fish than human and have got razor sharp teeth.”

Lavender finds a nice flat stone and throws it with a practiced flick of her wrist. It skips six
times before it sinks and everybody cheers.

It’s strange to think that less than a year ago they didn’t even know each other, but now they
are sitting here all together, as if they’ve been friends for years. Some kids from other houses
have shunned Harry, but all the Gryffindors have stayed unwaveringly on his side.

“So, what’s everybody doing this summer?” Dean asks.

Harry finds out that Dean is going to a football camp, Neville and his gran will be visiting
some relatives in Germany, Lavender is going to China, Hermione will spend half of her
summer travelling around Europe, although he already knew that… it seems everybody has
got something fascinating to look forward to.

“What about you, Harry?”

“I’m likely to be stuck in Surrey with my relatives,” he shrugs trying to seem unperturbed.

“You should totally visit! We never go anywhere, but mum says that friends are always
welcome at the Burrow.” With Ron’s words, hope blossoms in Harry’s chest. What if he
doesn’t have to spend his whole summer with the Dursleys? What if he could spend some of
it at a wizarding home with people that actually like him?

“Would your mum really be okay with having me for a bit?”

“I’ll ask, but I’m sure she’ll be okay even if you wanted to stay the whole summer.”

Before Harry can say anything or get overly excited, a rock hits the back of his head.

“Ouch!” He and Neville cry out simultaneously. One must have got him as well.

“Whoops!” Malfoy drawls from behind them. “We’ve been aiming for the lake. It’s not our
fault you are in the way.” He’s got most of first year Slytherins with him too, each holding a
rock, and they come flying the moment he finishes speaking.

Harry casts a basic shield, which is big enough to cover himself and Hermione who is right
by his side, but the rest of their group get hit. After that, spells and rocks go flying
everywhere, and Malfoy and Harry end up in a fist fight. They don’t stop until a furious
McGonagall runs out of the castle and freezes them all in place with a single wave of her
wand.

She takes ten points from each of them, which is fair, and forbids them from going to the
hospital wing so that they are able to feel the consequences of their own stupidity, which is
kind of fair as well, but she also gives Harry and Draco detention tonight when it’s supposed
to be their week off. At least she shooed the Slytherins to the other side of the lake.

He stops worrying about all that though the moment he notices that Hermione has got a huge
bump on her forehead.

“Don’t worry, I’m fine. Really.”

“What if you’ve got a concussion?”

“How about I promise I’ll let you know if I feel dizzy or sick, and you stop fussing like a
mother hen?”

“Hmm… no deal.”

He conjures some ice, wraps it in a handkerchief, and hands it to Hermione. “It’s clean, I
promise.”

Hermione looks at him tenderly and holds the ice to her bump.

“What about you?” She asks and points at his mouth. He can taste blood, but it doesn’t feel
like anything much.
“It’s just a split lip,” he answers dismissively.

“You should kiss it better, Hermione,” Parvati teases.

Harry ignores her and Hermione rolls her eyes skyward.

“You’re not fun,” Lavender pouts. “You could’ve at least blushed.”

***

McGonagall leaves Harry and Draco in the trophy room and gives them two hours to polish
each and every single of the awards arranged on the stands. They work stubbornly in silence
until they are nearly done before Harry gives in to his frustration.

“Can you explain why, at least?” He asks giving Draco his best glare.

“Oh no, did I hurt your feelings?” Draco sneers nastily.

“Stop.”

“Poor baby Potter can’t handle rejection.”

“I said stop!” Harry shoves him right into the glass case, which rattles but does not break.
“Merlin! Stop giving me this shit and tell me what is truly going on with you, you posh
insufferable pillock!” He pokes Draco in the chest to make a point, and the Slytherin bats his
hand away.

“You want to know what is going on? Did you forget that my father is a Death Eater? Did
you not see the Dark Lord with your own eyes? You think we can be friends and walk hand
in hand like you do with Granger? Somebody saw us meet, okay? And it got to my father.
You know what my father did? He praised me. He encouraged me. And then he said that we
can deliver you to the Dark Lord on a silver platter when the time comes.” Draco is breathing
hard, his hand on his throat as if he wants to stop the words from spilling out but it’s too late.
“I will betray you if it benefits me and my family. If it keeps us safe. I will.”

“Are you trying to convince me or yourself?”

“I will betray you,” Draco repeats with conviction. “That is why I have to stop this now. Do
you understand? I need you to understand.”

“I understand. But, Draco, you’ve got choice. You don’t have to believe in what your family
does.”

“How would you know? You don’t even have a proper family!”

“What is the point of having a family if they won’t allow you to be who you want to be?!”

“My father-“

“You are not your father!”

“Are you arguing or are you doing what I’ve told you to?” They both jump at hearing
McGonagall’s reproach. Harry and Draco quietly face away from each other and finish their
task in silence under the watchful eye of their Professor.

***

30th June, 1992

The Great Hall is decorated in Slytherin colours, and Harry doesn’t even care that much.
Gryffindor won the Quidditch cup and that’s enough for him. He has never really cared about
house points and being a good student anyway.

“Let’s stay up all night and watch the sun rise,” he has to nearly shout into Hermione’s ear to
be heard over the noise of the leaving feast. It is their last day, and he doesn’t want to lose
even a second of it.

So, after the feast, after the raucous party in the Gryffindor common room, after tears and I’ll
miss you and I’ll write to you and you must come and visit, after everybody finally goes to
bed, Harry and Hermione huddle under the invisibility cloak and head to the Astronomy
tower.

The tower is, thankfully, unoccupied, and they settle by the wall unshrinking the blanket that
they brought and a thermos full of tea. They share one cup they’ve got - although they could
have easily duplicated it - and watch the starts, and talk in whispered voices. They
congratulate each other on learning all the spells from One Hundred Spells Every Witch and
Wizard Must Know and passing their exams successfully. Astonishingly, Harry has got nearly
as many Outstandings as Hermione. The only subject he gets an Acceptable for is History of
Magic, which he is not that bothered about, considering how many lessons he’s slept through.
He listens to Hermione chatter about her upcoming summer. Her excitement about all the
new places she is going to see and all the museums she is planning to go to makes something
in Harry’s chest flutter.

Harry tells her about his meeting with Dumbledore, and how the Headmaster has instructed
him to go back to the Dursleys at least once a year because, as long as Harry can call that
place home, he is safe there.

“It sounds like a lot of rubbish to me, to be honest, but even if it is true… I kinda stopped
thinking of Privet Drive as home this Christmas. When uncle Vernon asked if I could spend
my summer at school just like my Christmas holidays.”

“Oh, Harry. You never told me.”

“It’s okay, really. I’ve always known that they don’t want me.” Then he adds, even though it
sounds way too soppy. “I feel home right here, with you.” Hermione hugs him, and Harry
feels small and vulnerable. Something inside him still believes that Hermione will reject him,
stop caring about him and push him away. This is why he still hasn’t told her how dark his
dreams are and how they are not even dreams at all, or that the Dursleys make him sleep in a
cupboard, or how much anger he’s truly got trapped inside.
“I feel like I’m home with you too,” she says softly. But Harry doesn’t know whether she
says it because it’s true or because she is simply repeating what he’s said. He hugs her back a
bit tighter anyway, and closes his eyes just for a moment.

When he opens them, it’s to the pink sky and Mrs. Norris purring on his lap. He looks at
Hermione, whose head is resting on his shoulder. He moves her hair away from her face and
touches her cheek meaning to wake her up, but she carries on breathing peacefully. Harry
shifts to make himself more comfortable and closes his eyes again. For all he knows, this
might be his last night this summer with no visions from hell. Besides, they can always try
again next year.
 Chapter 10
Chapter Notes

Just a reminder: underage magic is allowed in this universe.

Also, I hope you like Snape because he is going to make his appearance a bit more than
I initially planned.
Happy reading:)

1st July, 1992

“What is going on out there?” Hermione stands on her tiptoes to try and see over the heads of
those blocking the main entrance. She even jump a little, and Harry chuckles.

“Come on.” He takes her hand. “Let’s elbow our way through.” It helps that they are small,
and that their suitcases are shrunken and stored safely away in their pockets. They squeeze
through the gaps in the crowd and catch snatches of conversations.

“I’m not coming any closer to that.”

“I’d rather take the boats with the first years.”

“They look like they should be dead. Gross.”

Harry’s curiosity peaks more and more, until they emerge on the other side of the swarm of
people and finally see what the fuss is about.

Creepy horselike creatures are hitched to carriages that are to take older years to Hogsmeade
station. With barely any flesh on their bones and their seemingly unseeing white eyes, they
could have easily played a part in a horror film. But there is an uncanny beauty to them as
well, their coats the darkest shade of black Harry has ever seen, their wings huge and batlike.
One of the creatures spreads them out and shakes its head, and a few students shriek.

“Do you know what they are?” Harry asks Hermione, and of course she does.

“Thestrals. You can only see them if you’ve witnessed and understood death. I guess with
what happened with Quirrell, most of us can see them now.”

“Are they dangerous?”

“Not if you don’t mean them any harm, but Harry-“

“Let’s go and say hello!” Harry doesn’t want to think about Quirrell or death, and these
Thestrals should make for a good distraction. Besides, he is mesmerised by these strange
beasts. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” he adds, but Hermione seems to be as
curious as he is, even if a bit apprehensive.

“Look at you” Awe and fear mix in the pit of Harry’s stomach as he approaches the closest
Thestral. He tentatively reaches a hand to touch its side, and the creature shudders under his
palm but doesn’t move away. Harry snatches his hand away, but then returns it to stroke more
firmly.

“It’s so warm.”

“Is it really?” Hermione touches the Thestral’s neck and her eyes are full of wonder. To
Harry’s surprise, the creature makes a low humming noise.

“I think it likes it,” Hermione murmurs. And it probably does. Harry knows how good it feels
to be noticed and to be touched with care instead of being looked at with disgust, or not being
looked at at all.

“Of course Potter would get on with creepy dark creatures!” Somebody shouts, but Hagrid
comes over before Harry can get properly annoyed.

“There’s nothin’ dark or dangerous ‘bout these beasts. Come on, you lot, hurry up or yeh’re
goin’ ter be stuck ‘ere all summer. First years! Ter the boats!”

The boats seem smaller somehow, but his trousers are shorter too, so he must have grown. He
watches the castle as the boats wobble away and towards Hogsmeade. He recalls how alien
and enormous everything seemed, and how tiny and insignificant he felt. But now, when he
looks at the tall walls, the turrets, the hoops of the quidditch pitch, at Professors gathered at
the entrance, at a tentacle that appears out of the water in the distance as if to wave goodbye,
he feels like he belongs.

***

“I’ve got somethin’ fer yeh,” Hagrid says and gets a thick red book out of his bottomless
pocket. “It was Hermione’s idea. Brilliant, she is.” When Harry takes the book from him, he
realises that it’s a photo album, and he is about to open it expecting to see smiling faces of his
friends and other photos from this year, but Hermione stops him with a touch of her hand.

“Let’s get on the train first,” she says and Harry thinks she looks sad for some reason, but
maybe she just doesn’t want to leave.

Hagrid hugs him so hard his feet leave the ground just as the train whistles to hurry the
students up. Hermione gets the same treatment, and off they rush to find an empty
compartment.

***

They sit side by side, the photo album on Harry’s lap. He traces the golden border the cover
is decorated with with his index finger while Hermione explains.
“When you told me about the mirror of Erised and that it was the first time you saw your
parents… my heart broke for you. So, I thought that there had to be photos of your parents
somewhere, and I figured Hagrid would know who to talk to because he mentioned your dad
a couple of times.., Anyway, I asked my parents to buy an album, and Hagrid got in touch
with some people, and then we put it all together.”

Hermione’s insistence that he waits to open the album until they are alone makes a lot of
sense now. He doesn’t know what to say, and he has no idea what to feel. He can’t even make
himself open it, so he keeps on running his finger along the golden lines.

“Harry? Is it okay that we did it? Hagrid wanted to send it to you for you birthday, but I
insisted that you shouldn’t be alone. You don’t have to look if you don’t want to, obviously.”
She stops, and Harry finally looks at her. He can feel tears prickling his eyes and he blinks a
few times not to let him spill.

“This is the most wonderful thing that anybody has ever done for me,” he tells her with a wan
smile, then turns back to the album, takes a breath in, holds it and opens the first page. His
breath escapes him with something between a laugh and a sob.

His dad, just a small kid, grinning at him and waving enthusiastically from Patform 9 3/4. His
mum, a bit older, her hair such a pretty auburn, holds up an award with a group of other girls,
and her smile is contagious. He turns the pages to see a photo after photo, all moving and
showing him his parents grow up. Mostly his dad, clearly a popular kid, always surrounded
by friends and messing his already messy hair up, trying to look cool. And his mum, too.
There is a beautiful photo of her in formal robes hand in hand with another girl at a ball. And
another one in a crowd cheering during a quidditch match. And then there are photos of his
mum and dad together, his dad’s arm wrapped casually around her shoulders. His mum and
dad on their wedding day. His mum holding him, so tiny, must have been just after he was
born, in her arms.

Hermione wraps her arms around his middle, and only then he realises that he’s been crying
silently. He hastily rubs his eyes with his sleeve and hugs her back with one arm.

“I’m okay,” he reassures her, even though he isn’t, not really. “I’m okay,”. He repeats.
“Thank you.”

“There is one more,” Hermione says, and Harry turns the page to see his mum, young,
younger than him, maybe eight or nine, holding hands with a pale boy with shoulder-length
black hair. This is the only muggle photo in the whole album, and Harry leans a bit closer to
examine it, curious.

“Wait… is this Snape?” No way.

“Ha. You recognise him? When Hagrid asked him, Snape said he didn’t have anything at
first. But then he gave him this one, just a few days ago. That’s why it is last, otherwise I
would’ve put it in the beginning.”

“My mum and Snape knew each other before Hogwarts?”

“Hagrid said they were really good friends for the first few years, but then something
happened, and he wouldn’t say anything else.”

“Wow.”

“I know.”

Maybe he can ask Snape to tell him about his mum when he’s back at Hogwarts. He’ll
probably just tell Harry to get out like he did every time Harry asked a personal question, but
it is worth a try.

He closes the album and hugs it to his chest. He wishes he could absorb all the photos so that
they became memories, to make his parents just a little bit more real.

“You mum looks like she really loved you,” Hermione says, and Harry hums his agreement,
then shrinks the album and puts it in the pocket of his hoodie. He takes Hermione’s hand in
his and holds it all the way to Kings Cross.

***

They pass numerous fields, forests, and towns, and London approaches faster than Harry
likes. It’s just two months. One until he sees Ron. It’s nothing. He makes himself move,
following Hermione and numerous other students outside.

“It’s him! It’s Harry Potter!” Harry wrinkles his nose at this shrill cry and sees a little redhead
girl who gets swept up by Fred and George.

“Not cool, Gin.”

“Not cool at all.”

Harry approaches to say a quick thank you to Mrs. Weasley, for his Christmas present and for
allowing him to spend some of the summer with her family.

“Not a problem, dear. Not a problem at all.” Mrs. Weasley pats his cheek and turns to Ron to
fuss over him next.

Harry and Hermione smile and wave goodbye, and head to the barrier between wizarding and
muggle worlds. Harry tries to flatten his hair, despite the fact that it’s futile, and straightens
his clothes, which he managed to shrink a bit but they still look two sizes too big.

“Stop fidgeting. They are just my parents. You look fine.”

“I look like an urchin.” He should’ve wore his school uniform, at least it fits, even if his bony
ankles show.

Hermione just rolls her eyes at him, takes his hand in hers and pulls him through the barrier,
but the moment she spots her parents, her hand is gone and she runs to them. Harry watches
her dad pick her up and Hermione laughs even though she admonishes, “Dad! I’m too big for
this now!” She hugs her mum next, and Harry feels something bitter grow in the pit of his
stomach, and he thinks about slipping away. It will be easy too, in this crowd. But Hermione
turns back to face him, and her smile makes the bitterness subside.

Hermione introduces him, and her parents don’t look at him like he is anything less, although
they are both dressed in impeccable suits, and every hair seems to be in place. They look like
the sort of people who know exactly what they are doing. Mrs. Granger thanks him for being
such a good friend to her daughter, and Harry wonders what Hermione has been telling them
about him and Hogwarts.

“Where are your family, Harry? It would be nice to meet them,” Mr. Granger asks.

“Oh, they said that they will be a bit late. My Uncle has a meeting he can’t miss, and he is the
only one who drives.” The lie falls of his lips easily, and the Grangers seem satisfied. He
reassures them that he will be okay, and that is shouldn’t be that long anyway, and after a
brief hug from Hermione, he is left all alone on the platform with people rushing by. Just two
months. Just two months. Just two months. He repeats this like a mantra and even convinces
himself that it works. He has no time to be upset anyway. He’s got things to do.

He goes to Gringotts and withdraws some money both in pounds and in galleons just in case.
He picks up a couple of interesting looking books from Flourish and Blotts, and some snacks
and a sandwich for the road from a station shop, and makes his way back to Surrey. The
closer he gets to Little Whinging, the tighter his throat gets. It’s okay though. He’s got his
wand. He can leave any time. They won’t be able to lock him in. But they will be able to yell
at him and call him freak. Only it doesn’t matter, because when they say freak, it actually
means magic. He’s safe, he’s got magic, he’s got Hogwarts, and Hermione, and Fred and
George and Ron and his other friends, he’s got money, and Quidditch; and Hedwig, and an
album full of photos of his parents, and scars, and weird dreams, and Voldemort who wants
him dead, and Dumbledore and the strange excitement in his eyes when he saw Harry’s
memories of abuse- No, no. Only two months and he will be back home.

It’s his stop before he is ready, and he drags his feet to Privet Drive. However, all the
windows are dark, and the Dursleys are not even in. Hedwig flies down from a nearby tree
though, and the note is gone from her leg, which means the Dursleys have received it. Which
means that they went out for the evening on purpose just to make him wait. Fine. It’s not like
Harry wants to see them either.

“Such a good girl for waiting here,” he tells Hedwig as he strokes her soft feathers. He
nuzzled the top of her head with his nose already missing casual touches that he and
Hermione constantly shared.

He sits on the step with his back to the front door. He looks at the sky and notices how very
few stars he can see compared to Hogwarts. And how different the sounds are. He closes his
eyes. Cars, telly from the neighbours, distant swearing, a slam of a door, laughter, gravel
under tyres.

“Look! The freak is back.” Dudley. Not the most pleasant of sounds.

Harry gets off the step, squares his shoulders and lifts his chin up ready for verbal abuse. He
is pleased to see that he and Dudley are the same hight. His cousin wasn’t that much taller
anyway, but still.

“What? Have you forgotten how to speak? How do you, freaks, communicate? Bark or
quack?” Dudley is too close. Harry hates the twist of his mouth and his fat face. He wants to
punch him so badly, more than Justin Finch-Fletchley during Herbology, more than Malfoy
when he is being an arse, but he remembers his wand just in time. He takes it out of his
pocket with practiced speed and digs it right under Dudley’s flabby chin. The squeak that his
cousin makes is immensely satisfying.

“Put this thing away right this second!” His uncle whisper shouts, but Harry does not. He
points it at his uncle.

“You little shit! Put it away or I swear I will break it in half!” Harry’s fingers twitch around
his wand. He could curse his uncle. He could give him painful boils all over his body or make
his tongue stick to the roof of his mouth or- Cruciatus a voice hisses inside his head and it
doesn’t sound like his own. It’s the one from his nightmares. He shakes his head, looks at his
uncle’s mad face, at his aunt’s wide eyes, at Dudley who is now trembling behind his mum.
They are all scared of him. It makes Harry sick. He lowers the wand and puts it back in his
pocket. He allows his uncle to clock him on the head as he passes to unlock the door, and
Harry allows him to throw him into the cupboard - god, it’s so small - and slide the latch in
place. It’s not like latches or locks can keep him in anymore, but… he feels like he deserves
it. He doesn’t want to be like Voldemort. He doesn’t want muggles to be terrified of him.
Crucio? Merlin.

He casts a Lumos, vanishes all the cobwebs and uses a freshening charm to remove the musty
smell. He puts his shrunken things on the shelves, but returns the album to its normal size and
examines the photos.

“Mum.” He touches her face in a photo, the one where she is cradling him in her arms. “I will
not be like Voldemort. I promise.”

***

5th July, 1992

Harry’s ears perk up at a rap-rap-rap on the door. Aunt Petunia just got up, which means it’s
around 8 o’clock. Too early for visitors, especially on a Sunday morning. She passes his
cupboard muttering about rude inconsiderate people. He hears a click of the lock and a rattle
of a chain, then -

“You!” The shock in his aunt’s voice makes him want to Alohomora his cupboard just to see
who it is, however, he doesn’t have to wonder for long.

“Good morning, Tunie. Long time, no see.” Snape?!

“Get out!” Petunia shrieks. He hears his uncle’s heavy footsteps down the stairs and his,
“What in God’s name is going on here?”
And then the chain on the door rattles again, and the door opens with a bang. “Get out of my
house!” His uncle bellows, and Harry can only imagine how purple his face is.

“I will, as soon as you let me speak with Mr. Potter,” Snape answers evenly.

“There is no Mr. Potter here! Get out!”

“As you wish.” Snape must have cast a spell because everything goes silent all of a sudden.
Quiet steps approach his door - a jiggle of a latch - and it opens with a screech.

It is Snape. In Little Whinging. At 4 Privet Drive. Towering over Harry, who must look
ridiculous crammed in this tiny space, wearing huge pyjamas with a hole on one knee,
holding a book on his lap and blinking at him owlishly trying to adjust to the bright light.

“Umm… good morning, sir,” he finally manages.

“Mr. Potter. What are you doing in a cupboard under the stairs?”

“I… it’s my… room.”

Snape doesn’t look pleased with his answer at all.

“How did you know to search in the cupboard first?” Harry asks as he closes the book and
climbs out.

“A locator spell. Works only short distance.”

Snape leans in and examines the inside of Harry’s living space.

“There’s a huge spider in the corner,” Snape observes.

“His name’s Marvin.” At Snape’s bemused look Harry shrugs. “Got to talk to somebody.”

“Where’s your owl?”

“Outside.”

“Hm.”

It all seems so bizarre that Harry figures he must be dreaming and just goes with it.

“Would you like a cup of tea?”

“Tea would be appreciated, yes.”

Harry walks past his frozen relatives, uncle Vernon’s face as purple as he imagined, aunt
Petunia’s mouth open and her eyebrows raised high.

“Can you leave them like this until the end of summer?” Harry asks as he busies himself with
putting the kettle on and getting mugs and tea out.
“I think it would be inadvisable.” Snape leans against the counter and folds his arms.

“Shame.”

It’s strange to see Snape look so muggle in dark jeans, black long-sleeved top and with a
ponytail.

“You look like you could be in a band,” Harry quips after looking Snape up and down, and
his Professor snorts a laugh. Definitely a dream. He pours hot water into the mugs, puts them
on the table and gets milk and sugar out.

“You look like you could use a bigger room,” Snape replies as they both sit down.

“It’s not so bad. Marvin’s good company. The bed’s a bit small though.”

“Indeed.” Snape fishes his teabag out, pours a splash of milk in, no sugar, and stirs.

“This is so surreal.” Harry adds both milk and sugar to his.

“Believe me, Mr. Potter, it is much more surreal for me to see my student stored away like a
box of unwanted things that one cannot bring themselves to throw away than for you to see
me in your kitchen.”

“That’s what I am though, so…” Harry blows on his tea, and his glasses steam up. They
drink in silence.

“I would like you to show me around the house.”

“I don’t know what you expect to see, Sir. It’s a very boring house-“

“Potter,” there’s a hint of warning in Snape’s voice.

“Fine.”

Harry knows what Snape will see. A normal house of a normal family with no sign of Harry
in it. He will see his his huge cousin, who is still snoring in his bed, in his spacious room full
of electronics, and toys, and other stuff that parents get for their children when they care. He
will see Dudley’s second bedroom full of toys he lost interest in and books that haven’t been
read, with a single bed and a small wardrobe in case one of his friends wants to spend the
night. Harry feels ashamed, but he is not sure what exactly he is ashamed of.

He shows Snape around the house anyway, which makes his Professor frown a lot, and
mutter muggles and useless and something about Dumbledore.

When they are back downstairs, Snape unfreezes his aunt and uncle who open their mouths
but nothing comes out.

“Listen here, muggles,” the threat in Snape’s voice makes Harry’s skin prickle even though
he knows his words and ire are not directed at him. “You are going to move all of your son’s
things into his room and move all of Mr. Potter’s things into the spare bedroom. He is never
to sleep in this cupboard again. You are not to ever raise your hand at him. You are to get him
clothes of decent quality that fit. Am I missing anything, Mr. Potter?”

“You are to feed me three sufficient meals a day. And leave the books in the room, Dudley is
not going to read them anyway.”

“Will that be all?”

“Yes, Sir.”

It takes a bit of threatening on Snape’s part, but the Dursleys do clear the bedroom out - to
Dudley’s great displeasure - and Harry carries his things upstairs.

“Thank you,” he says when he and Snape are in his room. His room. Harry is still not sure if
he is awake, but he really hopes so.

“It was my pleasure,” Snape smirks. He did look like he enjoyed bossing Harry’s relatives
around.

“You knew my mum,” Harry blurts out because it’s been on his mind ever since he saw that
photo.

“Yes.”

“Will you tell me about her?”

Snape is silent, and Harry expects him to turn around and leave without a word, because
surely this is too personal.

“I’ll come and check on you in a week,” Snape informs him, voice lacking any emotion, but
then he adds. “I can show you then where your mum used to live.”

“Really?” Harry’s chest expands with hope and his eyes light up with it.

“Really, Potter. Owl me if they misbehave.” At that, Snape turns and walks out without a
goodbye, and leaves Harry standing in the middle of his room for quite some time before he
shakes himself and starts putting his things away.

He really hopes it hasn’t been a dream.

 Chapter 11
Chapter Notes

Here's a short one. I figured a little bit of something is better than nothing:) We're
redecorating the house, and every spare moment I've got I'm either stripping wallpaper
or painting the walls.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

6th July, 1992

Aunt Petunia opens his door, a large plastic bag in her hand. Harry shuts The Chronicles of
Narnia he’s been reading - one of Dudley’s castoffs - hastily puts it on the bed and jumps to
his feet in case he needs to dodge a smack.

“You think you found a protector?” She spits derisively but doesn’t wait for an answer. “That
man corrupted Lily when she was just a little girl. Told her tales of magic and showed her
cheap tricks! Now look where it got her. Six feet under, both her and that Potter. It’s where
you’ll be too. You, and that horrible man, and the rest of your kind.” She gives the bag a good
shake and throws it in. “This is a waste of money and time.” She slams the door so hard that
Hedwig’s cage rattles.

Harry has never felt as unwanted as he is feeling right now. A waste of money and time. He
will stay until the end of the month, but he is not returning here ever again. Not even if he has
to live on the streets. If the Dursleys hate him, fine. Harry isn’t exactly fond of them either.
Why should he care what they think? Their opinion means nothing. It only matters what his
friends- No, not even them. It matters what Hermione thinks. And maybe Snape. And that’s
it.

“Bummer. Should’ve bookmarked the page.” He picks his book up and focuses on finding the
right place, then dog ears the page and imagines Hermione telling him off for it. Hedwig
hoots gently from the top of his wardrobe where she’s made a habit of perching and turns her
head to the side.

“It’s okay,” Harry tells her. “We’ll be out of here before you know it.”

He squats and looks inside the bag to find a jumble of clothes that clearly came from a
charity shop. He tries a few on, and they look and fit well enough, certainly better than
Dudley’s, and there are pants and socks that are brand new.

A waste of money and time. Why? Do they not care at least a little bit? Or is his aunt worried
that he is going to spontaneously combust just because he is a wizard? Or because Snape is
the only adult to give a shit?
“That man corrupted Lily,” he mimics. Snape was just a child himself, what utter rubbish.

“If they didn’t want me to go to Hogwarts and become a wizard, they should have made an
effort and looked after me properly. Then I wouldn’t have been so desperate to get away.”
Hedwig clicks her beak.

“You’re right. Their loss.”

***

10th July, 1992

Things are not so bad after that. The Dursleys let him eat a bit more than they normally
would, and they don’t bother him too much. Aunt Petunia gives him a couple of chores every
day, like vacuuming, washing up, weeding the garden and helping in the kitchen. It’s all
normal, better than last year really. The only thing that bothers him is that his relatives will
look at him funny sometimes, as if he is a bomb about to detonate. So he does his best not to
get in the way and stays in his room like a good boy. He studies, and reads, and makes lists.
He lists all the people he wants to buy Christmas presents for. He lists all the pieces of
homework left to complete before September. He lists the visions he has every night because
they will repeat sometimes, and he wants to see if there is a pattern. He lists all the things that
he will never say to his future children.

***

12th July, 1992

When it’s finally Sunday, Harry, not even trying to hide his eagerness, gets ready the moment
he wakes up, makes himself a ham sandwich and sits on the front garden wall waiting for
Snape in the hope that he will arrive as early as the last time.

Harry has finished his sandwich and is playing with a ladybird, letting it crawl over his
fingers from one hand to the other and back again, when he finally hears a familiar clearing
of a throat.

Harry jumps off the wall and beams as if he sees his best friend and not his moody Professor.
If nothing else, this shows how lonely he has felt.

“Hello, sir!”

“It’s early morning, Potter. Have the decency of not being this cheerful.” But Harry thinks he
can detect a hint of a smile.

“Should’ve known you’re not a morning person, Sir, living in the dungeons and all.”

“How have your relatives been?” Snape changes the topic as they start walking to, Harry
assumes, the train station.

“They’ve done what you’ve told them to,” Harry points at his better fitting clothes. Snape
doesn’t seem impressed with his top, which has got a picture of a shark and JAWS written
above it, in the slightest.

They turn to walk down the alleyway when Snape suddenly grabs his arm, and Harry is sure
he’s just been cursed with something deadly, and maybe his relatives are trying to protect
him, and his aunt is right, and Snape is a horrible man. Harry’s body is being squeezed from
all sides, and he is so dizzy, and sick, and- His knees hit the grass and he folds himself in
half, head resting on his knees, taking deep breaths in.

“Not bad. Most people throw up the first time they apparate.” Harry hears Snape’s amused
intonations from above him.

“You could’ve - warned me.” He is still dizzy, but at least the nausea is going away.

“Believe me, it wouldn’t have made the experience any more pleasant.”

“I could’ve at least skipped breakfast.”

When he finally looks around, he realises that they are hidden by the drooping branches of a
tall willow.

“Where are we?”

“Cokeworth. Are you going to get up or laze about on the grass all day?” Harry gets up with
an unhappy grunt, and Snape steadies him when he sways a bit.

Harry parts the curtain of leaves and steps out not into a pretty park or a meadow like he
expected but an old playground. Everything looks rusty and not fit for use. One swing is
missing and the other one is occupied by a small boy, maybe five, no parents in sight. The
climbing frame is missing a couple of bars, the slide looks like it could kill you. At least the
grass is bright green and luscious, as if trying to make up for the decrepitness of the place.

“The play park used to look marginally better than this,” Snape tells him, and there is
something odd in his tone that Harry can’t place, “but it has not changed all that much. Lily
was kneeling in the grass, right where you are standing, and I saw her touch a daisy bud with
her fingertip. She made it bloom. She repeated the action again and again until she was
surrounded by flours, dozens of them. I knew she had magic then.”

“Aunt Petunia said that you corrupted my mum with cheap magic tricks.”

Snape laughs humourlessly and says, “It sounds like something she would say… Lily was the
most magical person I have ever met. Petunia was a jealous child.”

Harry kneels in the grass, and tries to imagine his mum, like she was in that photo. Auburn
hair, eyes the colour of leaves, and freckles on her nose and cheeks.

“What was she like?” He holds his breath. Please, please let Snape answer. Please. There is a
long silence, and then…

“She made friends so easily. She could approach anybody, say hello and a moment later they
would be playing like best friends. She liked catching butterflies and grasshoppers but she
would always let them go. She could run really fast, faster than any boy I knew. She wore
dresses with flowers on them, and she ripped them climbing trees. She never cried when she
scraped her knees but she cried when she accidentally killed a butterfly. She was the only
person who… She was kind.”

What Snape has just said touches Harry’s soul in places that have been empty and aching for
years. He fees his magic pulse into the ground from under his palms, and flowers spring out
all around them. Daisies and buttercups and dandelions and cornflowers and poppies and
camomiles. An explosion of field flowers that feels a lot like grief. He sniffles and rubs at his
face.

Snape puts a hand on his shoulder. Solid and warm and strong, and it feels like it belongs to
somebody Harry can trust, no matter what his aunt says. When Harry looks up, Snape’s eyes
are red, as if he is trying not to cry, and he is looking at Harry differently somehow, as if he’s
just seen him properly for the very first time.

“Come,” Snape’s voice is rough, and he clears his throat. “I’ll show you the house she used to
live in.”

***

When Harry comes back to the Dursleys, there are locks on his door, seven of them, a cat flap
he can’t think of a purpose for, and bars on his window. He feels as if he is a dangerous
animal that needs to be contained. It doesn’t matter that he can unlock the door with a single
wave of his wand, or that he can blast the bars out. The fact that his relatives felt like they
needed to put such measures in place twists Harry’s gut with disgust. It makes him want to
act like a beast and smash things, and set fire to the furniture, and bite and claw and growl.

He vanishes the locks instead and revels in the satisfaction of imagining how his aunt will
squeak when she notices, and how furious his uncle is going to be. He imagines it, and
decides that he doesn’t want to deal with the fallout, and summons all the locks back in place.
He opens the album and looks at his parents’ photos.

“You sister really sucks, mum.”

The mystery of the cat flap is revealed when it’s dinner time and his aunt’s skinny hand
pushes a can of soup through, cold, with a spoon sticking out and a glass of water. Dudley
woofs and howls somewhere in the background.

Harry can take many things. He can take being shouted at, and being locked in. He can take
being worked like a slave or ignored as if he doesn’t exist. He can take being smacked and
ridiculed. But this cat flap, it’s one thing too many.

He throws all of his things into his trunk leaving nothing that matters to him behind, he tells
Hedwig to find him in London, puts his shrunken possessions into his pocket, blasts the door
open instead of using Alohomora simply because he wants to, and runs down the stairs. His
uncle is only just getting up from the dining table, and he is shouting something, but Harry is
not listening. He is running. Out of the door, and as far away as he can.
Chapter End Notes

I wanted Harry to stay with the Dursleys until the end of the month but it just wouldn't
happen. I kept on writing scenes where his relatives would do something stupid and
Harry would either explode with accidental magic or storm out of the house. So, I've
given up and decided to let him do just that. I guess I simply have no patience for the
Dursleys or abuse of any kind.
 Chapter 12
Chapter Notes

A bit of hurt, a bit of comfort. I hope you like it:)

2nd August, 1992

Hermione,

I’ve just scrunched up a bunch of letters and I’m tempted to send you an empty page instead.
Or I could doodle something silly. I know I promised to write to you on the day you are back,
but you know how bad I am at expressing myself on paper, and too much has happened. I’d
rather tell you in person. But I’m fine, I promise. And I didn’t get into too much trouble. Does
running away from home count as trouble? Sorry, it sounded kind of funny in my head.
Anyway, Snape found me, although I was thoroughly enjoying being on my own. Did you
know that Tom from the Leaky doesn’t care how old you are as long as you pay? I stayed
there for nearly a weak, and then went to the Burrow earlier than planned. Mr. and Mrs.
Weasley are the kindest and the most welcoming people I’ve ever met. Oh, and the twins gave
me the most amazing birthday present ever, I’ll show you when we’re at school.

Anyway, I’ll tell you the rest later. How has your summer been? Which city did you like the
best? What books did you buy? I hope you loved every minute of your trip.

Let me know when you plan to go to Diagon and I’ll make sure I’m there. Even if I have to
run away again. Kidding!

I really miss you.

Harry

He doodles a few stick figures on brooms and charms them to race around the page, then
adds I hope you enjoy my fabulous art in the bottom of the page, folds the parchment and
sends Hedwig off.

The truth is, he has this weird hollowness in his chest, an ache that’s been getting worse since
they said goodbye at the station, and he is sure that it’s not normal to miss somebody this
intensely. However, normal or not, Hermione is always on his mind. When Mrs. Weasley
made a cake for his birthday, Harry wanted Hermione to be there and know how
mouthwatering it looked and how delicious it tasted. When Harry, Ron and the twins went
flying, he wanted Hermione there to tell him off for his reckless stunts. When he helped Fred
and George with their experimental concoctions, he wanted Hermione to be there to share her
ideas and come up with solutions for tricky problems. When he sat by the pond watching
frogs in the rare moments of quiet, he wanted Hermione to sit by his side, close enough for
their thighs to touch. He even wrote it all in a letter, but then he decided that he didn’t want to
make it weird. For all Harry knows, Hermione has been having the time of her life and she
might have not remembered him even once. He feels a violent stab of hurt at this thought, but
thankfully he is saved from overthinking by Ginny’s crimson face in his doorway.

“Um, mum says to tell you that dinner is ready,” she blurts out and runs back downstairs.
Harry sighs. He’s tried being friendly with her, but she only blushes and trips and drops
things. And sometimes she watches him when she thinks Harry is not looking, which reminds
him of some people at school and is not that unusual, but it still makes him uncomfortable.

He follows Ginny downstairs mentally counting how long it will take for Hedwig to fly to
Hermione’s place, receive a reply and come back.

***

3rd August, 1992

The answer to that is all night long and some on top of that. It’s only after breakfast and a
thorough degnoming of the garden the following day that Hedwig finally comes back.

“Easy, lover boy. You could kill somebody with that smile,” Fred, or George, says as he
stretches his arm out for Hedwig.

“Piss off,” Harry replies more out of habit than annoyance. There are very few things that
could ruin his brilliant mood right now.

He walks back into the house at the pretence of giving Hedwig food and water, but he knows
that everyone else knows that it is to read Hermione’s letter in private.

Harry,

I don’t know whether I want to hug you or throttle you more. You’re so… You can’t say that
you ran away from home and not explain anything at all!!! And what does Snape have to do
with any of it?

My parents and I are going to Diagon Alley this Thursday. Meet me in front of Flourish and
Blotts at 10:00 if you can, and send Hedwig if you can’t. I don’t want to worry about you
more than I already am.

I was going to send you your birthday present too, but I’ve decided you deserved to suffer a
little bit longer wondering what it is.

I’ve had a wonderful trip, thanks for asking. Using your own words, I’d rather tell you in
person.

I’m so annoyed with you right now, more than it’s reasonable to be, and you must think I’m
mental. It’s just that I’ve missed you too, terribly. It’s like there’s a hole in my chest, and I
know it will only go away when I see you. I was hoping that receiving a letter from you would
make it seem that you are a bit closer but it only frustrated me to bits.
I really really hope to see you on Thursday.

Love,

Hermione

Harry is still smiling although he probably shouldn’t considering that Hermione is far from
happy with him. But she said that she missed him, and she said love. Harry might be brave
when it comes to doing something daredevil and rash, but Hermione is fearless when it
comes to being herself. She doesn’t hide how she feels, she doesn’t cringe away from her past
and she trusts Harry with her secrets. And being this open with others is something that he is
just beginning to learn.

Harry lifts the lid of his trunk. The very first draft of his letter to Hermione is still there, all
scrunched up, lying on top of his bundle of clothes, books and quills. He picks it up,
smoothes it out and - after a quick trip downstairs to check with Mrs. Weasley - adds,

Dear Hermione,

This is the letter I was going to send you but chickened out because it’s too mushy. I’m sorry I
didn’t send it straight away, and I’m sorry I’ve annoyed you.

I can’t wait to see you. Thursday, 10:00, I’ll be there. And possibly most of the Weasleys too.

Love,

Harry

He watches Hedwig fly away with a pierce of parchment that holds random little moments he
wanted to share with Hermione, his longing and his loneliness, and his confession that there
hasn’t been a day when he didn’t think about seeing her and holding her hand.

If the twins or Ron read it, they would never let him live it down.

***

6th August, 1992

Of course he had to breathe some floo powered in, of course he had to end up in a dingy shop
in Knockturn Alley, and of course he was hiding in a large cabinet from the Malfoys. Just his
luck. All he wanted to do was spend a nice day shopping with his friends but nooo, he ended
up eavesdropping on Lucius Malfoy negotiating prices for a range of illegal objects that he
has all around his creepy house.

“Draco, touch nothing,” Mr. Malfoy says in an indisputable tone.

Harry watches through a crack in the door as Draco browses the shelves, his hands clenched
behind his back, and with every step he comes closer and closer to Harry, who goes very still
and holds his breath. Of course Draco’s hand reaches for the cabinet after he has looked back
to check that his father is still busy bargaining, and he starts opening the door very, very
slowly with a single finger.

He sees Harry, of course he does, and Draco’s eyes go so wide it’s comical.

After a sharp intake of breath, he mouths, “What the fuck, Potter?” Harry prays that the
adults are too engaged in their own business to notice. All Harry can do is raise his index
finger to his lips and look at Draco pleadingly.

“I told you not to touch anything!” A cane comes down hard on Draco’s hand, and he snaps it
away, then hugs it to his chest briefly before relaxing and looking perfectly composed.

“I apologise, father.”

“Come. We are done here,” Mr. Malfoy commands icily.

Harry cringes in sympathy when he sees Draco’s fingers twitch as he and his father walk
away and out of sight. He knows exactly what it feels like, having been hit on his knuckles
enough times either with a spatula or a wooden spoon, or whatever aunt Petunia had at hand.

Harry waits until he hears the chiming of a bell as the door opens and shuts, and until the
shop owner shuffles away muttering to himself. Harry should have brought his invisibility
cloak just in case - he used it extensively during his stay at the Leaky Cauldron, exploring
everything around, especially those places that looked like he was not supposed to visit in
particular. At least he knows how to find his way to where he is supposed to be. He darts out
of the shop and walks briskly down the narrow cobblestoned street - avoiding a hag with a
tray full of human nails and a sleazy looking wizard selling wands out of his jacket - up the
steps, under an archway, takes a left turn, and he is safe. Or maybe not.

Harry notices Mrs. Weasley first, who looks frantic as she is walking down Diagon Alley
turning her head left and right. And then he sees a familiar mane of bushy hair, and the girl
who it belongs too looks only marginally more composed than Ron’s mum does. Harry feels
a pang of guilt. I don’t want to worry about you more than I already am, she wrote.

He cups his hands around his mouth and shouts, “Hermione, Mrs. Weasley! I’m here.”

Hermione’s expression changes into relief as their eyes meet. Harry is reminded of their
reunion after the Christmas break, and when she runs and slams into him, he is ready. He
picks her up and spins her around.

“Why are you always the one getting in trouble? You know how stressful worrying about you
is?” Hermione tells him off when her feet are back on the ground, and although she sounds
stern, her hands are still resting on Harry’s shoulders, and his are still around her waist, so she
can’t be all that mad at him.

“You’ve found him!” Harry hears one of the twins exclaim dramatically before he can
explain himself to Hermione.
“Group hug!” Either Fred or George shouts, and neither Harry nor Hermione has a chance to
protest before they are squeezed together in a big Weasley sandwich. Actually, Harry doesn’t
mind it all that much, but it seems that Hermione does.

“Can’t - breathe,” she wheezes.

“Come on, guys, get off,” Harry says working hard to extricate himself and Hermione. “Get
off!”

“And here we thought-“

“That you both were huggers.“

***

Hermione’s parents don’t look as if they know exactly what they are doing like they did when
Harry met them for the first time at the station. Quite the opposite really. They are glancing
around uncertainly, and Mrs. Granger keeps on straightening her blazer despite the fact that it
sits perfectly. Harry finds comfort in that, and relaxes visibly after initial greetings.

While the Weasleys head to Gringotts, Harry, having withdrawn a little fortune earlier this
summer, stays with the Grangers.

“Oh,” Hermione says disappointedly when they enter Flourish and Blotts and are faced with
neat stacks of Hogwarts books organised by year and tied with different colour ribbons.
Harry thinks he must know Hermione very well because he figures straight away what is
wrong.

“You know that you don’t need an excuse of shopping for school books to browse the
bookshop?” Harry tells her as he picks two stacks tied with orange ribbons up.

Hermione looks at him sheepishly, “Am I this obvious?”

“Absolutely transparent,” he grins at her. “Come, I saw something I thought you would like
when I was here a couple of weeks ago.”

And just like that they are back to their hand holding, and their banter, and little whispers.
Harry hasn’t felt this good since school ended, and he wants to tell Hermione how light and
whole he feels, and he wants to touch her more. Play with her hair or connect tiny moles she
has all over her arms with a finger, but her parents are hovering around, and… He wants to
lean down and whisper right into her ear, let’s make a run for it, let's walk the streets of
muggle London listening to the music until it’s midnight, just you and I.

However, Hermione looks content browsing the history section, and Mr. Granger keeps on
asking her questions about this and that, which leaves Mrs. Granger and Harry, and Harry
feels so very awkward. So, he escapes to wander around the shop instead, and pays for his
books while he is at it.

The shop is oddly quiet, which doesn’t make any sense, but then Harry notices a large poster
of smiling Gilderoy Lockhart claiming that he will be signing books here at 12:30, and a
queue of people outside confirms is. When he pokes his head out to check how long it
actually is, he sees Mrs. Weasley smiling end waving at him from the end of an extremely
long line of excited witches with an occasional wizard here and there. It’s only 11:15 and
Harry shudders to imagine what the shop is going to be like when Lockhart shows up.

He weaves his way back around the shelves to suggest that they should make their way out
soon, but stops at hearing Mrs. Granger’s voice.

“It looks like you found a very good friend, darling.”

“He’s the best, mum.” The corners of Harry’s lips lift involuntarily at that.

“I know you’ve missed him. Your dad and I talked, and we thought that you might want to
invite Harry to visit next summer.”

“Really?” Harry’s smile widens when he hears how excited Hermione sounds.

“Really,” her dad replies. “We will have to confirm with his family first of course,” and
Harry’s smile disappears just like that.

Of course they think he is a regular boy with a normal family who love him and want him
safe and arrange things like visits to friends’s houses and sleepovers. These impeccably
dressed people with their posh accents and polite smiles. Of course they like Harry. They
know nothing about him. Anger bubbles inside his throat and seeps into his mouth. Words
spill out of him the moment he steps around the bookcase.

“You can’t confirm with my family because I don’t have one. The people who were supposed
to look after me treated me like a dog. The only thing that they didn’t do was chain me to my
bed.”

He bolts out of the shop leaving the Grangers with shock all over their faces. Harry doesn’t
know why he said what he did, nor does he know what exactly he is running away from. His
legs carry him around the corner and to a narrow alley, away from the Grangers, the shop, the
long queue, people, from somebody calling his name. Just away. He leans against a wall and
hits the back of his hear on the bricks hard because now is the worst time for a meltdown.
Everything that has been bothering him floods his mind regardless, uninvited. He is homeless
and alone. But he’s always been alone, hasn’t he? He has never had anyone to go to with
scraped knees, to find comfort. He has never had anyone who would choose him before
anybody else, who-

Arms come around him, and familiar presence floods his senses instead, and words spill out
again, although they are not fuelled by anger anymore. It’s more like there is no room in
Harry to hold on to them anymore, and Hermione is safe. He speaks into her neck, and she’s
got her fingers in his hair, and with each confession he becomes lighter. He doesn’t know
why he hasn’t told her before. It’s not so bad, really. Just his cupboard, his memories of fear
and darkness, and constant hunger until he learned to steal. Just harsh words, and some
painful blows, and locks and that bloody cat flap and a tin of cold soup. It’s not so bad at all.

***
Somehow he ends up with the Grangers at the Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlour answering
questions between spoonfuls of his peanut butter and strawberry dessert, as if it could make
the whole situation more bearable. The questions are gently phrased though and the words
are chosen carefully, like extending your hand to a skittish animal. As if Harry is hurt and
needs help, but they are not sure how he will react to kindness.

He shifts focus to the easy bits, like explaining how outdated wizarding law is when it comes
to child protection (although in reality it’s Dumbledore more than anything else), and what
Professor Snape has done for him, and how the Weasleys are more than happy to look after
him every summer. When the topic finally shifts to the Grangers’ travels, Harry is immensely
grateful. Mr. Granger tells anecdotes and everybody laughs, although sometimes he is not
that funny at all. Mrs. Granger shares random history facts and local legends, and she seems
to be more like Hermione is that regard. Hermione doesn’t say much. She just holds his hand
under the table, and passes him a small box - shrunken - wrapped in plain brown paper but
with bright-red bow on top.

“Happy Birthday,” she whispers into his ear, and he hides the box in his pocket.

“Thank you,” he whispers back.

***

Harry thinks about how Snape knows the truth, and he doesn’t treat him differently for it.

Mrs. And Mr. Weasley knows the truth because Snape told them, and they still took him in.

Hermione’s parents know the truth, and they don’t look at him as if he is damaged, and they
don’t act weird.

Hermione knows more truth than anybody else, and she is still here. She still feels like the
closest person in this world.

Maybe the truth is nothing to be ashamed of.

***

“I will always be there for you. You know it, right?” Hermione shouts over the din of the
Leaky Cauldron. Mrs. Weasley is gushing about how amazing a wizard Lockhart is to Mrs.
Granger, who looks clueless but is nodding politely nevertheless. Mr. Weasley is
interrogating Mr. Granger about the works of muggle public transport. The twins are trying to
talk Tom into selling them a bottle of Fire Whiskey, and Harry doesn’t want to think where
they’ve gotten the money. Percy is talking to somebody in expensive-looking robes, and
Ginny is leafing through a black book. Ron is the only gloomy member of their group, but
it’s not surprising considering he is the one charged with guarding the shopping bags piled
next to the fireplace.

“If it comes to it, you can live in my bedroom under your invisibility cloak,” Hermione
continues.
“I can be your personal monster under your bed,” Harry smiles.

“A monster? You’re not that scary,” she smiles back at him easily.

“What? I can be plenty scary!”

But before they can properly get into it, Ron starts whining quite loudly about being bored,
and Mrs. Weasley finally notices what Fred and George are up to, and starts gathering them
all, getting ready to floo back to the Burrow.

They all shout “bye” and “see you soon” and wave, and Hermione kisses his cheek before
dashing out after her parents and into the muggle world. She’s never done that before, and
Harry smiles like a loon as he steps into the fireplace.

He doesn’t get lost this time.

 Chapter 13
Chapter Notes

I've decided that Dobby isn't going to be in this fic because I don't need him to make the
story work. Otherwise, I have nothing agains house elves :)
Enjoy another little chapter!

6th August, 1992

Harry waits until the Burrow is still, until the sky is full of stars, until the only sound that he
can hear is an occasional hoot of an owl from outside and Ron’s quiet snoring.

He feels like a little boy hiding under his blanket with a torch, only he’s got a wand instead
and he has nothing to hide, not really. He wants privacy not because of what is in the box - it
could be a pair of socks for all he knows - but because of who it is from. It is his very first
present from Hermione, and he doesn’t want to share the moment of opening it with anybody.

He doesn’t find a pair of socks though. He finds treasure with a note on top.

Dear Harry,

No matter where we were or what we did, I was thinking of you and how much I wanted to
share my experiences with you.

This is me sharing.

Happy Birthday,

Lots of love,

From Hermione

Something flutters in his chest as he moves the objects around and feels an emotion that he
cannot describe. There is a stack of postcards from all sorts of places, Brussels and Frankfurt,
Munich and Bern, Milan, Venice, Rome… all filled with Hermione’s neat handwriting.
There’s confectionery he has never seen before, and souvenirs like a miniature falling tower
of Pisa, a black sweatshirt with I *heart* Rome, a travel mug with a bear printed on it - heavy
like there is something inside - and a cat-shaped sticky note attached to it.

The preservation charm will cancel itself when you open it. Wait until you want to drink it!

Harry grins. As if he could be patient enough to wait when he’s already been waiting all
evening. Whatever it is, Harry wants it now. Even if it’s a double espresso with so much
sugar that it will make him run in circles like a golden retriever chasing its tail. It’s not
espresso though. It’s the most delicious hot chocolate Harry has ever tried in his life. He sips
it as slowly as he can with a goofy smile while reading all the postcards, and each word feels
like a gift.

Venice is breathtakingly beautiful but, Harry, nobody tells you how much the water stinks.

A seagull has stolen my sandwich, can you believe it? Straight out of my hand.

That’s it, no more picture galleries. I’ve seen so many that they all have blurred into one.

Harry, we must go to Naples and eat so much pizza we can’t walk.

Harry wants it all. He wants to eat pizza with Hermione, and guard her from sneaky seagulls,
and look at paintings walking down endless gallery halls. He wants to grow up and travel the
world and be able to do all these things with her. He wants to be free from Voldemort and the
shadow of him that he’s been carrying around. Harry will not be defeated. He will not let the
abuse that the Dursleys have inflicted upon him cripple him and define the sort of person that
he is. He won’t let Voldemort’s memories drive him insane. He will use them, and he will
bring the darkest wizard of their time down. He will kill him with his own hands if he has to.
Not to save the world but, selfishly, for himself. To be able to walk down a narrow street in
Venice holding Hermione’s hand. With no fear.

***

17th August, 1992

His visions have been different since his trip to Diagon Alley, more vivid somehow, more
detailed, and focused not on Voldemort but on who he was before he became the most feared
wizard of the century. Harry dreams of running down a cold corridor and somebody shouting
“Tom!”. He dreams of boys with gaunt faces and cruel twists of their mouths. He dreams of a
box of stolen things in his wardrobe: matches, a folding knife, a silver pin, a tin of coins. He
dreams of Hogwarts, but teachers are not the same. Dumbledore looks so much younger, and
Hagrid is only a student. He dreams of giant spiders and a snake so large it can’t possibly be
real. He dreams of a diary with a plain black cover, and Harry has a feeling he has seen it
before. Not in a dream but in real life. It’s important. He doesn’t know why, he just knows
that it is. But no matter how hard he tries, he can’t remember.

***

30th August, 1992

“Be right back,” Harry shouts over his shoulder as he opens the front door and walks inside.
They’ve just finished lunch, which they normally eat outside on Sundays if the weather
allows. Harry helped levitate a long wooden table into a shaded spot under a tree, and he
carried plates, and a large pitcher of strawberry lemonade that he had picked the strawberries
for. Harry is beginning to feel like a part of the Weasley family and he is torn between
soaking up all the affection, like a person who gulps water down after days of walking
through the desert, and running away from it because what’s the point of getting used to
something if you might never experience it again. Contemplating all that, he accidentally
walks right past his and Ron’s bedroom, where he was heading to fetch his broom, and up
another flight of stairs. He chuckles at his distractedness and is about to go back down when
something stops him.

The next thing he knows, a door slams loudly downstairs, and Mrs. Weasley bellows
“Ronald!” from the garden. Harry looks around in shock not having the slightest idea how he
ended up in a room with floral wallpaper, stuffed animals on the bed and a fuzzy pink rug.
It’s so girly, this bedroom can only belong to one person, but why is Harry here? He was
standing on the landing only a second ago, wasn’t he? And now he is in Ginny’s bedroom?
How? He must have approached the door, turned the handle and walked in. Why didn’t he
remember doing any of these things?

One thing is to joke with Hermione about being a monster under her bed, and completely
another is actually lurking inside little girls’ bedrooms.

Harry walks out, closes the door, jogs down the stairs, grabs his broom and does his best to
ignore a niggling feeling that something is about to go horribly wrong.

***

31st August, 1992

In the end, he hasn’t got too much time to dwell on what happened because they all spend the
next day rushing about the house.

“I won’t have you running around like a herd of mad hippogriffs tomorrow morning!” Mrs.
Weasley doesn’t budge at their collective whining that there is still plenty of time, so they end
up running around like a herd of mad hippogriffs today instead because nothing is where it’s
supposed to be, and how did Harry’s socks end up in the fireplace?

“Fred! George!” He yells, because who else could it be? Judging from a raucous laughter
from upstairs, he’s right too. It takes four cleaning charms but some of the ash persistently
clings to the fabric despite his efforts. He is tempted to fill a couple of his socks with it and
launch an ash bomb at each twin, but he is afraid this would send Mrs. Weasley on a
rampage. He’ll have to get back at them some other time.

He stuffs his socks and a few other bits he’s collected around the house into his trunk all the
while thinking how he doesn’t really want this summer to end. He wants to see Hermione,
more than anything in the world, but he’s only just started finding out what being a part of a
loving family feels like. Even if he gets pranked from time to time and told off with the rest
of the kids, the Burrow feels more like home than Privet Drive ever could.

“Harry, dear, feel free to leave any things that you don’t need at school here,” Mrs. Weasley
tells him when he comes back down. “We want you to treat the Burrow like it is your home.”
Harry thanks her and thinks about running back upstairs before she decides to give him a hug
because if she does, he’ll burst into tears like a cry baby. Something occurs to him though.

“Mrs. Weasley, can you give me the recipe for the cake that you made for my birthday?”
Mrs. Weasley gets a book that looks like it belonged to her great-grandmother, finds the
recipe and copies it to a bit of parchment with a touch of her wand. They sit at the table, and
she goes through every step with Harry, who makes so many notes on the margins that there
is no space left at all.

“Thank you,” he says. “For everything.” She does give Harry a hug, and he does tear up but
just a little bit, so it’s okay. It’s funny, really, how he learned not to cry when faced with
cruelty, but a little bit of kindness can tear him right into pieces.

However, despite what Mrs. Weasley has said, he doesn’t leave anything behind, just in case
something happens. It is him after all. Something always happens when it comes to him.

***

1st September, 1992

Having a big family is a nightmare when it comes to getting ready. They fit all their trunks
into a magically extended boot of Mr. Weasleys Ford Anglia, and they squeeze themselves
into the tiny car, but then the twins realise that they’ve forgotten something, and Percy after
that, and then Ginny cries out that she left her diary behind. When Mr. Weasley doesn’t want
to go back for it because they are too far away now, Ginny breaks into tears and Harry can’t
imagine some diary being this important, but Mr. Weasley does turn the car around. They all
get out in the end, and get their trunks out of the boot because they don’t have enough time
and will need to travel by floo instead.

It’s all so ridiculous. Somehow, they are still running late and have to race towards the
station, and through the barrier, and the moment Harry steps onto the train, after all the
Weasley children, the train jerks, the whistle blows, and off it goes. Harry takes a deep breath
in and blows it out in an attempt to calm his racing heart. Then he laughs.

“You know how your mum didn’t want us to run like a herd of hippogriffs this morning?”
They all laugh then, and Harry thinks how it might be his favourite feeling - making the
people that he cares about laugh.

When Harry finds Hermione, who is in the same compartment they occupied last year - with
swear words on the walls and L+J in a heart - he doesn’t get a hug like he expected. He
doesn’t get a kiss on the cheek either, not that he expected that. He gets fists batting on his
chest and an angry girl in his face.

“I thought something happened to you! I thought you wouldn’t come!”

Harry hugs her anyway, even though Hermione reminds him of a feral cat right now.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and tells her how mental getting ready can be if you live with the
Weasleys. He turns the whole story into a comedy so that by the end of it Hermione is
holding her hand to her mouth and giggling. Harry decides that making Hermione giggle
uncontrollably is definitely on the top of his list.
“You are wearing the sweatshirt,” Hermione says after they sit down, she by the window and
Harry by her side. She touches the bright-red heart with her fingertips and smiles as if she’s
got a secret, like a child with pockets full of sweets that she is not going to share.

“It might be the most prised item of clothing that I own,’ he tells her, and even though his
tone is joking, it couldn’t be more true. After all, none of his other clothes were given to him
with love.

After they chat for a while and have a few snacks from the trolley, an easy silence settles
around them, and Harry takes a small blue notebook out of his pocket. He has given it plenty
of thought. He will not hide anything else from Hermione, not anymore. He hands her the
notebook without any hesitation although his heart feels like it’s going to beat right out of his
chest.

“What is this?” Hermione asks as she takes it from him and flicks through the pages.

“My last secret,” he replies. “I got this notebook because I wanted to write my dreams down.
Because they are not dreams at all. When I asked you to sleep in the common room with me
because of my nightmares… They are not nightmares.” He gulps and prays she doesn’t
dismiss him and call him a lunatic. “I think - no, I’m certain they are Voldemort’s memories.”
Hermione looks at him, startled, and then goes back to the very first page and starts to read.

Harry watches as she examines a list after list, some words underlined or circled, some have
ticks next to them. He watches as she reads his ramblings about particular visions, and his
thoughts about Tom Riddle and what his life was like. She asks about the name when she first
comes across it.

“Who is Tom Riddle?”

“It’s his real name, before Voldemort. He grew up in a muggle orphanage.” Hermione looks
up at that, her eyes wide.

“I thought he was a pureblood. I thought he was as spoiled as Malfoy as a child.” Harry

thinks of a cane coming down hard on Draco’s hand, and what Draco saw in the Mirror of
Erised, but these were not his secrets to tell.

“Well, things are not always what they seem.”

Apart from this little exchange though, Hermione reads in silence, and it feels like an eternity
passes before she turns the last page that has writing on it and sees that the one after it is
blank. Harry realises that he’s gripping the seat with his fingers, so he forces them to
unclench and rests his hands on his lap.

“What do you think?” He asks, trying to sound calm.

“This,” Hermione points to his pathetic drawing of a diadem. “Looks like Rowena
Ravenclaw’s lost diadem. It hasn’t been seen in centuries. This,” she flicks the pages until she
finds another drawing, a cup this time, “could be Helga Hufflepuff’s cup, which hasn’t been
seen in years either. If you’d read Hogwarts, A History, you’d know.” And Harry can’t help
but roll his eyes, but Hermione is too focused to see.

“Could a fucking huge snake,” she blushes as she says the swear word, “be a basilisk?” But
Harry doesn’t know what a basilisk is, so Hermione explains, and then she flicks to the last
page that got only one word written and a question mark next to it. Hermione traces it with
her finger. Harry isn’t even sure it’s a real word, and he hasn’t exactly dreamed it either. It
simply appears in his head every time he dreams about the diary, or the cup, and some other
things. Horcrux, horcrux, horcrux, with a vicious hiss at the end.

“I don’t know what a horcrux is either, but I’m certain Miss Pince will help us out.”

Hermione closes the notebook carefully, turns her whole body towards Harry and pierces him
with her eyes.

“We are going to use this,” she says, holding the notebook in front of her. “I am not going to
let this, him, take you away from me,” she continues with determination. “We are going to
use this, and we are going to kill Voldemort.” And isn’t it exactly what Harry thought too?

He puts his hand on the notebook, and their fingers touch. He looks at Hermione just as
fiercely and says, “We are going to kill Voldemort.”

This is the moment Harry comes to the realisation that their friendship is not your regular I-
like-hanging-out-with-you sort of friendship. It’s more than that, and it’s more than boyfriend
and girlfriend sort of a relationship or whatever labels others want to put on them. It is I-will-
help-you-hide-the-body and I-will-kill-for-you sort of friendship. And, Harry can’t speak for
Hermione, but he will not only kill for her. He will die for her too. If it comes to it.
 Chapter 14

2nd September, 1992

Now that Harry is back at Hogwarts, it feels like no time has passed at all. He is glad to see
that most of the student body, especially the female part, is preoccupied with their new
Professor, Gilderoy Lockhart, so much so that hardly anybody throws hostile (or otherwise)
glances at Harry. So, when it’s time for Herbology, their first lesson of the year, he is in a
pretty good mood. He’s got his friends around, nobody seems to hate him as much anymore,
and it actually feels good to have some structure back.

“Remember, under no circumstances take your ear muffs off until I signal that it is safe to do
so! These mandrakes are still infants, but they will put you out like a light,” Professor Sprout
instructs before they get busy repotting what looks to Harry like ugly plant babies.

When he gets to the ear muffs, there are only pink ones left, but he doesn’t mind it too much.
Nor does he mind that his mandrake is really stubborn and does everything it can not to go in
the pot. He’s nearly got it though, maybe a slightly different angle and -

His ear muffs suddenly vanish, and he doesn’t even manage to cover his ears with his hands
at hearing the plants’ piercing waling. His whole body goes weak, his arms won’t work and
his legs refuse to hold him up anymore. A pair of arms wrap around his chest in an attempt to
support him but he must be too heavy because a moment later he is on the ground, and
everything goes dark.

***

“Ah, welcome back, Mister Potter. I am flattered to know that you’ve missed me enough to
pay me a visit on the very first day.” Harry opens one eye to see Madame Pomfrey placing a
glass vial on his bedside table. He winces and forces his other eye to open.

“Has it always been so bright in here?” Harry croaks. His head hurts so much he is sure his
skull is about to crack open.

“Take this,” the mediwitch measures some of the potion into a small cup and hands it to him
with a glass of water. He dutifully drinks it and gulps some water straight after to wash the
bitterness away. It still clings to his tongue and he makes a face, but he knows it’s all worth it.

“Ah,” he sighs happily not even a minute later. “You are my most favourite person in this
castle right now.”

“I don’t think your friend over there will be glad to hear that.”

Harry’s head immediately snaps towards the doorway to see Hermione walk in, and he sits
upright.
“Perfect timing, Miss Granger,” Madam Pomfrey tells her. “Your disaster-prone companion
has just woken up.”

“Hey! It wasn’t even my fault this time,” he whines jokingly. “Who did it, anyway?” He asks
Hermione. She looks irritated now that he thinks about it. She huffs and sits down heavily in
the chair next to Harry’s bed, her book bag hits the floor with a heavy thump.

“Justin Finch-Fletchley. I saw him behind you but I didn’t think anything of it until he pulled
your ear muffs right off. Such an idiot!” And just like that, the illusion that people have
forgotten all about him dissolves into nothing.

“What’s his problem? Is he still annoyed about last year?”

“I didn’t have a chance to ask, sorry. I was too busy hexing him.”

“You did what?”

“I made him throw up slugs. Professor Sprout was pretty annoyed with him too. She just gave
him a bucket and made him sit in the corner waiting for it to pass.”

“I wish I could’ve seen that. I love watching you hex people. You look so cool when you do.”

“Next time make sure you’re conscious when I hex somebody.”

Harry leans over and pokes her in the ribs, and Hermione jumps in her seat with a yelp.

“Sprout took 20 points from me though,” she tells him when she is sure he’d not going to
poke her again.

“Hermione Granger. Starting fights in the middle of the class. Tut tut,” Harry teases.

“Oh, shush, you.”

“Right.” Madam Pomfrey approaches them and gives Harry a look that is both stern and
affectionate. “If you are well enough to sit here and joke around, Mr. Potter, you are certainly
well enough to attend your next class.”

Harry groans, but dutifully hops off the bed and slings his bag over his shoulder. Then thinks
about it and takes Hermione’s bag from her as well.

“It looks heavy,” he says with a shrug when she looks at him, and her lips stretch into a smile.

Harry thanks Madam Pomfrey as he and Hermione leave, her hand in his. We look after each
other, she said once. She hexed a boy for him while in class. A huge smile takes over Harry’s
face.

It’s good to be back, Harry thinks, despite everything. No Justins of this world can ruin this
for him.

***
It turns out that Harry has only missed Transfiguration, and they even have enough of their
lunch break left to enjoy some fresh air.

“My mum has always called weather like this witchy, even before she found out about me,”
Hermione says as they lower themselves onto the courtyard steps. The wind is whipping her
hair all over the place, and she twists it into a knot and fixes it in place with a pencil, but little
strands still escape and flutter around her face. Harry looks at the overcast sky and at a large
tree in the corner whose branches are swaying so violently it looks like they might snap. The
air is warm though, and the light drizzle feels pleasant on his face.

“I can see why,” he replies. “There’s something wild about it… makes me want to go flying.”

“Oh no. I’ll have to tie you up if you lay a single finger on your broom.”

“Come on, the wind isn’t even that bad!” As he says it, a branch of the tree snaps right off
and falls with a loud crack.

“You were saying…”

They look at each other and burst out laughing. There is a flash in the air, and then another
one, and Harry reckons a thunderstorm must be coming, only he didn’t hear any thunder. He
looks up to check, his lips still stretched into a smile, and is faced with another flash, a large
muggle looking camera, and a skinny boy behind it. He frowns.

“Hi Harry, I’m Colin, Colin Creevey. I was going to ask, but it looked like too good a shot to
miss. Some boys said that I can develop the photos in a special solution and they will move.
Isn’t it brilliant? I can make you copies too. Will you sign one for me? That last one should
be really -“

“Are you signing photos now, Potter? Will you give one to Granger? She’ll be able to put it
on the wall and kiss it goodnight.” Harry wanders sometimes if Draco walks around under a
disillusionment charm just to be able to listen in on people’s conversations and pop
seemingly out of nowhere to make scathing remarks.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Harry mimics Draco’s drawl. “Hermione’s got the real me. Maybe you
would like a photo, Draco? You fallowed me all the way here, you must have missed me so
much!”

“Dream on.” Draco sneers and sticks two fingers up at him, but then he gives Harry a long
look, and he knows what Draco means. They did it last year. One finger means today, two
fingers mean tomorrow. Draco wants to meet tomorrow after curfew, and Harry gives him a
quick nod and is about to say something sarcastic back when he is interrupted by a male
voice he doesn’t recognise.

“Harry, Harry, Harry.” He whips around to see Lockhart in his turquoise robes smiling at him
condescendingly. “I should have known it was you! Things that people at this school say
about you! A word to the wise, Harry.” Lockhart flings his arm around Harry’s shoulders and
starts leading him back inside. Harry doesn’t like this, he doesn’t like the way Lockhart says
his name. He doesn’t like Lockhart touching him. He doesn’t like Lockhart. “Handing out
signed pictures at this stage of your career isn’t sensible. If you want to be as famous as me -“
Harry isn’t willing to tolerate this any longer. He twists away from under Lockhart’s arm,
stands tall and clarifies, “I wasn’t handing out pictures. I do not want to be famous. And I do
not want to be anything like you, Professor,” Lockhart’s award winning smile disappears
from his face, and there is a malicious glint in his eyes that Harry likes even less than being
clutched to his side.

“Do you reckon we can get rid of this one before Christmas?” Harry asks Hermione after
Lockhart has glided away to be swallowed by a crowd of gasping and giggling older girls.

Hermione just rolls her eyes at him and pulls him inside and towards their Defence Against
the Dark Arts classroom.

After the class though, having spent half of the lesson answering questions about Lockhart’s
personal life and the other half stunning and stuffing Cornish pixies back into their cage, she
says, “Let’s aim for Halloween.” Harry grins and slings his arm around Hermione’s
shoulders.

“You’ve got it.”

***

They are sitting on a small sofa tucked in a corner in the common room, and the familiarity
of it feels like being embraced. Hermione has just explained to him how to transfigure beetles
into buttons - the lesson that Harry missed - and he gets the spell after his third try.

“Have you thought about being a teacher?” He asks, collecting the buttons and putting them
back in the jar where the beetles Hermione borrowed from Professor McGonagall used to be.

“When I was really little, yes, but then I realised I did’t like other children,” Hermione replies
as she takes the jar from Harry and stuffs it back into her already bulging bag. She says is
with a smile, but there is something sad about it too.

“You could always teach adults. There must be universities in the wizarding world.” He
relaxes against the back of the sofa and turns his head to be able to see Hermione.

“There are wizarding programs at muggle universities, actually. I was thinking about going
into law, but with you as my closest friend I am beginning to think it would be a better choice
to study healing.”

Harry takes a cushion he was resting on and launches it at grinning Hermione, who catches it,
hugs it to her chest and shifts to rest her back against the arm of the sofa. She tucks her toes
under Harry’s thigh and asks more seriously, “What would you study?”

“Will it be strange if I say potions? Despite how much Snape picks on me during class, I
actually like the subject a lot.”

“I think you like Snape.” Harry opens his mouth to argue with her but snaps it shut when he
realises that yes, he actually does.
Hermione has changed into an old and comfortable looking pair of jeans, and there’s a rip on
one knee. Harry traces the line of exposed skin with his finger and plays with frayed edges.
Every time he thinks of Snape now, he thinks about his mum, and the Dursleys a little, but
mostly his mum. There is still this hole in his chest, an emptiness where his parents should
be. He knows what his parents looked like, and he knows some things about his mum, but
barely anything about his dad. It’s not enough to even start to fill this hole.

“He is a good man,” he says in the end, but his mind is somewhere else. When he finally
looks up, Hermione is watching him in a way that he can’t decipher.

“Want to listen to some music? I’ve got a new album.” It’s like she can tell his mood has
shifted, and she knows exactly what he needs.

“Sure,” he agrees easily, but Hermione is already untangling her earphones, and mere
seconds later they disappear into their bubble of peace, music and comfort the presence of the
other always brings.

***

3rd September, 1992

Harry is walking down dark deserted corridors, wearing his invisibility cloak and checking
with the marauders map - his birthday present from the twins - just in case. Draco is already
in the classroom that they used to frequent last year, and Harry speeds up at seeing that
nobody is patrolling this part of the castle at the moment. On the one hand, he is still annoyed
with Draco about this whole it-will-be-better-if-we-are-not-friends-anymore thing, on the
other though… he is worried about him too. Draco’s face looks even more pointy now, as if
he’s lost some weight, and he’s got dark circles under his eyes, very similar to those Harry
sees in the mirror every morning.

Harry opens the classroom door and takes the cloak off, and Draco, who is straddling a chair,
jumps with a gasp, startled.

“I bloody knew it!” He exclaims. “All these questions about invisibility cloaks! Let me try
it.” He gets up, his hand already outstretched, but Harry just squints at him suspiciously.

“Have you decided that we can be friends again?” He asks, and Draco drops his arm.

“Not exactly,” Draco sits back down, and Harry hops on a desk by the wall.

“Why were you in Borgin and Burkes?” Draco asks.

“A floo powder accident. How is your hand?”

“Fine,” Draco replies in a clipped sort of tone, and Harry knows that he hates it that he has
seen what his father did, like Harry would have hated if Draco saw even a snippet of his life
with the Dursleys. He drops the subject.

“Why did you want to see me?”

Draco just stares at him, and Harry stares back. This silence, this game that Draco is playing
makes Harry want to snap, but the shadows that the moonlight is casting on Draco’s face
making him look sickly forces Harry to break the silence.

“Are you okay?”

Draco laughs in reply, only it’s hollow and slightly unhinged. This laugh belongs in a horror
film and certainly not at a school full of magic and peacefully sleeping children.

“Would you be okay if-?” Draco starts but stops mid-sentence and holds his hand to his
mouth as if he wants to keep in whatever is trying to escape.

Harry grips the edges of the desk and leans forward.

“You can tell me.”

Draco shakes his head.

“I can tell you one thing. Something is going to happen this year. All the mud-, all the
muggleborns are in danger. Don’t let Granger walk anywhere by herself. Let others know.”

Draco gets up to leave, and Harry’s irritation spikes.

“That’s it? You know how vague this is?”

“I am sorry the information is not up to your satisfaction, but this is all I’ve got.”

“No. This is all you are choosing to tell me,” Harry challenges, but all Draco does is lift his
chin up.

“Whose side are you on, Draco?”

Draco sneers. “My own, obviously.” And the way he says it is so very Malfoy that Harry
grins despite himself.

“Obviously,” Harry agrees. “What outcome would be ideal for you, Draco? Is it the one
where Voldemort controls everything you do or say, and punishes you the moment you step
out of line? The one where you spend every single day of you remaining life scared?”

“What do you know?”

All Harry knows is what he has seen in his sleep, but his intuition has always been spot on,
and right now it tells him that Draco is living some of the nightmares that Harry dreams. I
will betray you. Maybe he could tell Draco just enough to make his side Draco’s side too.

“What if I told you that I had the information necessary to bring Voldemort down?” Harry
asks watching Draco’s face, however, if his face gives anything away, it’s imperceptible in
the absence of light. But maybe it’s not so bad they can’t see. Some things are easier to talk
about in the dark.
“You’re bluffing,” Draco replies. “You’re just a kid.”

“I am Harry Potter.” Harry has never used his name like this, and he is surprised when it
seems to work.

“Tell me what you know then,” Draco demands.

“You are the one who told me not to trust you,” Harry points out.

Draco looks at him, head tilted to the side as if thinking something over.

“You can’t,” he nods. “But I can choose to trust you.” He comes closer, so close that Harry
can feel Draco’s breath on his face as he speaks, his voice an urgent whisper. “I heard father
and mother argue. He… he offered me to the Dark Lord, to take Quirrell’s place. To be a
host. He said it would be an honour. My mother said over her dead body, but father said it
didn’t matter anymore. That he wants his own body. There are people coming and going in
and out of the manor at all hours. I’ve heard screams. I know the Dark Lord gave my father
an object. The object is at school now. I don’t know what it is or what it does, but it’s
supposed to harm muggleborns.”

“Why do you keep on calling him the Dark Lord?”

“Because that’s what his followers call him, and if I slip and call him something else in the
presence of others, they will know what I’m thinking.”

“And what are you thinking, Draco?”

“That I want him dead. I want all his followers dear. Even father.” Draco’s voice breaks at the
last word.

“I want to trust you too.” Harry saturates his voice with conviction. “But I don’t trust them.
Some of them know Occlumency. You know what it is, don’t you?” Draco nods.

“I don’t need to know. Just… do your crazy Harry Potter shit and destroy the bastard.” Harry
can’t help himself, he laughs, and it echoes off the walls. Draco covers Harry’s mouth with
his hand.

“Are you crazy? It’s after curfew!” He hisses. Draco is so close, Harry can see desperation in
his eyes, and hope. It’s insane how he, a twelve-year-old orphan, can give people hope. So,
Harry doesn’t show his disgust at what Draco’s father is willing to do, he doesn’t ask if
Voldemort is in Draco’s house, he doesn’t say that he has no idea what exactly he can do with
all the information that he has got.

When Draco removes his hand, Harry picks his invisibility cloak up, jumps off the desk,
steps closer to Draco and wraps them both in the fabric that feels more like liquid.

“Come,” Harry says. “I’ll walk you back to your dormitory.”

Friends or not, they are two boys with broken families, two boys who haven’t been loved
enough, and two boys who want the same thing. A future.
 Chapter 15
Chapter Notes

Hi lovely people. Some mischief, some angst, some cuteness... the usual :)
I hope you enjoy!

4th September, 1992

“Horcruxes? I have never heard of them. Are you sure you’ve not making a mistake?”
Madam Prince is eyeing Harry and Hermione suspiciously as if they have made up a whole
new word just to confuse her.

“I have distinctly heard them use the word several times, Madam Pince. Could you check for
me, please?” Hermione clasps her hands in front of her chest and looks at the librarian
pleadingly, and Harry is sure she isn’t even faking it. When Hermione is faced with
something she doesn’t know, she gets desperate.

“Only because it’s you, Miss Granger,” Madam Pence finally agrees after giving them a long
stare.

“Oh, thank you!” Hermione starts rocking on her feet impatiently as Madam Pince opens a
drawer with the letter H engraved on a metal plate in the corner and starts flipping through
the cards inside, all the while muttering under her breath. Harry’s heart speeds up in
anticipation as he watches the librarian’s fingers work so quickly they seem to blur.

“Herbania…hippogriff… honeywater… horcrux! Goodness gracious! I could’ve sworn you

were mistaken.”

Both Harry and Hermione lean over the counter eagerly as Madam Pince takes the card out
and turns to face them, a frown on her face.

“There is a book called Secrets of the Darkest Art, however, it is no longer available at
Hogwarts library. We do have Magick Most Evile… Unfortunately, it is in the restricted
section and I doubt you have a pass.” She gazes at Hermione and Harry over the rim of her
glasses, and they both shake their heads disappointedly. She continues, “I’d say, whatever the
wizards you overheard at Diagon Alley were discussing, you are too young to learn about. I
would drop your research and focus on more age-appropriate things, like schoolwork.” She
turns away to place the card back, not interested in their muttered thanks.

“Are you thinking what I am thinking?” Harry asks as they walk out of the library.

“You. Me. The cloak. Midnight?” Hermione raises an eyebrow at him as if it’s a challenge.
He smiles mischievously. “It’s a date.”

***

The library looks eerie with pale moonlight flowing easily through large windows, reflecting
off the polished surfaces of wooden tables. The bookcases cast blocks of shade on the floor
so dark that it feels like you will fall right through the floor if you step into one.

“This way.” Hermione’s breath tickles his ear and he follows her into the maze of books, still
under the cloak, arms outstretched not to bump into anything. There is no light here, but
Hermione could probably find her way around with her eyes closed, but even she needs a
Lumos when they get to the restricted section. Harry whispers the light spell under his breath
and the tip of his wand starts glowing gently.

“Silent spells,” Hermione whispers.

“Pardon?”

“Casting silently should be our challenge for the year,” Hermione clarifies. Harry pulls the
cloak off them, stuffs it in his pocket and gives her a look.

“As if this,” he waves his hands at the books, “is not challenging enough.” Despite what he
says though, he thinks it’s a good idea. What if they find themselves in a situation where they
can’t speak? What if they find themselves in one of Harry’s nightmares? Captured. Silenced.
Wandless. Helpless.

“Hey,” Hermione touches his shoulder lightly. “You okay?”

The freckles on her nose are more pronounced in this light, and there are many more than he
thought. Thinking of Hermione’s freckles is much better than panicking about something that
may never happen, and his mind clings onto that. Harry has a sudden urge to trace the line of
her nose with a finger and touch her cheek.

“Yeah,” he replies and steps away. “Just spaced out for a bit there. Let’s start looking.”

It’s nearly two in the morning when Harry finally spots it, a large tome with the cover the
colour of blood.

“Hermione!” He forgets to be quiet in his excitement, and she shushes him, but her eyes
shine eagerly too. “I found it,” he adds, in a low voice this time. She unceremoniously grabs
the book from him, opens the index and starts tracing her finger down the list. He simply
watches over her shoulder, his heart rate picking up speed just like when he was waiting for
Madam Pince to complete her search.

Hermione’s finger stops, and she flips through the pages frantically until she finds the one
they need.

Of the Horcrux , wickedest of magical inventions, we shall not speak nor give direction.

“What? That’s it?” This time it’s Hermione who forgets to whisper.
“Give me that,” Harry hisses. But no, there is indeed nothing else on Horcruxes, at least not
in this book. “I can’t believe it. Too evil for the book of evil.” He wiggles his fingers and says
it in a spooky way in an attempt to lighten the mood a bit. He shuts the book angrily and it
gives out a sad ghostly wail as if responding to their disappointment. Harry stuffs the useless
volume back in between other dusty tomes and turns back to Hermione, who is gnawing on
her lip and frowning.

“Hey,” he smoothes the line between her eyebrows out with his finger and pulls on a lock of
her hair gently. “We’ll figure it out.”

“I’ve got a very bad feeling about this, Harry. What if… what if…” She doesn’t complete the
sentence but stares into space, and he wonders if similar images to what he saw earlier are
flowing through her head now. Capture. Torture. Death. It’s just one word, he tells himself. It
doesn’t matter. Only he knows that everything is revolving around this word, Horcrux, and if
they don’t figure it out then everything else he knows will become useless. But he can’t think
like that. He must not.

Harry cups Hermione’s cheek with his palm and she leans into the touch, her eyes closed.

“I don’t want to lose you,” Hermione whispers, and the pain in her voice crawls right inside
Harry’s ribcage. He pulls her into a hug and Hermione immediately buries her face in his
neck and rests her palms on his chest. They are so cold that Harry can feel it through his
jumper. He presses her firmly to his chest, and despite the fact that he is only a little bit taller
than her, Hermione feels tiny right now, vulnerable, and she is hunching her shoulders
forward as if she wants to make herself even smaller.

All the excitement, all the determination and hope of earlier have been drained out of Harry,
leaving hollowness and fear behind. He knows that he is overreacting, and he yearns to
reassure Hermione, tell her she won’t lose him, make promises that he might not be able to
keep. He’s got a bad feeling about this too, just like Hermione, and it sits heavy in his chest,
like a ball made of lead.

“I don’t want to lose you either,” he says in the end and holds her even tighter.

***

They creep out of the library feeling drained all of a sudden. All Harry wants is to fall into his
bed, pass out and not think about anything at all. Only there are footsteps coming from the
staircase and a dark shape appears at the end of the corridor. Harry curses under his breath as
he and Hermione press themselves agains the wall in an attempt to become one with it. Who
else would be wandering the castle after two in the morning? Even teachers need to sleep.
However, the shape is moving closer, and Harry recognises it now, the gliding walk and the
way the robes flow. Hermione tenses next to him and her fingers dig painfully into his arm.
Harry puts his hand on hers in an attempt to communicate that it’s alright, that the most
feared Professor of Hogwarts is not that scary and, anyway, they are hidden under the cloak.
There is no way Snape is going to notice them. Harry can see him properly now, lit by the
light coming from a single candle burning in a sconce above their heads. Hood raised, outer
robes glistening with rain, and carrying… What is it? A basket?
Harry expects Snape to walk past them and be on his way, however, the Professor slows
down and starts turning very slowly on the spot, as if he can sense that they are here. Harry
holds his breath and feels Hermione press even more into him as Snape faces them and
reaches a hand out and grabs empty air. He knows. But how can he know? He definitely does
though because he makes a step in their direction, arm still outstretched, and Harry and
Hermione start sliding down the wall in an attempt to avoid Snape’s hand, but the action
makes a noise. Snape’s fingers grab the cloak this time, and he yanks at the fabric, making it
slip off their shoulders. Shit.

“Err… Good morning, Professor,” Harry gives him a sheepish smile.

Snape doesn’t look impressed.

“Mr. Potter, it is the first week of classes. Couldn’t you have given me a break and waited at
least until the end of the month to start misbehaving? And I can see that you’ve dragged Miss
Granger into this.”

“Hello, Professor,” Hermione squeaks from behind Harry’s shoulder when Snape’s dark eyes
land on he. She clears her throat though and adds more confidently. “I wasn’t dragged
actually. I came quite willingly.”

“I see. And why did you need to visit the library at night, pray tell?”

The Professor’s tone is icy, the way it is when he teaches Potions, but they are not in class
right now, and Harry does the thing that comes naturally when Snape and him are not
surrounded by other people. He becomes cheeky.

“I’ll tell you, Sir, if you tell me why you are dressed like a dark version of the Little Red
Riding Hood?” And yes! The corner of Snape’s mouth twitches.

“I felt like going into the woods in the middle of the night, skipping down the path, singing a
little song, collecting some flowers…” Snape says dispassionately while demonstratively
lifting the basket up, which is full of little white blossoms. “Now, your turn.”

“We felt like reading in the middle of the night. No noisy students to distract us, no strict
librarian to stop us from going into the restricted section-“ Hermione elbows him right in the
ribs. “Ow!”

“And what were you looking for in the restricted section?”

“Something that’s not there.”

“Hm. Next time, simply ask for a pass, Mister Potter. Detention, both of you. Last Saturday
of the month, Potions Classroom, 10 o’clock in the morning. Come. I will walk you to your
dormitory.”

“We can find our way back, Sir,” Harry tries.

“It is not about you finding your way back. It is about you not being found.” Snape gives
each of them a long look, and when neither of them say anything else, turns away and heads
for the staircase. “Put that ghastly cloak of yours back on,” he throws over his shoulder. They
do, and they follow without a word.

***

5th September, 1992

Harry collapses into bed around three in the morning grateful that it is Saturday and he can
sleep well until lunch if he wants to. Alas, it is not meant to be, because their mad Quidditch
captain, Oliver Wood, wakes him up only a couple of hours later with words of starting early,
beating all the other houses and bringing glory to Gryffindor. This is why Harry is sluggishly
descending the staircase now, yawning widely and dragging his broom behind.

“Harry! Wait!” Harry winces at hearing squeaky notes of Colin’s voice. “I’ve heard
somebody say your name.” The first year jogs to catch up.

“Hullo, Colin,” Harry greets him unenthusiastically and yawns demonstratively, but Colin
doesn’t seem to notice.

“I wanted to show you. Look!” He shoves a bunch of papers in front of Harry’s face, and
Harry takes them automatically, then stops when he looks properly, feeling more awake all of
a sudden.”

“They are brilliant,” he whispers in awe.

“I’ve always liked taking photos. My dad got me my first camera when I was four…”

But Harry isn’t listening. He is watching himself and Hermione laugh in the courtyard, their
foreheads pressed together. They look up at each other and smile merrily. Harry tucks one of
her curls behind her ear, and the wind whips is right back out, Hermione touches his shoulder,
and then they start laughing again. Harry is mesmerised. It’s doesn’t exactly mimic their
movements that day, but it captures them perfectly.

“Can you make a couple of copies for me? And I’ll be interested in other photos that you take
too. I can pay.”

“Sure,” Colin beams at him. “Can you sign this one for me?” He waves a photograph of
Harry’s smiling face in front of the real Harry.

“Colin. No.” And maybe his tone is too harsh because Colin’s face falls, and Harry feels
compelled to explain. “I don’t want to be treated like some kind of a celebrity. I just want to
be a regular kid, okay?” Only he will never be a regular kid. At times he doesn’t feel like a
kid at all. However, he can at least try.

“Okay,” Colin mumbles, clearly still disappointed.

“Can you do me a favour and tell Hermione, if you see her that is, that Oliver has dragged me
into practice?”
“Oh, sure, Harry!” Colin perks right back up and seems to be ecstatic to have a task. He
reminds so much of an eager to please puppy that Harry nearly calls him a good boy.

“Thanks, Colin. See ya!” He rushes outside before Colin decides to trail after him.

***

Harry sleeps through most of Wood’s ramblings about their new game strategy, happily
drooling on Fred’s shoulder, who doesn’t even complain. Only when Harry wakes up, his
nails are bright pink, and it seems it’s a trend. First ear muffs, now this.

“Don’t look at me like that!” Fred pouts while George and Angelina are snickering behind
him. “You look so pretty!”

“He does look beautiful,” Angelina agrees.

“Simply gorgeous!” George echoes.

“You three sound like you want to take me out on a date. You can buy me breakfast. I’m
starving!” Harry smiles a broad and very fake smile at them, and everybody laughs again. He
fishes his wand out of his pocket and tries to change his nails back to normal with the spell
that Hermione uses, to no effect.

“Why won’t it change back?” He demands, frustrated.

“Because we love you, little brother-“

“And we want you to stand out.”

Harry looks at them with a blank expression. Like he doesn’t already stick out like a sore
thumb. However, something warm lights up inside him at George calling him little brother.
Harry tells himself it’s nothing to be happy about though. This is the way the twins are, that’s
all. Jokes, words, banter and poking fun, so he carries on in the same manner.

“Then next time make them green, to match my stunning eyes.” Harry holds his fingers to his
eyes to emphasise his point.

They walk out of the changing rooms, all bright eyes, broad smiles and shoulders bumping
only to be stopped by the Slytherin team, who are all wearing their gear and carrying shiny
new brooms.

While Wood argues with Marcus Flint, the Slytherin captain, Draco pointedly looks at
Harry’s nails and raises an eyebrow in question. Harry glances at Fred meaningfully and rolls
his eyes. Draco smirks.

“At least nobody in our team had to bribe their way in,” Harry says icily after Draco mocks
the old brooms used by most of his teammates. In reality though, he is looking forward to the
challenge. Besides, Harry can’t wait to see Draco’s face after he snatches the golden ball
from right under the Slytherin’s nose.
***

Hermione and Harry are walking along the lake, Harry still in his Quidditch robes, eating jam
sandwiches (the only thing that was left when Hermione got to breakfast, five minutes before
it finished). The sun occasionally shines through the clouds giving the world around them a
golden tint, even Hermione’s hair looks more red than brown in its light.

“You should ask Snape about the book, or about Horcruxes,” Hermione suggests, licking jam
off her thumb and shaking crumbs off her blue woollen jumper.

“I’ve thought about it.” Harry finishes the last bite and licks his lips before he continues.
“Something that Draco said got me thinking. Snape always calls Voldemort the Dark Lord.
His followers call him that.”

“Or people like Draco,” she interjects.

“But Snape is nothing like Draco.” Draco is scared and confused, and Snape doesn’t look like
either of these things.

A large cloud swallows the sun again, at once making the world dull and grey.

“He doesn’t seem like a Death Eater either…” Hermione argues. “He helped you this
summer. And you’ve spent so much time alone with him. He apparated you. He could’ve
taken you anywhere, but he didn’t.”

“I know, I know. But I wish there was a way to check if he’s got the mark.”

“Well, we could use a vanishing spell on his clothes-“

“While in the middle of class-“

“Do you think his underwear is also black?”

“Hermione, I don’t want to think about Snape’s underwear. Speaking of! Do you want to help
me shrink all the twins’ boxers? Not enough to be noticeable straight away, but enough to be
uncomfortable.”

“Oooh, that’s evil!” Hermione gives a dirty laugh. “Revenge for the nails?”

“And for hiding my socks in the fireplace, and multiple other pranks I got subjected to while
living in the same house as them…” They turn and start making their way back towards the
castle, and Harry takes the Marauder’s Map out of his pocket to check if the twins are in the
Gryffindor tower. They are not.

“Hey, do you know who Peter Pettigrew is?”

“No, why?”

“Just curious. Ron is sitting with him in the common room, that’s all.”
“Must be somebody from a different year we don’t know.”

“Must be,” Harry shrugs, puts the map away, and forgets all about it anyway when he looks
at Hermione.

“You’ve got jam on your face.” He points at her cheek. “And I thought you were old enough
to know how to eat properly,” he teases, but the mischievous glint in Hermione’s eyes makes
him take a step back.

“I’ve got jam on my face, do I?” She launches herself at him and, before Harry realises what
exactly is going on, rubs her cheek on his.

“Ew! Get off! You’re all sticky!” Harry twists away from her and runs and, to his delight,
Hermione gives chase.

***

When they collapse onto the damp grass, exhausted and out of breath, and Harry looks at the
sky, the sun still somewhere behind the clouds, guilt seeps into his mind all of a sudden.
Voldemort is somewhere out there gathering followers and gaining strength. Something at
Hogwarts could potentially harm Hermione and other muggleborns, and they aren’t any
closer to gaining answers. He shouldn’t be laughing, having fun, playing chase and plotting
silly pranks. He should be doing something, anything to bring them closer to winning this…
what is it? It’s not war yet, is it?

“What are you thinking about?” Hermione’s question pulls him out of his brooding. He looks
back at her, her hair looks like a giant brown cloud, even more fizzy than normal from all the
moisture in the air.

“Do you think my parents did the right thing, deciding to have a baby when they were in the
middle of war?” Hermione frowns and watches him silently for a while, as if she is trying to
read his mind. Her eyes dart all over his face, and there is that look again that he doesn’t
recognise.

“People need to live,” she says finally. “Make friends, do goofy things, start families, fall in
love…” She looks away and up at the sky. “Even during war. Otherwise, there won’t be
anything to fight for.”

Harry turns to his side, rests his head on his arm and studies Hermione’s profile, her cheeks
still flushed from running. The sun comes out again, and everything is back to cheery gold.
His lips part to tell her something, something important, but it slips away from him, just like
the meaning of that mysterious look he sometimes sees on Hermione’s face.

“Do you think it’s okay to not think about anything this weekend?” Harry asks as he gets up
and offers his hand to Hermione. “And do a bit of living?”

She takes it, and they go and do just that. They shrink the twins’ underwear just enough, and
then they try not to laugh - unsuccessfully - when they see Fred and George scratch and pull
an their waistbands the next day because their boxers are too tight. They do their homework
in the common room together with their year mates, go to meals, practice silent spells and
pretend that neither of them is worried about Voldemort, Horcruxes, cursed objects, or where
to search for next.
 Chapter 16
Chapter Notes

Books get passed in this one a lot.

Enjoy!

8th September, 1992

“Diffindo,” Harry mutters barely moving his lips and his bag falls to the floor spilling his
things at his feet, the strap neatly sliced in half. He swears just for show and pretends to be
peeved as he squats and starts gathering his belongings. A foot in a polished shoe kicks his
Potions text, and Harry doesn’t need to look up to know it’s Draco. He watches as his book
slides between the rows of desks and nearly all the way to the head of the classroom where
Professor Snape is standing, looking unimpressed.

“Very mature, Malfoy,” Harry complains between his teeth.

Snape picks Harry’s book up with just two fingers and dangles it with a disgusted expression
as if he is holding something covered in mud. The Slytherins snigger and jeer from the
doorway, and Harry fights an urge to turn around and hex them with something bad enough
they have to go to the hospital wing. Thankfully, Snape flicks his wand and shuts the door as
the last students leave, removing the temptation.

He adjusts his hold on the book and hands it back.

“What causes this latest bout of clumsiness, Mr. Potter?” Snape asks evenly after Harry has
put everything away and repaired the strap. Harry takes a shrunken book out of his pocket,
returns it to its original size, and offers it to his Professor.

“I just wanted to give this back. I’ve read it twice now and made notes. I was thinking about
using it as a coaster, but it’s a smidge too big.” Snape takes the tome on Occlumency with an
I-am-not-amused stare, and Harry continues cautiously, “I think it will be more useful for
Draco Malfoy now.” Snape’s eyes momentarily widen in surprise.

“Draco Malfoy, hm?” And Harry is startled to feel Snape push against his mental barrier,
however, the pressure is gone without a real fight.

“You’ve been practising,” Snape observes.

“Like you’ve instructed, Professor. I also wanted to ask if we can resume the lessons. If
you’ve got the time.”
Snape walks to his desk, puts the book into a drawer and gets another large volume out. He
holds it out to Harry without a word and Harry approaches to take it. He looks at the cover.

“One Thousand Uses of Frogspawn?” Harry reads out loud, bewildered, but Snape is busy
scribbling something on a bit of parchment, “Sir, I’m not sure-“

“It’s charmed.” Snape stalks up to him, opens the book, places the note between the pages,
and shuts it again. He doesn’t let go though but looks intensely at Harry.

“You will read only what you need and nothing else. You have one day. You will bring it back
tomorrow evening.” Every word is said with such intensity, Harry feels like Snape is putting
him under a spell.

“Yes, Sir,” he agrees despite feeling utterly confused and, seemingly satisfied, Snape lets go
of the book.

“Dismissed.”

Harry turns to leave as if in a trance but remembers one more thing he wanted to ask, the
exact same question he asked Draco Malfoy.

“Professor… Why do you call him the Dark Lord?”

Snape doesn’t say anything at first but watches Harry pensively, and then he sighs, and it’s
long and pained as if Harry has just touched an already bleeding wound.

“Because I have made some mistakes in the past, and now I am paying for them,” Snape
confesses and turns away. Harry leaves without another word, closing the door carefully
behind himself and trying to chase away the feeling that he shouldn’t have asked at all.

The corridor is empty apart from Hermione, and Harry takes the note from between the pages
of the book he is holding to his chest.

Devil’s Snare

Wednesday and Friday, my office, 8pm

“Hey, how did it go?” Hermione slides off the windowsill she’s been sitting on while waiting
for Harry.

“He gave me a book,” Hermione frowns at the title. “It’s charmed. This is the password, I
think.” Hermione’s face lights up.

“Then why are we still standing here?” She takes him by the arm and pulls, and he smiles at
her enthusiasm despite himself, all thoughts about Snape forgotten for now.

***

Harry hastily picks up his crumpled pyjamas off his four-poster, bundles them up and throws
them in the laundry basket in the corner of the room. Thank God he didn’t leave any dirty
pants lying around, something that can’t be said for his dorm mates. He strengthens out the
dark red bedspread, turns to Hermione, and smiles sheepishly.

“I bet the girls’ rooms are much tidier.”

“You’d be surprised,” Hermione climbs onto his bed and folds her legs under herself. “It’s
just a different sort of mess. Besides, I’ve been in your dorm before.” She has, but Harry
never felt self-conscious about his mess until now.

“I should sneak into your room sometime. It would be only fair-“

“Fortunately for me, the stairs are charmed not to let you.”

Harry smiles mischievously as he draws the curtains of his four-poster and sits cross-legged
in front of Hermione. “There’s a password. It’s on the Marauders Map.”

Hermione’s mouth forms a surprised O, but then she shrugs, “It makes sense, really. What if
there’s an emergency and such.” She takes a bunch of candles out of her bag that they got
from a storage cupboard downstairs, and they busy themselves with lighting them one at a
time, then charming them to float above their heads and not to drip wax. When they are done,
Harry takes Snape’s book out of his bag and lays it on the bed between them.

“Is it me, or does it feel like we are about to perform some weird ritual?”

“Mmm,” Hermione nods. “It’s the candles.”

“Ready?” Harry asks.

“Yup.” Hermione gives an excited bounce, which makes Harry smile.

“Alright.” He holds his wand to the book and chants in the creepiest way he can manage,
“Devil’s Snare.”

The letters on the cover unravel and slither like snakes to shift and form different words, and
all the humour gets sucked out of the room.

“Fuck me,” Harry whispers in a mixture of awe, disbelief and fear.

“Harry, really!”

“Sorry, but…”

They stare for a long moment at the title which clearly reads Secrets of the Darkest Art before
Hermione breaks the shocked silence.

“He must have talked to Madam Pince.”

“But he just gave it to me. No questions. No nothing.”

Hermione rests her hand on his knee, and Harry’s gaze follows the line of her arm, up to her
shoulder, and, finally, her face. Her eyes shine with determination and focus.

“We can wonder how and why and what exactly it means later.” She scoots back to rest
against the headboard and pats the spot next to herself, but Harry is desperate to get some of
the lightness from earlier back because this is all too heavy, too real.

“You know,” he says as he moves to sit next to her and pointedly looks at the candles. “It
would all be really romantic if we were not about to spend our evening reading about the
darkest of magics.”

“Unless you are into Addams Family vibes,” Hermione smiles as she turns the pages, and
Harry catches glimpses of truly horrifying illustrations. He opens the drawer of his bedside
table and rummages inside until he finds a couple of chocolate frogs that were left after their
ride on Hogwarts Express.

“I’ve got a feeling we’ll need these,” he says as he hands one to Hermione, who’s got the
book open onto a drawing of a man screaming in agony, his chest torn open. Horcrux is
written in thick black letters at the top of the page, and Harry shivers.

Hermione rests the book on their bent knees and wraps her left arm around his right. She
takes a deep breath in as if she is about to dive underwater, and they start to read.

***

“It’s not so bad, really,” Harry says as he stretches his arms up and shifts to face Hermione
who is carefully putting the book away as if it can explode if not treated carefully. She
doesn’t say anything. Of course, it’s abominable what Tom Riddle has willingly done to his
soul. It’s revolting and blood-curdling. But it’s not bad, it’s doable. “Find the Horcruxes.
Destroy the Horcruxes. Kill the mad bastard. Job done.”

Hermione lifts her head up at that and stares at Harry as if he has lost his plot. Do her eyes
look red?

“We have no idea where they are or how to find them,” she starts angrily and holds one finger
up, adding another with each point that she makes. “We don’t know if there are more than the
ones you’ve seen in your sleep. Basilisk venom is extremely rare and Fiendfyre is impossible
to control, so there is no way for us to destroy them even if we manage to find them all.” She
sounds more desperate with each word, and after making the last point, she growls in
frustration, hides her face in her knees, buries her fingers in her hair and pulls. “It’s bad. It’s
really, really bad,” she moans into her lap.

“Wow. Okay.” Harry feels like she is overreacting a bit, or maybe he is under reacting. He
frees her hands from her hair and holds them firmly. “Hermione, look at me,” he says gently,
and she does, her eyes brimming with tears. “It’s overwhelming, and no, we don’t know
exactly, but I’ve got ideas about some of them, and we can research the objects that belonged
to the founders. And I did dream about that basilisk, so you never know. We just need to keep
on going. We must have hope.”
Hermione takes a shaky breath in and looks like she is about to say something, but whatever
it is, she can’t get it out. She is just looking at him worriedly and gnawing at her lip, and
Harry doesn’t know how to make her feel better, although he desperately wants to.

“One day at a time, okay?” He says and lets go of her hands to wipe the tears off her cheeks
with the cuffs of his jumper. “And if it doesn’t work, we move to Thailand.”

Hermione gives a surprised laugh at that. “Why Thailand?”

“Good beaches.”

“Can you even swim?”

“Did I say anything about water? Maybe I just want a nice tan.”

Hermione closes her eyes, inhales a little less shakily this time, exhales, and when she opens
them again, there is something hard in their depth.

“Fine. But if it doesn’t work out, I get to tell you I told you so.”

“And if it does work out, same.”

They shake on it with mock-serious faces, and Harry pulls Hermione into a hug and says
softly into the top of her head, “I don’t know, Hermione. I’ve just got a good feeling about it.
Like everything is going to fall into place.”

“I hope you are right.”

***

9th September, 1992

There are three cauldrons set up on the workbench by the wall, something thick and emitting
blue smoke is already bubbling in one of them.

“I thought we’d be doing Occlumency.”

“We’ll be doing Occlumency on Fridays. Wednesdays, however… Let us say Wednesdays

are a form of payment for taking up my time. The book?”

“What? Ah, right.” Harry takes the book - charmed back to look uninspiring - out of his bag
and hands it to Snape, who hastily puts it away.

“Why did you give us only a day?” Harry asks curiously.

“I borrowed it from Dumbledore. He might want it back.”

“Borrowed or borrowed?” Harry makes quotation marks in the air with his fingers and
meaningfully wiggles his eyebrows.
“Do you realise you have said the same word twice?” Snape replies in his regular
dispassionate way, but there is a little glint in his eyes too that you can only see if you are
looking for it, and Harry is looking.

“I’ll assume it’s the latter then.”

Snape pats him on the head with a rolled-up piece of parchment.

“Stop assuming and make yourself useful, Potter.”

The parchment holds a list of ingredients and instructions.

“A Blemish Blitzer Potion?”

“Very popular with teenage witches.”

Harry’s thoughts immediately go to Hermione and her flawless skin, and he smiles to himself
as he goes to gather the ingredients. It seems strange that Hermione still doesn’t see herself as
pretty… Sure, she is different from girls like Lavender, who is undeniably pretty, and there is
this girl from Ravenclaw, Cho. But the more he looks at these girls, the less interesting they
become. But the more he looks at Hermione, the more…

“Potter, are you looking for ingredients or daydreaming?”

“Sorry, Sir.” Harry brings his focus back to finding Witch Hazel and rose petals and slugs.
He’ll need to juice these, ew.

He will not tell Snape in case the Professor comes up with a less pleasant form of payment,
but he doesn’t mind being here at all. The sound that the knife makes as it slices through
leaves and hits the chopping board, the way his potion changes in colour and texture with
each ingredient that he adds, steady stirring and bubbles that rise to the surface and pop… all
these things make his mind blissfully quiet. Even slug juice can’t ruin it.

***

12th September, 1992

“And who is that?” Harry asks, eagerly leaning over Hagrid’s massive table and pointing at a
boy with dark hair, grey eyes and a mischievous grin in a photo in his album.

“Ah… This is Sirius Black, him an’ yer dad were best mates until he went all crazy,
murdered a bunch o’ muggles. He killed this shy lad, too.” Hagrid points at a boy with a
round face and a meek smile. “Nothin’ was left o’ ‘im but a finger.”

Harry stares at the slightly haughty but generally pleasant face of the boy who was named
after a star. He thinks of Tom Riddle, his handsome face and his charm. Regular boys turning
into murderers. Harry is willing to kill too, isn’t he? Is he just like them?

Hagrid carries on speaking after a pause.

“Peter Pettigrew his name was. Never could make sense o’ all that mesself.”

“Peter Pettigrew,” Harry repeats. “Why does it sound familiar?” He looks at Hermione, but
she just shrugs.

“It was all in the papers. Yer may’ve seen it mentioned somewhere.” Harry doesn’t think that
he has, but he lets it go for now.

“Who is this, Hagrid?” Hermione asks, stretching her arm and leaning into Harry’s side to
point at a boy with light-brown hair and tired eyes.

“Remus Lupin. A great kid, smart, was a prefect. Dumbledore wanted ter hire him as a
Defence Professor this year but couldn’t locate him. Real shame, that.”

Harry listens to Hagrid’s voice and sips strong sugary tea trying to wash down a sudden lump
in his throat. A part of him wishes he’d never brought his photo album here, never asked.
Then he could’ve lived with the illusion that his parents’ friends were out there somewhere,
happy and healthy and alive. Not missing, or dead, or imprisoned.

When they get back to the Gryffindor Tower, he goes to his dorm and stuffs the album deep
in his trunk.

***

18th September, 1992

It’s a curfew in a couple of minutes but Harry is walking sluggishly along the corridor and
rubbing his temples with eyes half-closed. Occlumency always makes his head ache terribly,
especially now that Snape is using a wand. Sometimes he wants to drop these lessons
altogether because of how draining they can be. However, he reminds himself that Voldemort
is a skilled Legilimens, which makes Harry come back every Friday and always sharp on
time. He’s pretty pleased with his progress though, especially with the fact that Snape hasn’t
managed to glimpse any of his dreams so far.

All of a sudden, before his exhausted body has a chance to react or even register what’s going
on, Harry is grabbed, pulled behind a tapestry and pressed into a cold wall.

“What do you think you are doing, hanging out with Snape at night?” Draco hisses in his face
and pokes him in the chest with his manicured finger, and Harry bats his hand away, irritated.

“What is your problem? Jealous precious Slytherin Prince doesn’t get enough attention from
his Head of House?” Harry’s voice is mocking and drenched with contempt. He unthinkingly
responded like he would have done if they were surrounded by other students. Draco doesn’t
seem to care though and just heaves an exasperated sigh.

“No, moron. Snape’s a Death Eater. He hates your guts. And you hang around the dungeons
as if he’s your best mate.”

“Are you sure?”

“Pretty sure. He has been in and out of the manor all summer.” The revelation hangs heavy in
the air, and Harry thinks. He thinks about how Snape behaves differently in public and in
private, how he said that he is paying for his past mistakes, how he doesn’t ask Harry
questions, at least not about Voldemort and what Harry and Hermione are up to, and he
doesn’t push too much at Harry’s Occlumency shields.

“Do you remember after the troll? You said we all have roles to play.”

Draco leans on the wall next to Harry and says, “He must either be a brilliant actor, or you
are mistaken.”

“He is a brilliant actor,” Harry agrees.

“But you don’t think you are mistaken?” Draco asks and squints at Harry, who shrugs his
shoulders dismissively. If Snape wants Draco to think he’s a Death Eater, Harry shouldn’t try
and convince him otherwise.

Draco gives an annoyed little exhale and bumps Harry with his shoulder.

“The next thing I know, you’ll tell me that the Dark Lord is a great chap, he is simply
misunderstood and needs a hug.” Harry laughs, although young Tom Riddle could have
certainly used more love and affection. Maybe then he wouldn’t be… but Harry doesn’t want
to think about that so he turns his attention back to Draco.

“You know who looks like he needs a hug?” Harry waits a moment, but Draco just looks at
him expectedly. “You.” Harry opens his arms and smiles broadly. “Come here.”

Draco jumps away with a shout and backs out from behind the tapestry muttering about
deranged Gryffindors. Harry slides down the wall laughing at Draco’s reaction and his
quickly retreating steps.

***

No, it’s not bad, Harry thinks as he walks the last stretch to the Gryffindor common room.
Draco is on his side, kind of. Unless he changes his mind again. Snape is on his side. At least
he seems to be. Even if he has got the mark. Hermione is undeniably on his side. Only she
has been withdrawn, and stressed, and spends more time reading than is normal, even for her.
And yeah, they don’t know all that much, and his dreams seem to be going on repeat. But it
will be fine. It has to be. They are definitely not doomed.
 Chapter 17
Chapter Notes

I've made myself sad writing this one. I'm selfishly hoping that it will make you sad too
because then it will mean that I've done something right:)

19th September, 1992

“We are doomed,” Hermione moans the moment Harry walks into the library and slides into
a chair opposite her.

“Hermione-“

“I’ve been trying to find any reference to the diadem, but no one has seen it since Rowena’s
daughter-“ She rants while putting one of the books in her bag.

“Hermione-“

“And what about the diary? There are no mentions of the diary any-“

“Hermione-“

But Hermione doesn’t stop, and Harry is worried about her. Her eyes are dark and frantic, her
hair a wild mess, and her fingers are trembling as she opens yet another book while still
talking incessantly. He stands up and the chair makes a loud scraping noise against the floor
that echoes against the walls. He doesn’t know if it’s the noise or him moving, but Hermione
stops her flow of words and follows Harry with her eyes as he approaches and squats next to
her chair. Her face looks exhausted this close as if something is draining life out of her, as if
it wants to put out that little spark that makes her Hermione, and intense anxiety coils around
Harry’s heart. He takes her trembling hands in his and says as steadily as he can, “It is seven
in the morning on a Saturday. How long have you been here?”

“I don’t know,” she frowns. “I couldn’t sleep.” Her eyes dart back to the books and her right
hand twitches in his as if it’s desperate to return to its job or turning the pages.

“It’s your birthday.” She looks up at that as if startled. Harry squeezes her hands and says
gently, “Happy Birthday, Hermione.”

“I’ve forgotten,” she whispers looking confused. As if she was lost in time and space, and
she’s only just realised it.

“No books today,” Harry orders. Hermione looks like she wants to argue, so Harry quickly
adds, “It’s time to do some living. You said so yourself, remember? People need to have fun
even during the times of war.”

She slumps in her chair then, looking defeated.

“We are going to have breakfast and go for a walk, then you are going to have a nap, and I’ve
got a surprise for you later today.” Harry knows that he is treating Hermione like she is a
young child but if she won’t look after herself then somebody else has to.

He helps her put the books away and takes her hand like he often does to walk to the Great
Hall. Hermione takes it back though to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. However,
she doesn’t give it back, and it has never happened before. She wraps her arms around her
middle instead and walks silently, more of a ghost than a girl, and Harry feels like a crack has
just been formed between them.

“Have I done something wrong?” He asks. He must have. Why else would his best friend be
drifting away from him?

“What? No! Of course not!”

“Then what’s wrong?”

“I’ve told you what’s wrong, Harry. I’ve told you. I’m just stressed that we can’t find
anything else that would be useful…”

“Do you want me to help more? I don’t mind getting up earlier-“

“No, no. You already help a lot. You’re right. I just need to forget about it all for a day. Have
some fun. Celebrate my birthday,” she takes his hand again and smiles, both actions look
forced though. However, this day is supposed to be about her, so Harry doesn’t push, and he
ignores his suspicion that there is something she is not telling him. He forces a smile too, for
her sake.

“Thirteen, huh? You’re officially a teenager. Do you feel any different?”

“Extra rebellious maybe. I did leave my bed in the middle of the night.”

They try and banter in their normal way but something essential is missing. Hermione is right
here holding his hand, but it feels like she is further away than when she was travelling all
over Europe and they couldn’t communicate. And missing her when she is right here hurts
even more.

***

Harry gives her his present when they are outside walking by the edge of the forest under the
overcast sky. A flat box with a cheerful pattern of cat faces that was inspired by the pyjamas
he saw Hermione wear once. She smiles as she looks at it, and it’s genuine this time but there
is sadness behind it too.

She opens the box and Harry notices how her fingers no longer shake. Maybe all she needed
was a bit of food.
“Oh,” Hermione says in awe. “It’s lovely, Harry.” It’s a golden bracelet, delicate and simple,
with five charms dangling from it. A book, a quill, a music note, a train and a globe.

“A train?” Hermione asks.

“We met on one.”

“And the globe?”

“You like travelling.” Harry shrugs and looks down feeling a bit awkward. “And maybe one
day we can travel the world together. Just you and me, when we are older.”

He looks back up to see Hermione’s lips quiver like she is about to cry, something that’s been
happening a lot recently. He’d say something, or she’d simply look at him, and her eyes
would water. She normally turns away when it happens or hides in a book, or walks away.
She doesn’t walk away this time though. She throws herself at him in her signature Hermione
hug and sobs once.

“Is my present that bad?” Harry asks covering up his nervousness with humour.

“Not at all,” she laughs through her tears but doesn’t explain.

“Then what is going on with you, Hermione?” Maybe he asks it too quietly and she can’t
hear it over the sound of the wind in the trees, but it’s more likely that she chooses not to
answer, and this secrecy stabs him like a knife.

***

“Honestly, Harry, I don’t need a nap,” Hermione argues as Harry gives the Fat Lady the
password and they climb in through the portrait hole.

“Then we’ll just sit by the fire. You’ll close your eyes, I’ll run my fingers through your
hair… it always helps me when you do that, and you said yourself that you’ve been stressed.”

Harry makes himself comfortable on the largest sofa right by the fireplace and puts a puffy
cushion on his lap.

“Fine.” Hermione sounds like a petulant child but she does what he has suggested, and when
she falls asleep after about three minutes, Harry is not surprised at all.

“I don’t need a nap,” Harry whispers mockingly and makes a face, but his fingers are still
running through her hair. They touch little scabs all over her head, and he remembers how
she said that she scratches sometimes. If only she would tell him what’s wrong.

He watches the fire for a bit mentally running through all the recent conversations he’s had
with her, which have all been about Horcruxes. Can it be that simply knowing about them is
sucking all the life and joy out of her? No, there is something else. He knows it.

Harry looks around the room, which is empty apart from Ginny and another first-year girl
playing Exploding Snap. When Ron’s sister catches Harry’s attention on them, she blushes,
and he quickly turns away. His eyes land on Hermione’s bag. She hastily stuffed a book in
there when he came to get her in the morning. What if she’s hiding something? The bag is a
bit far but Harry stretches his leg carefully and hooks the strap with his foot and pulls it
closer. Then he leans to the side just as cautiously to open the bag and look inside.

There’s the usual collection of quills, ink, pencils and notebooks, but also a book that reads
Soul Magic on its spine. Harry figures it makes sense in a way, only he doesn’t know what
she wants to find. They already know everything they need, don’t they?

He doesn’t try to get the book out but leans back on the sofa instead, not wanting to wake
Hermione up, and closes his eyes.

***

They have a little party in the common room, with a cake that Harry has made following Mrs.
Weasley’s instructions, snacks and drinks from the kitchen, the twins’ indoor fireworks and
dancing to the music coming from a wizarding wireless.

Harry watches Hermione jump up and down to an upbeat tune with other girls from their year
and hopes that everything will get better now. Maybe she simply needed to be reminded that
there are still things to enjoy, that’s all. They dance together later in the evening to a slower
song. Harry steps on her feet, and Hermione teases him how she’ll have to give him private
lessons. As if he’d mind. And when she kisses him on the cheek again and thanks him for a
wonderful birthday, he goes to bed with a much lighter heart. Everything must get better now.
It must.

***

It doesn’t though. It doesn’t get worse either, but the emptiness inside Harry’s chest grows. It
feels like Hermione has built a glass wall. They see each other, they talk, but it’s all distorted
by murky glass, and when they touch, Harry finds no comfort. Hermione stares into space a
lot and cries silently sometimes. She always turns her face away in the hope that Harry won’t
see, but he sees. He sees everything.

***

26th September, 1992

Harry and Hermione have just spent a good chunk of the day serving their detention with
Snape and helping him brew gargantuan amounts of Pepper Up potion for Madam Pomfrey,
which makes sense considering that half the castle is currently sneezing and sporting
unattractively red noses.

“You go ahead,” Hermione says after they have bottled their potions and tidied everything up.
“I need to ask Professor Snape something.”

“Something you can’t ask him with me present?” Harry knows he sounds bitter but he is just
so tired of all this secrecy.
“Harry, please,” she pleads.

“Fine.”

He storms out of the classroom and heads for the Quidditch pitch. If he is lucky, his team
might still be practising, and, God knows, he needs a distraction.

***

17th October, 1992

“Who’s died?” Ron asks after he plops himself onto the sofa between Harry and Hermione,
and that’s another thing. Before, they never sat far enough apart for somebody else to be able
to insert themselves in between. Now, however, they do it all the time. Harry cringes as
Hermione excuses herself and runs up the stairs to her dormitory.

“What? What did I say?” Ron lowers his voice to a whisper. “Did someone actually die?”

Harry claps him on the shoulder, “You’re alright, mate. Nobody did. But could you please get
your arse off my Transfiguration essay?”

They laugh and chat for a bit, and it makes for a nice break. Being friends with Ron is
effortless. Harry doesn’t need to think twice before he speaks and he doesn’t have to analyse
everything he says. It used to be like that with Hermione…

Ron is right though. She does look like someone close to her has died. Now that Harry thinks
about it, she reminds him of Aunt Petunia several years ago, when her close friend died of
cancer. His aunt would move from room to room and just stand there, having forgotten what
she came for, and she’d stare into space, and cry silently. She’d also shout at Harry a lot, as if
it was all his fault.

What if whatever is making Hermione upset is his fault?

***

31st October, 1992

October has passed in a haze, and Harry realises that Hermione used to be the brightest spark
in each of his days. Now, there is just a gap full of uncertainty and a lack of understanding.
He is so tired of asking what’s wrong and getting no proper answer.

“Hermione…” he starts uncertainly as they make their way back from Nick’s Deathday party.
The answer that she might give terrifies him but he simply has to ask. “Do you want to stop
being friends?”

She blinks at him for a moment, having stopped in the middle of an empty corridor. “You
don’t want to be my friend anymore?” Her voice shakes, but he’s used to it by now. “Is it
because of this?” She points at her face, her eyes brimming with tears about to spill.
“No. Of course not,” he takes a step closer but she takes a step back and wraps her arms
around herself. Another thing she’s been doing a lot recently. “You are the one who looks at
me as if somebody has died. If spending time with me makes you so sad, I figured you must
not want to be around me anymore. That maybe you just don’t know how to tell me.”

“You are such an idiot, Harry Potter!” Harry takes a step closer, and she takes another one
back.

“Am I? Then why are you doing this?” He gestures at the space between them, and Hermione
looks at their feet and makes herself take a tiny step closer.

“Because it’s like there is this grief rooted in my spine, okay? And its tendrils are
everywhere, in my head, in my lungs, in my heart.” Her fingers clutch at her chest. “And
when I look at you, when I touch you, it grabs and it twists and it pulls and I just can’t… it
hurts so much.”

“Grief?” Harry doesn’t understand. “Hermione, I’m right here. I’m alive.”

“But for how long?”

“Are you really that certain that Voldemort is going to kill me?” It comes out with an
incredulous laugh at the end.

“Not Voldemort, no. Harry, I think… I’m sure that-“

“Ssh! Can you hear this?” Harry lifts his hand up and freezes, listening.

Rip… Tear… Kill… I smell blood… I smell blood…

“Hear what? Harry!” But Harry is already running, following the fantom voice, along the
corridor, up the stairs, past spilt water, red writings on the wall and a shape suspended in the
air.

“Oh my God,” he hears Hermione speak from behind him but he doesn’t stop. There is no
voice anymore but a pull. Something is calling him, and he needs to be closer, he needs to
touch it, feel it…

He can see a small shape in front of him now, running, a blur of black robes and red hair.
Ginny? More turns, more steps. He is getting closer, he can almost touch her. Through the
portrait hole and across the common room. He grabs Ginny around the waist and they both
fall. She snarls like a trapped animal. A black book, no, a black diary, the diary, falls to the
floor. Ginny stretches her arm for it but Harry grabs it first not noticing how Ginny goes limp
all of a sudden. He opens the diary and watches slanted letters in black ink appear on the
page.

You are one of mine.

There is nothing else at first, only a distinct feeling that the diary is laughing, a cruel icy
sound that settles uncomfortably in Harry's bones. But then he sees. He sees everything. The
basilisk. The chamber of secrets. Chubby girl with pimples on her face, dead. The locket. The
cave. The cup. The diadem. The chamber of secrets.

Suddenly, the diary gets ripped out of his hands with a shout, and he frantically grabs for it
before he realises that it is Hermione who is holding the unassuming black book now and
staring at him with a terrified look on her face.

“One of your eyes turned brown,” Hermione whispers in horror but Harry doesn’t really hear
her. All he knows is that he has just been robbed of finally getting all the answers.

“Tom Riddle. I saw. Hermione, give that back! It was showing me-“

“It was possessing you! Harry, you’re -“ but then she looks behind his back, and he turns to
see Ginny rise from her curled-up position on the floor. She touches her head and Harry
realises that her hands are red with something that looks suspiciously like blood. Before he
can say anything though, he hears muffled voices from behind the portrait.

“The Halloween feast must be finished,” Hermione says in a shaky voice.

“Ginny, you don’t want them to find you like this,” Harry says urgently as he helps her stand
up. He can feel her trembling as if she is freezing cold, and her brown eyes are wide and
scared. “Hermione will help you. Won’t you, Hermione?”

“Sure. You look like you could use a nice hot shower.”

Ginny allows Hermione to lead her away, and Harry runs up the steps to his dorm, gets on his
bed and grabs a random book from his bedside table. He is willing for his heart rate to slow
down and for his brain to stop going through everything that’s just happened.

You are one of mine. But there is no time to think about it.

“Hey! How was the feast?” Harry says cheerfully when the boys trail into the dorm and he
prays that they won’t notice the fakeness of it. “Nick’s party sucked. We left early.”

Nobody smiles though.

“So, you haven’t seen?” Seamus asks squinting at him suspiciously.

Harry recalls a blur of bloody letters and shakes his head. “Seen what?”

“Somebody petrified Filch’s cat. And wrote on the wall with blood-“ Ron starts to explain.

“Could’ve been red ink-“ Neville suggests hopefully.

“It was definitely blood-“ Ron disagrees.

“What did they write?” Harry cuts in.

“The chamber of secrets has been open. Enemies of the heir beware.” Seamus says in a
spooky voice.
“It’s not funny.”

“What does it even mean?”

“Haven’t you heard the legend?”

The boys chat and gossip and tell scary stories well into midnight. Harry does his best to
follow and gasp, nod and laugh at appropriate times, but what the diary has revealed is
continuously swirling in his mind. And he’s got all these questions. Where is the diary now?
What has Hermione done with it? You are one of mine. Has Ginny said anything? Where did
all that blood come from? You are one of mine. What did Tom Riddle make her do?

When all the other boys are finally, finally, in their beds, Harry is lying on his back after
having gone through his regular routine of showering, brushing his teeth and putting his
pyjamas on just for show. He is jiggling his foot impatiently. How long has it been since it’s
gone quiet? Ten minutes? He needs to wait at least ten more to be sure. Then Ron starts
snoring, and Harry is about to take the Marauder’s map out of the drawer to see if anybody in
the second-year girls’ dorm is still moving around. You are one of mine. He has to see
Hermione even if he has to sneak up the girls’ staircase to do so. However, he freezes when
he hears the gentle click of the door opening and closing and the soft padding of socked feet.
He scooches to make room for her before he sees Hermione’s very familiar shape as she
climbs through the gap in his curtains and under the duvet he is holding up for her. He draws
the curtains shut with a spell and casts another one for privacy.

They lie on their sides facing each other, and when Hermione speaks, Harry feels her minty
breath on his face.

“If Parvati is allowed to get into Lavender’s bed, I’m allowed to get into yours,” she
whispers.

“I was about to come to you anyway.” There is heavy silence after that, not because they’ve
got nothing to say but because there is too much. And in this silence, the enormity of what he
has found out hits him. You are one of mine. Tom Riddle’s voice has been getting louder and
louder inside Harry’s head until it feels like a shout that he can’t escape from. And it all
makes so much sense now. Hermione’s grief. The memories. His connection to Voldemort.
Of course. He was so stupid.

“You knew from the very start, didn’t you?” He sits up in bed and carries on without waiting
for her answer. “I’m so cross with you! You should have told me. Why didn’t you tell me?”
His voice is shaking with anger. It’s much easier to be angry with Hermione than feel the
grief that she has been living with.

“Harry?” She asks, now leaning on her elbow, and looks at him uncertainly,

“I’m a Horcrux.”

When he says it, Hermione exhales sharply as if she’d been punched in the stomach, and the
word lies heavy between them like a dead thing that is so disgusting that you can’t look away
from it.
“I wasn’t sure at first,” Hermione answers at last, sitting up too. “And after, I didn’t want to
believe it. I wanted to find a way to remove it from you without…”

“Without destroying the vessel,” Harry finishes for her flatly. “But you couldn’t find
anything.”

“No… I even asked Snape, without saying anything about you obviously… Anyway, I was
about to tell you earlier today but you ran away from me,” she tries to joke but it falls flat.

“I’m sorry,” Hermione says with feeling and puts her hand on his cheek. Harry is torn
between leaning into her touch and cringing away from it, so he does neither. Is this how
Hermione has been feeling all this time? “I have been behaving as if I’ve already lost you.
But you are right. You are alive and you are right here. I just need to remember that. No more
tears.”

Harry gives in and presses his cheek into her hand.

“It’s okay to cry. I’ll probably cry when I manage to properly process what it means. But…
no more keeping things from each other, alright?”

“Alright. No more secrets.”

His anger has seeped out of him leaving a strange hollow feeling. It’s peaceful and he relishes
it while he can.

“I’m still cross with you,” but contrary to his words, he wraps his arm around her and she
snuggles into his side. It’s familiar but it’s nothing like before. Before, it was like warming
your frozen hands by a hot fire. Now, it’s like clinging to the edge of a cliff with your
fingertips. How many days of this are left before he has to die?

“Where is the diary?” He asks.

“It’s safe.” Hermione lifts her chin stubbornly - Harry feels the movement more than he sees
it - and he knows that it’s useless to argue with her about it right now, but he will have to find
a way to get his hands on the diary again.

“Did Ginny say anything?”

“She says she doesn’t remember. You should talk to her. She doesn’t like me very much.”

“Really? Why?”

“If you haven’t noticed, she’s got a massive crush on you.”

“Oh, that.”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t have a crush on her, in case you are wondering.” Hermione giggles and the mattress
shakes with it, something which makes Harry smile despite everything. It’s been a while
since he heard her giggle. “What?”

“There are talks of the Slytherin monster, death threats, writings in blood, people being
possessed, and let’s not forget that you’ve just found out that you are a vessel for Voldemort’s
soul, and we are talking about people’s crushes?” Hermione says it all through intense
giggles, and Harry can’t help but laugh at the ridiculousness of it.

“Well, we are teenagers.”

Somehow they find themselves lying down on their sides, their knees touching, Harry’s hand
on Hermione’s waist and hers on his chest. The mood shifts so abruptly that he is giddy with
it. For the first time ever, Harry thinks what it would be like to kiss Hermione. He licks his
lips at the idea, and his heart beats faster. He could just lean in and do it. Nothing gross, just
touch his lips to hers. She is so close already, and she is looking at him with that look. Will
Hermione let him? Even if she does though, it won’t be fair on her, will it? He doesn’t want
to break her heart more than he has to. She is already losing her friend. The closer they get,
the more painful it will become. Both for her and for him. Harry has already decided that he
would die for her if he had to, and now he knows he has to. It’s okay, really. It’s okay. He
makes the thought of kissing Hermione as small as possible, until it’s smaller than a grain of
sand, smaller than a speck of dust, until it’s so tiny it’s barely there at all, and then he stuffs it
into the deepest corner of his mind and builds a wall around it, just like Snape has taught him
to.

“Who do you have a crush on?” Hermione whispers as she moves infinitesimally closer.

“Horcruxes can’t have crushes,” Harry replies and moves away from her. Not far but enough
to make a point.

“Oh Harry,” is the only thing she says, two little words carrying immeasurable amounts of
grief.

She doesn’t try to come closer again but neither does she leave.
 Chapter 18
Chapter Notes

My family is down with some sort of bug and this chapter was written with a very fuzzy
head, so I'm not sure that everything here makes sense.
My next update might take a bit longer too, depends on how quickly we all recover and
if my children drive me up the wall or not.
*Insert crazy emoji here*

1st November, 1992

They lie in silence, they talk, and they laugh. The sort of laugh that starts with suppressed
giggles and shaking shoulders, and then it takes over your body and you can’t stop until you
laugh so hard that it turns into sobs and tears start streaming down your face. They spend the
rest of the night awake, stuck somewhere in between sadness and joy, with damp cheeks right
after Hermione said no more tears.

After minutes or maybe hours of listening to each other’s breathing, when it feels like it’s
nearly morning although the sky is still dark, Harry asks, “What will happen if a basilisk sees
its own reflection?” It’s asked in a sleepy, wondering-out-loud sort of way, and the last thing
he expects is for Hermione to sit up so abruptly she looks like a puppet pulled up by strings.

“You are brilliant! I read this legend about a wizard in Warsaw! Why didn’t I think about
that? Let’s go!”

And just like that, with no additional research and going to the library, they find themselves
half an hour later levitating a large mirror they got from the cloakroom that nobody uses into
the second-floor girls’ bathroom.

“It’s either the most ingenious plan ever or the most stupid one,” Harry says as they lower the
monstrosity in a golden frame down as gently as they can right in front of the open entrance
to the Chamber of Secrets. When they are done, he looks at Hermione who is eyeing the back
of the mirror suspiciously as if she is trying to judge if it’s up to the task or not.

“It’s your plan, so it’s probably a bit of both. Anyway, it will be fine,” Hermione reassures in
a tone that one uses when speaking to a friend before a difficult test. “I mean… what’s the
worst that can happen?”

Harry approaches the mirror and kicks its heavy frame, his hands in the pockets of his
hoodie, his posture relaxed. He feels high on the fact that they are finally doing something, or
maybe it’s the lack of sleep that makes his head feel like a helium-filled balloon.
“We’ll get a pet basilisk that follows us everywhere. It must be horribly lonely down there.
Just imagine! Pansy Parkinson will never say a word to you ever again. We can turn all the
Slytherins into our minions…”

What they are doing feels so surreal that Harry can’t help but think of it all as a ridiculous
horror comedy, and Myrtle producing excited squeals and howls in the background doesn’t
help. Maybe it’s not a bad way to think about it. Nothing is real. They play their parts, and
when it’s all finally over, when all the Horcruxes are destroyed, when Harry is dead,
somebody will shout “Cut!” from the distance, and he’ll just get up and return to his normal
life.

“Harry.”

“Hm?”

“Let’s focus.”

“Right. Just call a basilisk. Here, puss puss.”

“Harry,” she says with an affectionate kind of warning this time, and he finally makes his
strangely floaty brain focus on an engraving of a snake on the wall and hisses words that Tom
Riddle would say.

Come to your master. The heir of Slytherin is calling you. God, he feels so stupid.

There is nothing but eerie silence broken by the sound of dripping water for a moment but
then -

“Do you hear something?” Hermione grabs his arm urgently.

He does. Distant slithering of a large body, and Master… At last… So hungry…

“It’s coming. Don’t look.”

Closer, and closer, up the drain, calling for blood and murder. Harry shudders, Hermione
clings onto his arm, her body as tense as his. It’s the most difficult thing in the world, to be
standing here with your eyes closed in the face of something that could potentially kill you.
They don’t have to wait long though.

There is no crash or hiss, no sign that they have succeeded apart from the fact that everything
stops momentarily until there is a soft rustling sound growing fainter and a heavy thump that
echoes in the chambers below.

“Did it actually work?” Hermione asks as they both open their eyes to their unchanged
surroundings. She slowly relaxes her death grip on his arm and cranes her neck trying to see
behind the mirror.

“What? You didn’t expect it to?”

“Well, yes, but doesn’t it seem a bit too easy?”

“Maybe. But there’s only one way to check.” Harry waves his wand to levitate the mirror out
of the way but jumps with a yelp as Myrtle flies right through it and starts making circles
around him and Hermione.

“Oooooh, it’s huuuge.” Myrtle shudders for show. “But it looks very very dead.” She giggles
and then pouts and gives out a little sad whine. “It’s a shame you didn’t die though. I
would’ve shared my toilet with you.” She looks at Harry shyly. “Especially you, Harry.”

“Err… thanks. Maybe some other time, Myrtle.” He replies awkwardly.

“Yes, thanks for checking for us, Myrtle. You’ve been really helpful.”

The ghost giggles again while hiding her face with her pigtails and then dives into one of the
toilets disappearing with a splash.

“This is the most bizarre experience of my life,” Harry comments as he determinedly walks
towards the entrance. Hermione follows.

***

“Hullo, Sir,” Harry says cheerfully poking his head into Snape’s office. He and Hermione
have checked on the basilisk and found out that it is not as dead as they would like it to be.
“Do you by any chance have a need for a Petrified fifty-foot basilisk?”

Snape chokes on the tea that he’s been drinking, coughs into his elbow, then rubs his eyes
tiredly and mutters something about surely being in hell and definitely being too old for this.

“You’re in your early thirties, Professor. That’s not old at all,” Harry says helpfully, to which
Snape deeply sighs.

“Lead the way, Mr. Potter. I’m at your disposal,” the Professor says, louder this time and with
a note of resignation in his voice.

Harry smiles.

***

“You might want to give me a minute before you follow,” Snape says evenly as he peers into
the dark passage leading to the Chamber, then he raises into the air - just an inch off the
ground - and glides into the passage like some sort of a saint. Harry whistles.

“I didn’t know one could do that,” Hermione whispers in awe.

“Maybe it’s just Snape. I’m sure he’s part bat.”

They wait a bit, and they use Harry’s broom to go down, and when they land, the giant beast
seems to be dead this time. It was rigid before, stiff and looking like it was made of wax, like
one of the figures at Madame Tussauds. Now though, it’s sort of lying there slumped,
defeated, but still threatening in the semi-darkness of the cave-like room.
“Did you use Avada Kedavra, sir?” Hermione asks taking a step closer to the beast, old rat
bones crunch under her feet, and Snape looks at her warily, as if he expects her to run to the
authorities to report him for having used an Unforgivable. He inclines his head though, and
Hermione nods. “I didn’t know if it would work on something this large.” Snape lifts an
eyebrow at her matter-of-fastness.

“It works on any live thing, Miss Granger.”

“Is it hard?”

“The curse? Not if you have got enough hate in you. To kill though…” he lets his voice trail
off.

“Right,” Harry interrupts not liking this conversation not one bit. “What do we do now?”

Snape’s gaze seems to be stuck on Hermione though, and when he finally drags it away, it
seems reluctant, as if there is something else that the Professor wants to tell her but chooses
not to.

“Now, Mr. Potter, we harvest.”

***

Harry doesn’t know how much time has passed but it must be after lunch when they are done
because his stomach rumbles in protest, now used to regular meals. Snape hands Harry a
cloth bag with basilisk fangs without a word.

“Aren’t you going to ask us anything?” Harry wonders as he accepts it.

“It is much easier to hide something you only suspect,” Snape taps his temple with one
finger, “than something that you know for certain. Make an endeavour not to stab yourselves
by accident, hm?” And with his regular “dismissed” the Professor turns away to take care of
his numerous sacks and glass vials.

***

Hermione and he have raided the kitchens and hung around the common room just to make
themselves seen, but now they are back on their mission, walking down the long corridors
and catching glimpses of orange sunset through the windows. It would have been peaceful if
Harry couldn’t feel the call of Riddle’s diary coming from Hermione’s bag. It makes his
muscles clench as if his body is preparing for an attack, and faint whispers echo in his head in
a voice too low to be deciphered. Harry grits his teeth and digs his nails into his palms. He
wants to grab Hermione’s bag and run.

“Hermione-“

“No.”

“Please, just listen-“

“No.”

Harry growls and puts his hand on her shoulder to stop Hermione from walking away. The
neck of her top is wide enough for his fingertips to touch bare skin. The whispers in his head
disappear and the pull of the diary diminishes to a mildly irritating itch in the back of his
mind. Harry exhales in relief and rests his head on top of his hand.

“What’s just happened?” Hermione asks uncertainly.

“Tom was getting too loud. Touching you helps.”

“This… doesn’t make any sense at all.” But she puts her hand on the back of his head
anyway and he hums.

An idea strikes him then, and he just knows it will work. He knows. He lifts his head up and
looks at Hermione, his eyes bright.

“No, it doesn’t make sense, but it always works. It stops the visions at night, it calms me
down when I feel like I’m about to explode, and it won’t let Tom Riddle possess me if I hold
the diary and your hand at the same time.”

“Harry-“

“No, Hermione. Just listen. The diary is the very first Horcrux, right? I’m the last. It’s like
two points of a bridge. We can’t simply destroy it without trying to find out more.”

“Harry…”

“And I know where another Horcrux is. It’s here, at Hogwarts. I will go by myself and find it
if you don’t want to help me with this.”

“This is low.” She looks at him darkly. It is low but if reasoning and pleading don’t work,
blackmail is the only thing left.

“I need you to do this for me, Hermione. We have to do this. Nobody else can.”

Hermione’s lower lip is jutted out in a pout, but there is no stubborn lift to her chin anymore,
and Harry knows that he has won, which is confirmed when she nods just once.

Two girls pass them, all whispers and giggles, and Harry realises how close they are standing.
Hermione’s hand is still on his neck, and his on her shoulder… Harry lets go of her, takes a
step back and lets Hermione’s hand slide off his neck. The hum and pull of the diary return
and he grits his teeth against it, but a warm hand slides into his and his discomfort eases
down again.

“You are not alone in this,” Hermione says. “I’m sorry I’ve made you feel like you are.”

Harry’s eyes burn and he blinks the feeling away.

“Nothing’s changed for you though,” he says. “You still look at me with sad puppy eyes,” he
jokes and Hermione pushes him with her shoulder just like he knew she would.

“I don’t have sad puppy eyes!” She is peering at him with exactly those eyes though, large
and sorrowful. “And it has changed,” she says more seriously. “Now that you know, I don’t
have to hide.”

He pulls at her hand after they have spent a long moment looking at each other. “Let’s go.
Before we both start crying again.”

***

They hide in a storage room they only know about because it’s on the Marauder’s Map. It’s
dark, dusty and covered in cobwebs so thoroughly Harry is reminded of what his cupboard at
the Dursleys looked like after his first year at Hogwarts. They light a few candles, sit cross-
legged on the floor, and Hermione takes Harry’s hand before holding the diary out to him.

“If your eyes start turning brown again, I’m taking it away.”

His eyes stay the exact shade of green though, and there is no violent onslaught of images
either. It’s more like a gentle stream, like looking into your own memories from long ago.
And when Harry is satisfied, when he feels like he’s seen it all, they hold a basilisk fang
together in their hands, fingers entwined so that it’s impossible to tell where are his and
where are hers. They stab it with no hesitation, and the diary hisses like a hot poker plunged
into cold water, and a thick black substance pours out of the hole like blood out of a wound.
Harry touches the cover just to check but there is nothing at all. Just an old notebook. A very
gross old notebook.

“Eww,” Hermione says, clearly sharing his thoughts. She takes the fang out, and a bit more
liquid oozes out.

“Voldemort’s soul is foul,” Harry nods. “Um… do you think the wiping spell will work on
it?” Hermione shrugs.

“Only one way to find out… Targeo,” she points her wand at the mess and it disappears as if
it’s something regular like mud from your boots.

“This is almost anticlimactic,” Harry observes as he picks the book up and leafs through the
pages making sure that no trace of Tom Riddle’s writing is left. “We can tear a page out and
write a letter. Dear Tom, we found a bit of your soul lying around. It was nasty so we mopped
it up. Kind Regards, H&H”

Hermione slaps him on the shoulder playfully and takes the diary from him to put it back in
her bag.

He slings his arm over her shoulder as they walk back - something that he hasn’t done since
the beginning of term - and says, “Slew a basilisk in the morning, destroyed a bit of a dark
wizard in the afternoon… They should give us an award.” He puffs his chest out and
Hermione laughs. This is what Harry is going to focus on. On distracting his friend, on
making her feel better, and not on the fact that there is an abominable black mass somewhere
inside his body. No, this is something he isn’t going to think of at all.

***

“May I have everybody’s attention please! I am delighted to inform you that the situation
with the Chamber of Secrets has been resolved. The so-called Slytherin monster has been
dealt with and it is in no state to harm anybody.” The Great Hall gives a collective gasp. “Let
us thank Professor Snape for his efforts, and I would also like to award fifty points each to
Mister Potter and Miss Granger for their assistance. That is all. I shall no longer keep you
from your dinner.” Dumbledore sits down and after a brief shocked silence, the Great Hall
erupts into applause.

“When I said award I didn’t actually mean it,” Harry shouts into Hermione’s ear over the
noise before first the Gryffindors and then students from other tables move in on them like
sharks, only instead of teeth they’ve got questions. Great. Just great.

***

Harry falls into his four-poster with a tired grunt, his limbs spread like a star, one leg hanging
off the side of the bed.

“I hate Dumbledore,” he whines and throws one arm over his eyes shielding them from the
light.

“Are you mental? You are a hero again, and all these extra house points… I’d give anything
to be the centre of attention like that,” Ron says in a dreamy voice.

“Mmm… a little bit is nice… too much though...”

Harry hears Ron snort, then he is being covered with something pleasantly heavy. Before he
drifts away though, he remembers Snape’s hissing voice in the dark calling Dumbledore a
manipulative fool. What does others seeing Harry as a hero will achieve? Why can’t the
Headmaster just leave him alone? However, sleep takes him before Harry has a chance to
think it through.
 Chapter 19
Chapter Notes

I don't know when Cho became a seeker, but I don't think it really matters.

I hope you enjoy this chapter, as usual:)

See the end of the chapter for more notes

6th November, 1992

Oliver has been working the team like slaves this week no matter the weather and how
disgruntled everybody looks. Even Harry, who normally loves flying, is grateful when his
feet touch the ground after their last practice before the match.

“If you don’t catch the snitch tomorrow, I’ll kill you,” Fred says clapping him on the back.

“If I don’t catch it, I’ll kill myself,” Harry promises earnestly because death seems like a
much better option than Oliver pushing them even harder. Besides, he needs to die anyway,
eventually… so…

“Harry! Wait!” He turns to see Cho Chang rushing towards him, broom in hand.

George nudges him playfully with his elbow and wiggles his eyebrows.

“Who’s a lucky lad,” he teases, and Harry goes to punch him in the shoulder but George
jumps away with a guffaw.

“Later, lover boy!”

Harry makes a face at the twins’ backs and starts walking to meet Cho halfway. It seems odd
she wants to talk to him, considering they haven’t said a word to each other before. On the
other hand, a number of people have been more interested in him since Dumbledore’s little
speech, so maybe Cho being here isn’t all that surprising.

“Hi, Cho,” he says and gives an awkward wave. She is really pretty. Long black hair that
flows over her shoulders like silk, dark eyes with a mischievous twinkle, and her mouth a
perfect pink bow.

“Hi,” she echoes, looks down, and then back up again batting her eyelashes. “I’ve been
watching you fly. You’re really good.” Her eyes are wide and full of what seems like genuine
admiration.

“Err… thanks.” Harry rubs the back of his neck uncomfortably.

“I thought maybe you could give me some tips? I’m going to try out for a seeker next year
and I think flying together with you would really help.” She touches his arm and smiles
warmly, but something about it feels wrong and Harry steps away.

“Maybe some other time, okay? I promised to meet Hermione after practice.”

Cho frowns. “Come on, Harry. I know what everybody says about you two, but you can’t be
all that serious about that bookworm.” Suddenly, Cho doesn’t look all that pretty anymore,
not with a frown and a nasty curl to her lips.

“How did you end up in Ravenclaw?” Harry asks with no warmth in his voice.

“What do you mean?” She sounds confused.

“Well, I thought Ravenclaws were supposed to be smart, but smart people know not to talk
badly about somebody’s best friend.”

The line between Cho’s eyebrows becomes deeper. “Wait, did you just call me stupid?”

“You tell me.”

Harry doesn’t wait for her reply though. He turns away and makes a straight line for the
changing rooms. Cho huffs from behind him but Harry doesn’t care much. There is no way
he is going to waste the time that he has left on people who are nasty to others and only
interested in him because he is suddenly popular.

***

7th November, 1992

Harry does catch the Snitch, however, it doesn’t feel much like a victory, not one he can be
proud of anyway.

With the golden ball feebly fluttering its wings clutched in his fist, Harry stalks to Fred and
George and their triumphant smiles diminish when they see Harry’s face.

He presses the Snitch into Fred’s chest - just because he is the closer one of the two - and the
redhead automatically takes it from him, blinking owlishly.

“Is this really worth it?” Harry asks pointing at an unconscious Draco Malfoy lying sprawled
on the grass, Madam Hooch kneeling by his side. The twins decided that it would be fun to
direct all the Bludgers at Draco during the game so the Slytherin had to spend most of the
match dodging them instead of looking for the Snitch.

“Woah, Harry, chill. He’s alright,” Fred points at Draco too, who is now trying to sit up while
nursing his arm close to his chest.

“He’s not alright. His arm is broken.”

“It’s nothing that they wouldn’t have done,” George points out, clearly annoyed.
“So what? Let’s aim to be exactly like Slytherins. They’re such good role models!” The twins
look defensive, Wood only cares about the fact that they’ve won, and the rest of the team are
looking at Harry as if he has grown a second head. Is he overreacting? Maybe he is, but he
knows what it feels like to be a target, and to have broken bones because a bunch of boys
have decided that you are good to bully.

“Hey! Don’t touch him!” Harry shouts out when he sees Lockhart kneel next to Draco. He
takes a couple of hasty steps forward but it’s too late, Lockhart waves his wand, and Draco
goes even paler. His arm becomes limp and Draco pokes at it with a nonplussed expression,
and then bends it in half using his other hand for help. It folds as if it’s made of rubber.
Harry’s mouth falls open.

He feels a familiar touch on his wrist and he doesn’t even need to look to know who it is.

“Madam Pomfrey is on her way. Let’s go before you make a scene.” Hermione gives his arm
a little pull and it’s enough to refocus his attention.

“I wasn’t about to make a scene,” Harry protests.

“Uh-huh. You weren’t about to rush to Malfoy’s rescue.”

“I-“ he snaps his mouth shut because he totally was.

“See. I saved you from embarrassment.”

“They should be the ones embarrassed.” He nods at his rejoicing teammates and other
Gryffindors who have come onto the pitch to congratulate them.

“You’ve been different recently,” Hermione says matter-of-factly as they turn their backs on
the cheering group of people and follow less enthusiastic students back to the castle.

“Good catch, Potter,” an older Hufflepuff boy claps Harry on the back as he passes by. Harry
scowls.

“Different how?”

“Less patient with people. You don’t try to be nice for the sake of it anymore, and you don’t
try to meet people’s expectations either… I’ve heard you were mean to Cho Chang
yesterday.”

“She called you a bookworm.” Hermione laughs incredulously.

“Harry, I am a bookworm!”

“I know you are, and I love it about you. It’s not the word itself but how she said it… Why
are you looking at me like that?” They’ve stopped now, and Hermione grabs him by the cloak
and gives him a good shake.

“Why do you have to be so wonderful?” She demands with a growl, then lets go of him just
as abruptly, turns away with a sniff and starts walking again.
“Are you coming?” Hermione asks without looking back and Harry jogs to catch up.

“Are you going to attack me again?”

“I don’t know. Are you going to say something else that’s unbearably sweet?”

“I’ll try not to.”

“Good”

“… you’re such a weirdo sometimes.”

“Is me being a weirdo another thing you love about me?” She teases.

“Like I’d tell you. You might punch me next.”

They laugh.

***

Hermione is right, but isn’t she always? Harry is less patient. Last year, he used to happily
sneak out during the night and feel like a rebel refusing to conform to rules and expectations.
Now though the only thing he feels is annoyance. How ridiculous, having to tiptoe down the
corridors under the invisibility cloak to be able to visit somebody he goes to school with.

He can’t wait to defeat Voldemort and be able to… he laughs bitterly at his own stupidity.
Even if things change after Voldemort’s death, Harry won’t be here to witness it.

He walks the rest of the way to the Hospital Wing consumed by his gloomy thoughts until a
haughty male voice pulls him back into the present.

“The incompetence of your staff is disgraceful!”

“It was only an accident, Mr. Malfoy.” Harry easily recognises the Headmaster’s even tones
as he carefully approaches the door, which is thankfully ajar, and squeezes through the gap.
Draco looks pale and uncomfortable, half-lying in one of the hospital beds, his eyes move
between the adults warily as they speak.

“An accident?” Draco’s father looks at Dumbledore with unveiled loathing. “I want Lockhart
sacked or I will do everything in my power to remove you as the Headmaster, and I’ve got a
lot of power.”

“I am well aware, Mr. Malfoy,” Dumbledore says amicably as if he hasn’t just been
threatened. “If that is all, I shall leave you alone with your son. I believe you wanted to have
a word with him.”

Draco looks like being left alone with his father is the last thing he wants, but Dumbledore is
already walking past Harry and out of the room, and the moment the sound of the
Headmaster's footsteps dies in the distance, Lucius Malfoy turns on his son. He digs the head
of his cane under Draco’s chin and makes him look up. Draco tries to seem composed but
Harry can see the hurt and fear in his eyes.

“Listen here, boy. I could not care less about your broken arm and I would not care if all the
bones in your body got vanished. This is not why I’m here. Why am I here, Draco?” Lucius
Malfoy strokes Draco’s cheek with the metal snake head, and there is nothing tender about
the gesture.

“Because I argued with you, father,” Draco replies in a monotone.

“And you will not do it again. You are not staying in the castle for your Christmas Holidays.
You are coming home. I will not repeat myself.”

“Yes, father.”

Mr. Malfoy prods Draco’s injured arm with the cane, and he gasps in pain.

“Such a disgrace,” Mr. Malfoy says instead of a goodbye before stalking out of the room.
Harry is disgusted by what he’s just witnessed, and he doesn’t even try to control the anger
that swells inside him. He turns and follows Lucius Malfoy out of the door, around a corner
and down a dimly lit corridor. The moment he’s got good aim, Harry casts a Stinging Hex
wordlessly right at Malfoy’s buttocks, which makes the older wizard jump with a yelp.

“Who is there?” Malfoy demands, trying to look unruffled, his posture straight, his wand held
firmly between his fingers as he examines his surroundings. Harry waits until Malfoy starts
walking again, then sends another Stinging Hex right where the first one hit. Malfoy doesn’t
jump this time. He turns around so swiftly his robes flare around him, and sends a stunner. It
misses Harry though. It’s not even close and Harry fights a snicker.

“Peeves! If it is you, Bloody Baron will make you pay for it.”

Malfoy scans the corridor again but finds no one. He starts walking again looking over his
shoulder from time to time, his body rigid. Harry casts the hex again, and another straight
after but the third one ricochets off Malfoy’s shield and hits a statue of a Knight, which raises
an arm and shakes a fist at Malfoy.

Harry wishes he knew a spell that Protego didn’t shield against. He wants to punish Draco’s
father for all the diminishing remarks and all the painful jabs and prods. He wants to punish
him for all the blows that Harry has received, and for all the kids that have ever suffered
because of people like Lucius Malfoy. He hates it that he has to watch Malfoy walk away. At
least he is sure to have a nasty bruise on his arse come morning.

***

Back at the Hospital Wing, Harry takes his cloak off and shuffles his feet as he walks up to
Draco to make sure that he doesn’t startle him. The blonde’s eyes are closed and his
eyelashes look damp. He rubs his eyes with his uninjured hand and grimaces at seeing Harry.

“Do you have to be the witness to the most disgraceful moments of my life?”
“If it were anybody’s disgraceful moment, it was your father’s.” Draco snorts as if Harry has
said something ridiculous. “Anyway, how did you know I was there?”

“I didn’t. But you’ve just confirmed it.” Draco grins a self-satisfied grin. “It was easy to
guess. You and your invisibility cloak, and I’ve never heard my father yelp like that.”

“He’s a horrible man.” Harry goes to sit in the visitor’s chair. “He deserved it.”

“It’s my own fault though,” Draco says dismissively. “I shouldn’t have argued with him.”

“About not wanting to go back to the manor?”

“My mother said that I should try and stay at Hogwarts.”

“I thought she tells you to do whatever your father says.”

“Normally, yes. Something must have changed.” Draco’s replies are terse. He clearly doesn’t
want to discuss his family, so Harry changes the topic.

“It’s a shame, really. I was hoping for an unofficial rematch during the holidays,” Harry pulls
one leg up to rest his chin on the knee. “You know, you, me, the snitch, and no Bludgers.”
Draco clings to the change of subject as if it’s a rope and he is hanging over the edge of a
cliff.

“I must say though, those Weasley twins are ruthless enough to impress even Flint.”

“Well, I wasn’t impressed at all.”

“Oh? Saint Potter wanted a clean game?”

“Not exactly. I just wanted to see how I’d do against you when you’ve got a better broom. I
bet I’d still catch the Snitch though, even without the twins’ assistance.”

“Like hell you would!” Draco winces as he sits up a bit more.

“How much does it hurt?” Harry asks nodding at his arm.

“Imagine sticking your whole arm into a blackberry bush repeatedly. Only about ten times
worth.”

“Ouch,” Harry winces in sympathy and Draco smirks.

“Indeed.”

“Lockhart is an idiot. I hope Dumbledore does fire him.”

They talk for a bit, about Lockhart, and DADA, and how nobody wants the position because
of the rumoured curse. Draco asks if the story they told everybody about the Slytherin
Monster is true - how Harry and Hermione saw the basilisk slither into one of the classrooms,
locked it in, and got the first Professor they could find.
“Well, no,” Harry says. “But I don’t think I should tell you exactly what happened. The
object that your father mentioned is destroyed though.”

“That’s good,” Draco says and doesn’t demand to know anything more.

“It will be over soon,” Harry says.

“You don’t sound all that cheerful about it,” Draco observes.

“I’m just tired. I think I’ll go,” Harry fakes a yawn. “I hope you manage to get some sleep
too.”

On his way back, he thinks about Hermione and how she keeps on making excuses about not
going into the Room of Requirement just yet. The diadem won’t go anywhere, Harry. It’s
been there for years. - I’m tired. - There are just so many other things to do. - I don’t want to
think about it right now.

She is delaying on purpose and he… he just wants to be done with it all.

***

16th November, 1992

He stops Hermione after class as he waves to the rest of the Gryffindors, the majority of
whom are heading to the common room after their last Monday lesson.

“Is she making you slave away at the library again, mate?” Ron ruffles Hermione’s hair
playfully and she bats his hand away with a “Hey!”, but Harry can see that she is smiling.

“Something like that,” Harry grins at Ron before the redhead turns away and jogs a few steps
to catch up with the others.

Harry looks at Hermione who is watching him suspiciously.

“We’re going to do it now,” he tells her. “And arguing with me will not work.” She tries
anyway.

“Shouldn’t we wait until nighttime?” Hermione asks and bites her lower lip.

“Nobody will see or hear us there, I’ve told you.”

“Sprout gave us a really long assignment-“

“Herbology is not until Wednesday.”

“We need a fang.”

“I’ve got one with.”

“Can I at least drop my bag off? It’s heavy.”

Harry takes her bag and shoulders it together with his.

“Any other excuses?”

Hermione is just watching him and chewing on that lip of hers. Harry touches it with his
thumb and her teeth instantly let go revealing how red it is.

“How about the truth now? No more secrets, remember?” He tucks a loose curl behind her
ear and looks at her seriously. He wishes he was a Ligilimens like Snape to be able to
understand what’s going on in this girl’s head.

Hermione looks around to make sure that they are alone first, and sighs as if what she wants
to say sits heavy and uncomfortable in her chest.

“It’s stupid.” She looks at her feet.

“I’m okay with stupid. You know how stupid my own head can get.” Hermione snorts and
looks back up at him.

“It feels like the destruction of each Horcrux will bring us closer to your death. So the longer
I delay, the more you’ve got to live.”

“It’s not stupid.” He runs his hand through his hair not sure whether to tell her about his
dreams or not. They did promise that they would be more open with each other, so he
probably should.

“I’ve got these nightmares now - not visions, just regular nightmares. Black liquid leaking
out of my scar, my eyes, nose, mouth….” He shudders involuntarily. Hermione doesn’t say
anything but she touches his hand and links their fingers, and he doesn’t know whether it’s
for his comfort or for hers. “I want them gone, Hermione. All of them, one in me included.
As fast as we can.”

“You’re my only friend.” It sounds like an accusation. “How am I supposed to let go of you?”

“Maybe you won’t have to. I survived Avada Kedavra once, didn’t I? I might survive it
again.”

“Yeah…”

“And anyway, I’m not your only friend. Ron likes you. Lavender likes you-“

“Only as her pet project.”

“And so does Parvati. Neville is always friendly. You’re Colin’s second favourite subject for
photographs-“

“Only because of you.”

“The twins like you.”

“They like making fun of me.”

“They like making fun of everybody and everything.”

Hermione sighs.

“It’s not the same. They are not you.” And with that, Harry can’t argue.

***

The Room of Requirement feels like a different dimension, something out of space and time.
They gawk in awe at towers made of a multitude of things, some of them so tall that, surely,
it shouldn’t be possible for them to stand so erect and still, but they do. Harry chucks a
football (what’s a football doing here anyway?) at one of them just because he is a boy, and
reckless, and wants to see what happens, but nothing does. The ball just bounces off and rolls
away.

“Do you know where it is?” Hermione asks as her eyes dart all over, unable to stop at any one
thing, there is just so much.

“Not exactly, but I can feel it.”

“Okay… okay. Let’s just do it,” Hermione says more to herself than to Harry.

She follows him silently, past books, clocks, brooms, piles of clothes, an old mattress, a toilet
seat -“Hey! This cupboard looks exactly like the one from Borgin and Burkes.” - past rolls of
wallpaper, some paintings in heavy frames, rolls and rolls of parchment, a toaster -
“Seriously?” - until the pull is so strong Harry squeezes his eyes shut against it and blindly
searches for Hermione’s hand.

“It’s around here somewhere, it’s close.”

It doesn’t take long for them to spot it - dusty and bleak with time - lying on a shelf between
a bust of an ugly warlock and a bunch of dirty rags.

Hermione waves her wand in a complex pattern to check if the diadem is cursed or not - a
spell she insisted upon learning just in case - while Harry gets a basilisk fang wrapped in a
cloth from his bag.

“It’s clear,” Hermione declares.

It’s like the last time. The Horcrux doesn’t fight or scream. The diadem cracks in half with a
quiet hiss and oozes black liquid that Harry vanishes with a spell, and that’s all there is to it.

“Do you think my scull will crack open like an egg if you stick the fang into my forehead?”
Hermione looks at him horrified at first, but then she starts to laugh.

“Such a - ridiculous - thing to say,” she gets out in between giggles, they don’t sound right
though. There’s something hysterical and desperate behind her laughter, and Harry doesn’t
join in. He just watches her until she stops. He expects her to start crying because she often
 still does, however, it doesn’t happen this time. Hermione becomes all quiet and serious
instead.

“Sometimes I wish you weren’t so good,” she finally says in a soft voice, as if it’s a secret.
“Because good people leave big holes behind them when they go. When you go, will there
even be anything left for me?”

Harry walks the two steps that separate them and squeezes her to his chest. When Hermione
is like this, it scares him. He’d rather have her tears or her anger, not this hopelessness.

“You can’t think like that.” He holds her tighter. “You can’t.” He tries to imagine how he
would feel if they swapped their places. What if she was the one to go? He thinks of the times
they were apart and how much he missed her, and he thinks how much his heart ached in
October when Hermione was all distant. He thinks how he wouldn’t want to live, not really, if
she wasn’t alive, and it’s not normal, is it? To make somebody your whole world like that.
Especially when you are twelve.

“Maybe…” maybe we should try and spend more time with other people, he wants to say, but
it sounds so wrong, or maybe he is just that selfish. “Maybe we should make a list,” he says
instead.

“A list?” She looks up at him curiously.

“A list.” He nods. “Of all the things we want to do together. And then find a way to do as
many as we can.”

Hermione’s eyes light up.

“You come up with the best of plans, Mr. Potter.”

“Why, thank you, Miss Granger. Shall we?” Harry offers Hermione his elbow, and she takes
his arm, smiling. It’s not as bright as it used to be before, but it’s there. They walk away,
leaving the diadem on the shelf. Just a dusty old broken tiara.

Chapter End Notes

What do you think should go on Hermione and Harry's list? ;)

 Chapter 20
Chapter Notes

Here's a chapter where Harry is being annoyingly daft. Please don't get frustrated with
him:)

See the end of the chapter for more notes

21st November, 1992

Harry is pacing in front of an empty wall on the seventh floor wishing for a perfect place for
Hermione and him. Something private and safe. Something cozy. A place where they can
hide away from the world and all their problems. A place where they will be able to simply
be.

A door appears, no different from the one that led to the Room of Hidden Things, but when
he cracks it open and looks inside, what he sees makes a smile take over his face. His right
hand still on the door handle, Harry reaches his left out behind him and waits until
Hermione’s hand slides into his.

“It’s like a mini Gryffindor common room,” she says looking around once inside. “But
better.”

It is better. It makes all the difference that this place is only for them and nobody else. There
is a fireplace and a dark red sofa with cushions scattered on it and a couple of blankets. A
plush rug in front of the hearth, a coffee table…

“What have you found?” Hermione is sorting through a box of something which looks like
magazines from where Harry is standing, and he approaches her from behind to look over her
shoulder. No, not magazines. Records.

“Neat.”

“They seem to all be from the seventies. Look, David Bowie, T. Rex, Queen, Led Zeppelin…
I wonder if they belonged to a student.”

“Do you think it works?” Harry walks up to an ancient-looking gramophone and spins the
turn table with his index finger.

“Only one way to find out.” Hermione places a record on the player, puts the needle in place
and winds the crank carefully a few times and lets go.

I was dancing when I was twelve

I was dancing when I was twelve

I was dancing when I was out

I was dancing when I was out

The little squeal of delight that Hermione makes goes right into Harry’s heart, and an emotion
he can’t name flutters in his chest.

“I think you promised me some dance lessons.” Harry holds his hand out to her.

“I did, didn’t I?” She answers with a smirk and places her palm in his but stops him before
Harry can pull her closer. “Let’s take our shoes off first though.”

They end up barefoot on the soft rug in front of the fire, and they dance until Harry doesn’t
step on Hermione’s feet anymore, and she rests her head on his shoulder and sighs happily.
When the music stops, they stop too, but neither move to let go. “I’m not giving up on you,
you know.” Hermione’s lips move against his neck and it sends tingles down his spine.

“I know. I’ve seen the books you read.” Harry says although he thinks it’s a losing battle,
fighting for him. Good things have never lasted in his life. He was born into a happy family
only to lose his parents. He found out he could go to a magic school only to discover that a
madman was after his life. He’s met a person who truly gets him only to learn that he’s got
something so dark living in him that the only way to get rid of it is to die. Still, he adds, “It’s
good one of us has hope.”

Harry doesn’t want to think about that. He focuses on his toes sinking into the luxurious
softness of the rug, on Hermione’s warm breath on his skin, on the heat from the fire that
envelops them, on his arms around the girl whom he…

Harry wishes they could stay in the room and never come out.

***

28st November, 1992

Despite all his winter gear and warming charms, it feels like the cold has seeped through his
skin and right into his bones. It wracks his body with shivers but he still flies like he has no
fear, against the wind, against the cold, against all the odds. Maybe if he is fast enough, he
can outfly death itself. Angelina whoops as he speeds past her and wraps his fingers around
the practice Snitch for who knows which time today. He lets it go immediately, waits thirty
seconds and gives chase again. The team seem to have forgiven Harry for his sour mood, and
Wood is the most relaxed he’s been since the beginning of term, and he lets them do whatever
they want today. So, Harry flies and chases the golden ball, and then messes around with the
others, tossing the Quaffle purely for fun, and, God, he doesn’t want to lose this.

***

Harry steps into the common room, broom in hand, his icy fingertips tingling with the return
of heat, and freezes when he spots Hermione curled up with a book in one of the armchairs.
It’s not because he sees his friend reading by the fire - there is nothing unusual about that -
it’s because she is wearing his jumper. It came from a charity shop, its colour an uninspiring
grey, but it’s the warmest and the softest thing he’s got. Harry’s been wearing it all week in
the evenings, and he tossed it at the foot of his bed last night, and it probably - surely - needs
a wash, and Hermione…

“Hey!” He tells her when his brain has finally finished processing what he’s seeing. “I was
going to wear that!” He sits on the arm of her chair and gives her a mock-stern look.

“Tough,” she shrugs unapologetically and returns to her thick book, but there’s a twitch to her
lips.

“Weeeeell, I suppose we will have to share it.” And before she can ask what he means, Harry
slides off the arm of the chair squeezing himself right next to Hermione and puts his cold
hands under her - no, his - jumper and on her bare stomach. Hermione squeals and tries to
push him away, but he’s got a firm grip on her waist now. When Hermione realises that
fighting him doesn’t work though, she presses the icy tip of her nose right into his neck and
Harry squirms but gets used to the feeling quickly.

“I think I win,” he smirks. Hermione puffs in annoyance in a hot burst of air against his neck
and lifts her head up. Only then it suddenly dawns on Harry how close they are, with him
half-lying on top of her, and his hands on her naked skin, and somehow touching her stomach
is different from touching her knee or her face, and she is so soft and warm and close, and her
face is the most beautiful face he’s ever seen, and her bottom lip is so full, fuller than her top
one, and he really wants to…

Harry feels heat rising to his face, and he moves his hands away as if burned, and mutters,
“Sorry.” He is overcome with a sudden urge to run back into the cold.

He stands and picks up his Nimbus 2000 from where he’s dropped it on the floor.

“I, err,” he looks sheepishly at Hermione and runs his hand through his hair. “Gonna go and
warm my hands up in a more appropriate place… See you after the shower.”

“I didn’t mind too much,” Hermione smirks playfully, and although she is teasing him, her
face looks flushed too, but that could be the heat from the fire.

Harry, not knowing what to say to that, runs up the stairs, and, with hot water running down
his back, he sorts through his feelings and packs everything that he deems inappropriate away
in that secret corner of his mind where he keeps his thoughts of kissing Hermione, and now
the memory of her soft skin.

***

When he is back, his hair still damp, Hermione is still sitting there staring into the fire
pensively, and it doesn’t look like she’s read anything since he went upstairs. He perches on
the arm of her chair again.

“Why are you wearing my jumper anyway?” He asks curiously.

“It’s warm and it smells like you. I like it.”

Something twists in Harry’s stomach and he doesn’t know what to make of it, so he turns it
into a joke.

“You like how stinky my jumper is after I’ve worn it for nearly a week?”

“It’s not stinky!” She pokes him in the ribs with a finger, and he cringes away barely avoiding
falling onto the floor. “It smells like soap, and autumn, and something else that’s just you.”

Harry leans down and sniffs her shoulder.

“I can’t really smell anything.” Apart from a whiff of her strawberry shampoo, and something
else that makes him want to bury his face in her hair and inhale. Something that makes the
walls that he’s built in his mind around all the forbidden thoughts quiver and crack.

“Shall we go?” He asks looking to escape the feelings he isn’t ready to deal with.

“Your hair is still wet.” She points her wand at him and dries it with a charm, which makes it
stick up all over the place, and Hermione huffs a laugh.

“Gee, thanks,” Harry scowls while trying to flatten it with his hand to little avail. Hermione
stands up. “I can fix it,” she promises and starts running her hands through his hair while
casting something with her wand simultaneously, which makes Harry’s scull tingle. She is
taller like that, with him still perched on the arm of the chair. His knee is touching her legs as
she moves, and her chest is directly in front of his face. It seems that the whole universe has
conspired against him and his good intentions. He growls.

“Just a moment longer. I know the tingle is unpleasant… there!”

She takes a step back, and he pats his head with his hand. Not like he’s able to tell just by
touching it, but his hair definitely seems to stick up less.

“Thanks,” he says shooting up before Hermione decides to approach him again. She is
watching him in a funny way, and… Why do things have to suddenly feel so complicated?
“So… shall we?” He asks.

“Oh! Yes!” Harry watches Hermione jump into action and gather her things, and he can’t
escape the feeling that something between them has changed, and he doesn’t know whether
to welcome this change or run away from it as fast as he can.

***

The moment they are through the door leading to the Room of Requirement, Hermione walks
up to a piece of parchment attached to the wall with a sticking charm. It holds their list that
they keep on adding to. There are things that Harry wants to do because he’s never done them
before, like riding a bike, going to the cinema, eating pizza and learning how to swim. There
are some things that Hermione wants to do because she’s never done them before, like trying
oysters, going to a concert, and getting drunk. There are silly things too, like going to a
museum and touching things you are not supposed to or getting caught in the rain and
 jumping in puddles. There are things that they might never be able to do like getting
matching tattoos, or travelling together, or going to a club, but there are simple things, too.
Like seeing a sunrise and a sunset on the same day, sleeping in a tent, going to the beach and
building a sandcastle, and making Lockhart’s life miserable.

Hermione gets a pencil that she always carries in her pocket and writes something, and Harry
stands next to her to see. Under everything, there it is, in capital letters, like a plea. SAVE
HARRY POTTER.

I’m not giving up on you, you know.

“I’ve realised that we’ve forgotten to add something very important,” Hermione explains
simply.

“Hermione.” Her name comes out of his mouth like a sad little exhale and she frowns.

“No.” Her voice is crisp like first frost. “Don’t tell me it’s impossible. Do not tell me.” Harry
doesn’t. He takes a step closer so that there is barely any room left between them. His body
has been doing it recently, gravitating towards Hermione’s before he can even think about
what he is doing, and Harry does not understand why his hands are itching so badly to touch
and why his throat goes dry when she is around, why his lips tingle.

“There is nothing impossible for you, Hermione Granger,” he tells her. There is something
inside his head thrashing like a caged bird yearning to break free. Harry doesn’t remember
what it is but he knows that he must keep it trapped.

He gives her hand a gentle squeeze and takes a step back.

Chapter End Notes

So, how I see it, when Harry Occludes and hides his feelings towards Hermione from
himself, the feelings don't disappear but Harry becomes unaware of them. Obviously, it's
all going to backfire at some point soon.
Also, when I just started writing this fic, I honestly thought that they wouldn't develop
any romantic feelings until at least their third year, but it seems the characters will do
what they wish and the author has no say :) I'm sorry if those who want them to stay just
friends for longer feel disappointed.
 Chapter 21
Chapter Notes

Soooo, what happens here was not supposed to happen, and I've tried to rewrite it
several times, but each time things led to the same damn thing. Apparently, the author
has got no control here. I hope you are happy :P

7th December, 1992

“Hedwig’s back!” Hermione points at the cloud of swooping owls and bounces in her seat.
Harry hastily moves their bowls of porridge out of the way just before Hedwig lands right in
front of them and hoots in greeting.

Harry feeds the owl treats and calls her a good girl while Hermione’s fingers work to untie
the letter. She wrote to her parents on Friday and spent the whole weekend gazing out of
windows in the hope of spotting Hedwig.

Harry watches as Hermione tears the envelope open and starts reading with bright eyes,
however, just a moment later, her face falls and she sighs.

“I told you they won’t allow it,” Harry shrugs dismissively trying not to show he is
disappointed too. He would love to spend Christmas with Hermione, they even put it on their
list… He had a feeling that the Grangers wouldn’t want him around though. They are nice
people, and they are already allowing Harry to stay for two weeks in the summer. But even as
nice as they are, they wouldn’t want some abused orphan ruining their festivities.

“Gran’s house is huge though. And my parents know I don’t get on with my cousins. I don’t
see why I can’t invite a friend.”

“Well, Christmas is supposed to be for family.”

“Then you’re my family because I want to spend Christmas with you!” Hermione pouts like a
petulant child, and something about her face and what she’s said is so endearing that Harry’s
chest fills with warmth. He wishes they weren’t sitting at the Gryffindor table. He wishes
Lavender wasn’t looking at them and whispering something to Parvati. He wishes he could
tell Hermione exactly how much she means to him.

“Let’s celebrate our own Christmas then. In the room. Before you go.” He tells her quietly.

“I still don’t get why you won’t come to the Burrow,” Ron cuts in, his mouth full of sausage.

“Like there’d be room for me, with your whole family there. And you said that Bill is
bringing his girlfriend too.”
“Yeah, I wouldn’t want to be around that either. He brings a new one every year, the last
one…”

Harry strokes Hedwig’s feathers half-listening to Ron’s tales. He could go to the Weasleys,
and Mrs. Weasley would probably treat him like one of her sons, and they’d exchange gifts,
play games, the twins would surely explode something, and there would be so much laughter
and hugs and love… Harry’s heart aches just thinking about it. He longs for a family, but
Ron’s family isn’t his, is it? No, it’s better to stay in the castle. At least here, he knows he is
not a burden.

***

16th December, 1992

“You are not trying, Potter!” Snape’s diction turns particularly vicious, and Harry refuses to
take it.

“No, you are the one who is not listening!” He yells, and when Snape opens his mouth to spit
something else at him, Harry picks a random jar up and throws it at his Professor, who raises
his wand, stops the jar in mid-air and carefully levitates it back to the shelf.

“Forgive me if I refuse to listen to your pathetic excuses,” Snape retorts more calmly this
time, although the venom in his voice is still palpable. Harry doesn’t like it when the
Professor is angry with him, not like this. It’s one thing when Harry is slacking off or messing
about, then it’s justified. This time, however, Harry is trying. He has been trying since the
moment Snape acknowledged the existence of Voldemort’s Horcrux inside his bloody head.
Harry has been trying to isolate it, separate it from himself for weeks now… However, the
dreams still come (although they don’t bother Harry as much anymore) and Snape is still able
to push right into the part of Harry that houses Voldemort and access all those memories. He
needs Snape to understand.

“Again,” Snape says.

“No.” Snape doesn’t listen. He casts Legilimens and Harry instinctively throws up the
strongest shield he can master. There is a brief moment when he sees into Snape’s mind. A
man with an angry haggard face. Is he drunk? The image flashes out of existence before
Harry can tell, but it doesn’t matter anyway. Harry is too furious to care.

“I said no. Or are you going to abuse me just like the Dursleys did?” He’s always trusted
Snape. Always. But now… Snape’s eyes go wide though, and his shoulders hunch as if he’s
just received a blow. He frowns and rubs the bridge of his nose, and when he looks at Harry,
there is urgency in there, and concern, and regret, and fear, as if Snape has taken his mask
completely off for the very first time.

“I am sorry, Potter,” he apologises and places his wand on the desk, sits heavily in his chair,
elbows on his knees, and rests his head in his palms.

Harry is annoyed at the feeling of guilt that twists his gut. Snape is the one in the wrong here.
Still, Harry approaches the Professor and tentatively touches his shoulder with the tips of his
fingers.

“I need you to listen,” Harry says quietly but firmly, and Snape looks up at him, all the
emotions gone as if they were never there. There’s only exhaustion. “It’s been in me all my
life. Its tendrils are everywhere. I’ve tried to find them all, but there are just too many… His
soul is melded with mine. I’ve been able to build walls around other things and keep them
hidden, but I can’t contain Tom Riddle. I’m sorry.” Harry doesn’t know what he is
apologising for, it’s not his fault after all. Is it?

Snape sighs heavily and summons a chair for Harry to sit too.

“I had an idea,” Snape says. “It might not have worked anyway.”

“What was your idea, Sir?”

“Using a Dementor. They feast on souls, you see. If you could separate your mind from the
Horcrux, shield it… However, souls and minds are different things.” Snape shrugs defeatedly.
“I am sorry too,” he adds.

Harry smiles though. Snape doesn’t hate him, and he is not disappointed in him, and he
doesn’t want to harm him. He was angry because he wants to save Harry. Just like Hermione
wants to save him. Snape cares about him.

“Potter, why are you smiling like a demented person?” Snape asks, his eyebrow raised, an
expression and attitude that Harry is so much more used to.

“You like me,” Harry tells him.

“Definitely demented,” Snape replies drily.

“You like me,” Harry repeats with more confidence, and he sees a smile start playing at the
corners of Snape’s mouth.

“Nonsense.” The Professor tousles Harry’s hair even as he says, “You are an insufferable
brat.”

“It’s okay,” Harry reassures with a cheeky grin. “I won’t tell anyone.”

“Potter,” Snape starts thoughtfully after a couple of minutes pass, “You have mentioned that
you were able to build walls around other things. What kind of things?”

“Err…” If Snape gets angry with him again, it will be entirely justified. “Some feelings.”

“Feelings?” Snape prompts.

“Yes. Feeling that I’m struggling to deal with.”

“Potter…” Snape says warningly.

“I know, you said not to. But you hide your feelings all the time.”
“I compartmentalise after years of experience, and my brain is fully developed. Unlike
yours,” the Professor flicks him on the forehead but not unkindly. “So, whatever it is you are
hiding in that messy head of yours, you are going to unpack and deal with it.”

“What if I can’t deal with it? What if it’s all too much?”

“Then imagine what it will feel like when it all explodes out of you when you least expect it.”
Snape holds his hand up when Harry is about to protest. “And it will explode out of you. Isn’t
it better to deal with it on your own terms?”

“Fine,” Harry says, not necessarily because he agrees but more to get Snape off his back.

“Or I can always break your defences for you,” Snape grins evilly. “And see what kind of
feelings exactly you are hiding.”

“Umm… no thanks, I think I’ll just go.” Snape barks a single laugh as Harry gathers his
things and darts out of the door.

***

18th December, 1992

It’s their last evening together before the holidays, and the Room provides them with a fake
Christmas tree that smells like dust and a box full of decorations that look like they used to
belong to somebody’s great-great-grandmother.

“It’s perfect!” Hermione declares as she digs through the box as Harry tries to straighten out
the tree’s branches.

“Mmm. I’ve never decorated a tree before.”

“You haven’t?” Hermione stops what she is doing, and Harry curses himself for having said
anything at all. He doesn’t want to see pity in her eyes. When he looks at her though, he sees
no pity, only warmth. “Well,” she carries on, “I’m glad I get to share some of your firsts with
you.” Harry’s eyes dart to their list and then back to her.

“Me too.”

They decorate the tree after that, and Hermione wraps golden tinsel around Harry’s neck like
a scarf. It itches a little, but Harry doesn’t take it off anyway. They fill the room with tiny
yellow lights that float and twinkle like stars, they play Christmas carols on the gramophone
and share a single bottle of Butterbeer that the room has provided. It was dusty before
Hermione cleaned it off, and the label says Christmas Special 1954, but it still tastes good,
just like the ones that the twins smuggle in for parties, but with undertones of cinnamon and
cloves.

Harry looks as Hermione takes a sip, licks her lips and passes the bottle to Harry. As he
drinks, he thinks about how his mouth is touching something that Hermione’s has just
touched. He thinks how if he kissed her right now, she’d taste like sugar and spices. He’s not
going to though. He’s poked and prodded at that secret place inside his mind, and he’s looked
through the cracks but he didn’t dare to plunge inside. He’ll do it after everybody has gone,
when he is alone in the room and possibly at night. Some things are much easier to face in the
dark.

For now, he is content to sit on the sofa with their knees touching and think about what her
mouth might taste like.

“I’ve got something for you,” he says to distract himself. Hermione grins.

“What a coincidence! Because I’ve got something for you too.”

They exchange the gifts pompously, give thanks and bow to each other mockingly. But then
Hermione goes quiet and Harry doesn’t notice at first that all the rustling is coming only from
him.

“Don’t laugh, okay?” Hermione says as Harry takes something soft and pleasantly warm out.

“I knitted it myself, and it’s not very neat… But I’ve put a permanent warming charm on it,
and a water repelling one, and a softening one for the wool not to-“

“Hermione, I love it!” Harry unwraps the tinsel from around his neck and swaps it for the
scarf that Hermione has knitted for him by hand.

“Green really suits you best.” She tugs on the scarf here and there rearranging it, but Harry
has a feeling she just wants to keep her hands busy, so he catches them in his and holds her
palms to his chest. “It’s a bit lumpy,” she says and looks at him uncertainly. As if he would
ever mock her.

“It is. And I still love it.” She is so close again, too close, and he didn’t fix the cracks last
night like he normally would. “You haven’t opened my gift yet.” He nods at the present still
on her lap.

While Harry tore through the paper like an impatient child, Hermione taps the Spellotape
with her wand and takes care not to rip anything.

“Oh, Harry,” she breathes, and Harry scoots closer to be able to look at the pictures with her.

“Colin’s been making me copies of his photos and I thought that you could share the magic
with your parents, show them who you go to school with…” And I wanted you to see how
beautiful you are. He shouldn’t say that, he shouldn’t… “And I wanted you to see how
beautiful you are.” She looks up at that as if startled, and why on Earth did he say it?
Hermione is looking at him in that way again, which makes the cracks in his barriers wider,
and he is not ready.

Relief floods him when she looks back at the album and starts turning the pages again, and
they watch as other students wave at them, as the sky in the great hall changes from sunny to
dark grey, as Hagrid drags a giant tree through the snow. There are many photos of the two of
them as well. Simply walking down the corridor holding hands, bumping shoulders
occasionally. Harry getting a book for Hermione from the shelf at the library because she
can’t quite reach, and her bouncing on her toes, waiting. Leaning against the wall by the
Transfiguration classroom, talking animatedly, waiting for the class to start. Hermione with
her head on his lap, napping, and Harry stroking her hair.

“It was my birthday.”

“Seems like ages ago.”

Hermione touches his face in the photo.

“I want to see you grow up. You’re going to be so handsome,” she says and something
clenches in his chest. The feeling is so intense that Harry forgets to breathe.

She touches his cheek. Not the one in the photo, but his actual cheek, and looks at his eyes,
his forehead, his nose, as if drinking his features in, and then at his mouth, and her eyes linger
there before returning to his. The moment he thought about kissing her for the very first time
seeps out through a crack with all its longing and desperation and the feeling that he can’t
have this. He hisses in pain as other things push against his barriers threatening to get out.
Harry grits his teeth and shoves it all back in.

Hermione’s hand slides off his cheek and rests on his shoulder.

“Harry, are you alright?“

“Yeah,” he croaks and clears his throat. “Just a brutal session of Occlumency with Snape.”
Guilt pulses in Harry with every heartbeat. He’s just lied to Hermione, and lying to her feels
so very wrong it leaves an unpleasant bitterness in his mouth.

“There’s a bit more but I don’t want to talk about it right now,” he adds but it doesn’t make
him feel better. Hermione lets her hand fall into her lap and a little crease appears between
her eyebrows. They are supposed to be celebrating but Harry is only making her upset.

“Sometimes when we are together, your eyes sort of glaze over and then you change the
topic. And sometimes you run away. And I guess I deserve it. After I was hiding my feelings
and the fact that you are a Horcrux from you for over a month-“

“Hermione…” but he doesn’t know what else to say because she is right, he has been doing
to her exactly what she was doing to him without even realising. What? Did he really think
she wouldn’t notice? She knows him better than anybody else, of course she’s noticed that
something is off. “I haven’t been hiding things from you. I’ve been hiding them from me,” he
explains and cradles her hand between his palms.

“But why?” She is looking at him and the crease between her eyebrows is getting deeper.
Harry wants to divert her, to run away again, to joke and say that if she keeps on frowning
like that, she will look like an old lady in no time. Why is he running away from it? Why?

“I don’t know.” He should have never started using Occlumency for this. Why does Snape
have to always be right? Harry looks at their joined hands. “I think I’m scared. And
overwhelmed. And feel like I don’t deserve things.” He can feel Hermione’s eyes on him,
however, she doesn’t jump in to reassure him as if she can sense that it’s not what he needs.
He needs… he needs… He needs to stop hiding.

“I’m going to do something really stupid,” he decides looking right at her. His hands shake.
What difference will a few days make anyway? Why do it alone in the middle of the night
when she is going to find everything out anyway? He slides one arm around her waist,
another one around her shoulders and pulls her close. She looks confused but she comes, and
she lets Harry press her against his chest, and he buries his nose in her hair just like he’s been
yearning to do for weeks. He inhales deeply and the walls in his mind quake.

“What are you doing?” Hermione asks breathlessly.

“I’m letting my Occlumency barriers fall,” he says, his voice strained, as he lets them crack
and shatter. Despite all the energy that Harry has invested into keeping them there, the
barriers crumble so easily, and Harry’s whole body shudders violently with the deluge of all
the feelings, all the memories, all the love. He can feel Hermione’s arms wrap around his
middle and hold him firmly, and he sobs once. It’s so much. It’s too much. He moves to rest
his forehead on hers, and all he can see are her warm brown eyes. He feels the heat radiating
from her skin. Her fingers bunch into the fabric of his jumper. Her breath smells like
Christmas spices…

“I love you.” It comes out of him in a hoarse whisper, as if Harry didn’t mean to say it but it
got torn right out of his heart anyway. Hermione goes stiff against him and Harry has never
been more scared in his life. He’s never said it to anybody before and meant it. Nobody has
ever said it to him either. Nobody. What if it was the wrong thing to say? But he can’t take it
back. He can’t hold his emotions back either. He will explode if he tries. His hand snakes into
her hair, and this little movement unfreezes Hermione and she melts against him, their noses
touch, and if her eyes looked warm before, they are scorching now.

“I love you too,” she whispers back, puffs of air against his mouth. Cinnamon and cloves and
Butterbeer.

“I really want to kiss you,” Harry says, and they are so close now that his lips brush hers as
he speaks. Hermione nods shakily, and then there is no distance between them at all. Harry
finally kisses Hermione Granger. An innocent peck at first, more a question than a kiss really,
but it’s not enough. So he comes back for more, and Hermione’s lips part, and it’s clumsy and
strange and so very good.

It’s absolutely perfect.

 Chapter 22

18th December, 1992

It’s late, definitely after curfew, but neither of them tries to move. They’ve been sitting on the
sofa wrapped around each other for what feels like a little eternity - Hermione’s legs over
Harry’s lap, her knees pressed to his chest, Harry’s right arm over her shoulders and his left
hand resting on her knee, fingers playing with the frayed edges of that rip on her jeans. Harry
is sure he is making the hole bigger but Hermione doesn’t complain.

He rests his cheek on top of her head and she puts her hand on his neck. Harry thought that
their kissing would change something between them, maybe make things awkward or create
some sort of tension. He doesn’t feel awkward though, and the only thing that’s changed is
the fact that he feels so close to her right now that he can’t even imagine not touching her.
That if he lets go, it will be physically painful. He turns his head and inhales.

“Are you smelling my hair?” Hermione murmurs sleepily.

“Yup,” Harry replies unapologetically. He’s already confessed his feelings, so there is no
point being ashamed of a little thing like that.

“Next, you’ll be asking if you can borrow my jumper.” Harry can hear a smile in her voice.

“You never bothered to ask me, so why should I? I’ll just go and pick something when you’re
not around. The one with a pattern of little hearts should look particularly fetching on me.”

“Hmm… I’m not so sure… I’d go for the one with a cupcake. You know, with purple icing
on top and sprinkles."

“Mm, you can’t go wrong with sprinkles.” She giggles and Harry can feel it in his chest.
There is so much love, no wonder he couldn’t contain it all. As if reading his thoughts,
Hermione asks, “Can we talk about it now? The reason why you were Occluding?”

Harry doesn’t want to. He wants to stay in his happy bubble and pretend that they never have
to leave the room. They do though, and Hermione is taking the Hogwarts Express in the
morning. Harry doesn’t want her to leave for two weeks and spend them unsure and
wondering.

“I don’t think you’ll like my reasoning,” Harry mutters reluctantly as he shifts so that they are
able to look at each other.

“Let me guess then. You were trying to protect me like I was trying to protect you by not
telling you that you’re a Horcrux.”

“I… we still don’t know if I’ll live. You were so sad - you still are sometimes - and asking
you to be more than my friend seems selfish-“
“Selfish! Selfish!?” Her eyes light up with anger all of a sudden, and she pokes him in his
chest. “Selfish was making me think that my feelings were entirely one-sided! Selfish would
be to not let me experience what it’s like to kiss the boy I love so much it feels like fireworks
explode in my stomach every time I think about him. Selfish would be to take this choice
away from me! I know that you might die, I’m not stupid or delusional. Do you think I’m so
weak I won’t be able to handle it? Do you think I wouldn’t be able to say no if I thought we
were better off as friends?” Hermione is breathing hard, and Harry thinks that he’s never seen
her this fierce. She looks ready to fight for what she wants, for him. Despite their confessions
and their kissing, it is only now that Harry fully realises that she wants him. Not the idea of
him, not a dream where they will live happily ever after, but him with all the challenges, all
the uncertainty and even with a piece of Voldemort’s soul.

“You are right,” he says and then adds. “I choose you too.” Hermione’s anger deflates
instantly at his words.

“I can’t even stay annoyed with you now,” she complains with a pout.

“You can be annoyed by the fact that you can’t stay annoyed,” he suggests with a grin.

“Oh, hush, you,” she swats at him playfully.

“Make me.”

She does make him. In a very pleasant way.

***

19th December, 1992

Each time he says goodbye to her is more painful than the previous one. They are standing at
the platform in Hogsmeade, and the train whistles urging the students to get on. Harry hugs
Hermione tightly and kisses her temple.

“I’m going to stay,” Hermione blurts out and Harry chuckles.

“I wish you could.”

“Then you can come with me, just put your invisibility cloak on.”

“And be that monster under your bed?”

“Exactly!”

The train whistles again, longer this time, and Harry looks around to see that they are the last
students around.

“I’ll miss you,” Hermione says and pecks him on the lips.

“Me too.” He gives her the last squeeze and lets go. Her slipping out of his arms feels like
walking out into the cold..
He watches the train disappear in the distance and begins his countdown. Fifteen days. It’s
only fifteen days.

***

Hagrid waits for him at the start of the platform. The snow is falling gently and gets stuck in
his hair and beard, which now look more white than brown.

“Aren’t ya a bit young fer that?” Hagrid asks the moment Harry is close enough to hear.

“We’ve always been close,” Harry shrugs pretending that he’s not that bothered by the
question. “It just happened.” They start making their way towards the castle leaving
footprints in the snow.

“Aye. I knew it’d happen ever since yer two fell asleep huddled together in me cabin.” Hagrid
chuckles and Harry bristles. He doesn’t want to talk about him and Hermione. This is too
new, too private. It is his.

“Hey, Hagrid,” he changes the topic. He’s been meaning to ask this for a while now anyway.
“You’ve said that you borrowed Black’s motorbike that night to get me. Where is it now?”

“Still got it in me shed. I couldn’t return it, could I, with Black still in Azkaban.”

“Does it still work?” Harry’s eyes light up. Sure, it belongs to somebody who betrayed his
parents, but it’s a flying motorbike.

“Should do… Why?”

“Can you show me?”

Harry can’t see if Hagrid is smiling under his snow-covered beard, but his eyes crinkle.

“Yer going to get me into trouble,” he says. He does show him though.

***

20th December, 1992

Dear Hermione,

You are not going to believe it! Hagrid took me for a fly on a motorcycle! The one from his
story. It’s not as fast as a broom and we nearly crashed into a tree taking off (I probably
shouldn’t have mentioned that bit) but it was still absolutely amazing. He promised he’d
teach me if I don’t tell anybody. So, don’t tell anybody!

It’s weird to think that it belongs to Sirius Black, or used to anyway. I’d like to believe that
he’d be annoyed if he found out who is using it now.

I couldn’t fall asleep last night. Will it be incredibly corny if I say that it feels like you’ve
taken a chunk of my heart with you? It was tolerable during the day because I kept myself
busy but the moment I lay down and closed my eyes… So, I might have snuck up to your room
and slept in your bed. Is it super creepy? All the Gryffindor girls have left for the holidays, so
I figured my doing that isn’t so bad.

How was the train ride? You must be on the way to your grandmother’s house now. I hope
Hedwig will find you. I’ll tell her to try and deliver the letter when you’re alone. Let’s hope
she listens.

I miss you. A lot.

Love,

Harry

***

22 December, 1992

Dear Harry,

I leave you alone, and you instantly do something dangerous and reckless. Why am I not
surprised? Just teasing, of course.

We’re at my gran’s and just returned from a walk in the woods. Her house is in the middle of
nowhere and it’s surrounded by trees. It was easy to imagine that I was in the Forbidden
Forest, and that any moment now I would spot Hogwarts between the trees. And see you.

My heart aches too. It’s only been two days and I miss you so much it’s ridiculous. Will it
make you feel better if I tell you that I stole your jumper, the one that you wore for your last
Quidditch practice, and I wear it to sleep?

I should be happy here, with my family, and maybe I would be if it were just my parents and
gran. It’s too crowded, too noisy… too lonely without you. See, I can be corny too.

Lavender spotted us on the platform through the window, and the girls were bombarding me
with questions pretty much all the way to London. So, a rumour might spread that you’re a
very good kisser. Be prepared.

I miss you so much.

Do try not to hit a tree.

Love,

Hermione

***

23rd December, 1992

Harry doesn’t know who out of the staff will be here on Christmas Day, so he gives the
presents that he managed to get during summer early.

Instead of catching everybody after a meal, he uses the Marauder’s Map and makes a game
out of it.

He wears his invisibility cloak and drops a bag of cat treats into Filch’s pocket with a note
that says, For when Mrs. Norris is feeling better. The caretaker feels the added weight
straight away and claps his hand to his jacket, but Harry has already jumped away. He
watches from a few steps away as Filch takes the bag out of his pocket and notices how his
eyes become filled with tears. Harry feels so sorry for the grumpy man that he goes and
leaves a box of chocolates in front of his office door too. He signs it with a Merry Christmas,
from Harry P.

He leaves a box of sugar mice on McGonagall’s desk and charms them to run away the
moment the box is opened. He sniggers to himself and doesn’t leave his name on this one.

He wasn’t sure at first, but in the end, he decided that it wouldn’t harm to give the
Headmaster something too. Harry still isn’t sure what he thinks about Dumbledore. He gave
him his invisibility cloak, and he clearly wants Harry to be popular and happy at school.
However, he’s also left him with the Dursleys, and he is clearly hiding something. Despite
all that, Harry sets a jar full of various bonbons to float in front of the gargoyle that hides the
entrance to Dumbledore’s office and writes a cheeky I thought that somebody should
introduce you to new flavours, Headmaster. Merry Christmas, Harry.

Harry is seeing Hagrid tomorrow, so he’ll give his present to him then, which only leaves
Snape.

Harry goes to the portrait that he knows holds the entrance to Snape’s Private Chambers and
knocks. He feels strangely awkward doing that. Despite all the time they’ve spent together,
Harry has never even glimpsed inside the Professor’s rooms.

The portrait swings to the side and Snape appears in the gap wearing muggle clothes, and his
hair in a ponytail, something Harry hasn’t seen since summer.

“Potter, please tell me you do not have another basilisk somewhere?” Harry laughs
awkwardly and gets the gift out of his pocket.

“No, not this time. I’m bearing gifts from Father Christmas.” He hands Snape a lumpy bundle
wrapped in paper with black Christmas trees on it.

“It seems Father Christmas has got good taste.” There is a hint of humour in the Professor’s
voice but the way he is looking at Harry is a bit strange. “Would you… like to come inside?
There is something I think you will appreciate seeing.” And that Harry didn’t expect at all.

“Err… sure. Gladly, actually. I could use a distraction.”

“A distraction from what?” Snape asks as he steps to the side for Harry to pass. The portrait
swings shut the moment he steps through making him jump.
“From missing,” Harry replies honestly but doesn’t elaborate, and Snape doesn’t pry.

Harry looks around the room, which is surprisingly normal, cosy even. It’s all dark wood,
shelves filled with books, soft-looking armchairs and a sofa, pots with plants here and
there…

“No cockroaches in jars?” Harry asks exaggerating his surprise.

“I do have an office for that.”

Snape invites him to sit on the sofa and puts what looks like an old shoe box on the coffee
table in front of Harry. The Professor clears his throat and looks uncertain for a moment, and
Harry expects that he will change his mind and throw him out of the room.

“Just open the box, Potter. I will make some tea.”

Snape disappears into what must be a kitchen, and Harry picks the box up and shakes it to
hear something clattering inside before placing it on his lap. It sure doesn’t look like a
Christmas present. It looks like something kids hide under their beds and keep their treasure
in. He opens the lid.

Postcards. Yellowed paper and fuzzy edges.

Harry fishes a random one out and reads.

Dear Sev,

New York is so noisy and you’d probably hate it. I still miss your grumpy face though and I
wish you were here. We went up Empire State Building and saw the whole city lit up. Just like
in Si-Fi novels that you like.

Everything is bigger here, which makes me feel so very small. You’d get it if you were here I
think.

Miss you.

Love,

Lily

There’s a drawing of Empire State Building in the corner and two stick figures holding hands.

Harry’s eyes prickle. He picks another postcard up.

He reads.

Dear Sev…

***
Harry is a mess. His eyes are leaking, his nose is leaking, and his sleeves are all wet from
constantly wiping his face. He’s put all the postcards away and closed the lid, but he just
can’t stop crying. He wants… this is so stupid. He wants his mum.

A cup of steaming tea appears in front of him, and Harry takes it but doesn’t drink. The sofa
sags as Snape stiffly sits next to him, close enough that their arms touch, and it’s enough to
give Harry at least some comfort. He takes a sip of tea.

They drink in silence, and when there is no tea left, Harry realises that his face is dry. He
takes a deep shaky breath in.

“You suck at Christmas gifts,” he tells Snape, who barks a laugh and relaxes against the back
of the sofa.

“Not enough practice I suppose.”

“Don’t you have friends? Family?” It’s a personal question that Harry doesn’t expect Snape
to answer, but then again the line between them has been getting more and more blurry
recently, and he has spent the last hour crying on Snape’s sofa, so…

“Dead,” is all Harry gets.

“You loved her,” he says flatly. He doesn’t have any emotions left.

“More than anything in this world,” Snape confesses.

They sit in silence for a very long time.

***

24th December, 1992

Dear Hermione,

Snape showed me the postcards that my mum would send him when she travelled. I cried like
a baby. It seems to be my thing, crying at Christmas.

Snape loved my mum. And I think my mum loved Snape. I think they were like us. He kept all
her postcards. She called him Sev and told him she missed him. It’s weird. If they were like us,
why did she marry my dad?

I wish you were here.

Sorry. It will be Christmas when this reaches you and I’m ruining your mood. I hope your
cousins are not annoying you too much. What presents did you get? Wish a Happy Christmas
to your parents from me. And your gran.

Maybe I should steal the motorcycle and fly to you.

Imagine me giving you a big Christmas hug. And a kiss.

Love,

Harry

Nine more days.

 Chapter 23
Chapter Notes

For some reason, I really struggled with this one and kept on rewriting bits. Maybe it's
because there is no fluff in this one. Okay, very little fluff. I hope that you'll like it
anyway.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

25th December, 1992

It is the first night since Hermione left that Harry sleeps in his own bed, or tries to at least. He
wraps up in the scarf she gave him and thinks about his mum. A girl who climbed trees, and
travelled with her parents as much as Hermione does, and was kind, and befriended a sullen
boy, and stayed friends with him even though they were sorted into different houses. He
thinks about his dad. A boy who… what? Got up to mischief with his friends and loved his
mum very much, according to Hagrid. Did they grow up and fall in love? He thinks about
Love, Lily. He thinks about Snape. Something doesn’t feel right but Harry isn’t sure if he
should ask. He isn’t sure he wants to know either.

He thinks about the angry man he’s glimpsed in Snape’s head instead. He looked like the sort
of man who grabbed and hit and spat angry words.

Dead, Snape said. Harry hopes that the angry man is dead too.

He turns on his other side and pulls his duvet up to his chin.

Was Snape unloved just like Harry? Is that why he is helping him now?

If Hermione falls in love with somebody else and has a child with him, Harry will despise
this person, and hate the child, he is pretty sure. He will probably hate Hermione too. At least
for a little while.

He lies on his back.

It’s useless.

He reaches for the Marauder’s Map and studies it just to have something to do. Everybody’s
in their beds, no one’s even patrolling the corridors. Harry looks at Lockhart’s Private
Chambers and touches the wand to the parchment, which shows him the password. Best smile
award. Harry rolls his eyes. Lockhart isn’t in the castle. Harry grins.
He slides his feet into his worn trainers and gets the invisibility cloak from under the pillow.
If he can’t sleep anyway, he might as well do something useful.

***

Lockhart’s rooms are eerily tidy. The fan mail is organised into neat stacks on his desk, and
his ink and quills are all lined up perfectly. The robes in his wardrobe are arranged by colour
like a rainbow, the shoes are stored similarly underneath.

Harry has expected an abundance of different jars and bottles in Lockhart’s bathroom, but it
only holds three: shampoo, perfume and face serum, all lined up on the shelf under the mirror
with labels facing Harry.

He takes a look at the reflection of his head floating in mid-air.

“Oh, darling, you should really get more sleep,” the mirror’s high voice makes Harry jump
and he scowls at it, annoyed. “Don’t give me that expression! The bags under these gorgeous
eyes of yours just won’t do!” Lockhart’s mirror seems to be just as annoying as the man
itself. Harry pulls the hood over his head and leaves, the voice still shouting, “At least invest
in a good hair potion! It will do wonders for…” but Harry doesn’t hear the rest. He is already
out of the door and speeding back towards his dorm.

For some reason, Lockhart’s rooms creep him out even more than the Chamber of Secrets
did.

***

At least he doses after his excursion, and when he fully wakes up, it’s to dim winter sunlight
and a small stack of gifts at the foot of his bed. There are even little things from Neville and
Wood, and Harry makes a mental note to get something for them next year. As he makes his
way through some of the sweets, his midnight worries finally forgotten, he notices an
envelope on the side that he hasn’t opened yet. His heart starts beating faster when he picks it
up and sees familiar handwriting. What could the Headmaster want from him on Christmas
Day?

He tears through the paper - the sound deafeningly loud in the otherwise silent room - and
unfolds the expensive-looking parchment.

Dear Harry,

I would be delighted if you join this old man for Christmas breakfast. Do not fret, nothing too
early. 10 o’clock will do just fine.

My office.

PS I particularly enjoyed Strawberry and Cream.

Albus Dumbledore
Harry checks the clock and is relieved to see that it’s only 9:15. He reads the invitation again.
Although addressed in a friendly way, it doesn’t sound like something he can decline.
Besides, he is curious. He doesn’t like the familiarity though. Dear Harry. It’s not like the
Headmaster hasn’t called him Harry before, but it really bothers him now for some reason.
None of the other Professors call him Harry, not even Snape after all this time.

He gets up reluctantly, pops another toffee in his mouth, and pulls his new Weasley jumper
over his head.

***

“Strawberry and cream,” Harry recites dutifully to the gargoyle, which moves to reveal a
familiar narrow staircase, and way too soon for Harry’s liking, he is standing in front of the
Headmaster. Harry doesn’t know if Dumbledore actually likes dressing in a ridiculous
combination of colours - green, purple and pink today - or if it’s his way of making people
think that he’s senile and harmless. Either way, Harry doesn’t feel comfortable with this man
and the ease with which he puts his hand on Harry’s shoulder and leads him to the desk,
which holds a small breakfast feast. Neither does he like the way Dumbledore studies him as
they sit down facing each other.

“Please, help yourself, Harry,” Dumbledore offers with a benevolent smile, and Harry can’t
help himself.

“Thank you, Albus,” he replies just to see how the Headmaster will react. He expects him to
laugh jovially like Father Christmas, but Dumbledore just tilts his head to the side and asks,
“Would you prefer it if I called you Mr. Potter?”

“It just seems more appropriate, that’s all,” Harry replies and busies himself with piling
bacon and eggs on his plate, having had his fill of sweets first thing in the morning. “I don’t
know you that well.”

Dumbledore picks up a mince pie and holds it in his long wrinkled fingers. “So, tell me,
Harry, if my using your name seems to be so inappropriate to you, how is it possible that your
spending so much time with Professor Snape and visiting him in his rooms is appropriate?”

Harry looks up at Dumbledore, startled, but then shrugs with all the nonchalance he can
master although he is fuming on the inside. “Professor Snape always addresses me Mr.
Potter.”

To Harry’s disappointment, the Headmaster doesn’t react. Or he does, but not in the way
Harry has expected. He turns all compassionate and concerned.

“Don’t get me wrong, Harry. I think it’s wonderful you’ve found an adult away from home
that you feel you can trust. I’m simply worried that Professor Snape is not the right adult for
this job.”

“Isn’t it for me to decide, Sir?”

“Oh, it is. But can one truly make a decision without possessing all the information?”
Harry mulishly doesn’t say anything. He knows that Dumbledore is baiting him. He knows
that the Headmaster wants him to ask. So, Harry ignores him and stubbornly slices his bacon
into tiny pieces, the scraping of his knife on a plate is the only sound.

Dumbledore sighs sadly and puts his mince pie down, untouched. “You seem to have matured
greatly in the last year. I didn’t want to burden you with this knowledge but I believe that you
are ready now.” Harry looks at Dumbledore’s mouth, at how his lips move as he says the
words. Lies, Harry tells himself, whatever comes out of this mouth now will be lies and
twisted truths. “You see, Harry, there was a prophecy made just before you were born…”

Despite everything, Harry listens, and as he does, it feels as if an invisible hand is squeezing
his throat, tighter and tighter with each word.

***

He pounds on the painting leading to the Potion Master’s Chambers with a fist and pushes
past Snape as soon as there is a wide enough gap. The Professor is saying something but
Harry can’t hear. There is a strange whooshing sound in his ears and black dots dancing in
front of his eyes are making it hard to focus. He needs to sit down, only he doesn’t want to,
not if what Dumbledore has told him about Snape is true. His eyes dart around the room and
Snape’s face appears right in front of him, his lips move and his hand reaches for Harry.

“Don’t touch me,” Harry says, and his voice sounds strange, like coming from a well. Snape
lifts his hands up as if in surrender and takes a step back. Harry’s eyes land on the mug on the
coffee table, half-full. Harry gave it to Snape for Christmas. It has Dungeon Bat written on it
and a picture of a bat with fangs. Harry filled it with cauldron cakes, too. Did Snape open it
straight after waking up just like Harry did with his presents? Snape didn’t know that Harry
would come. He isn’t using the mug just for show. He is using it because he wants to.
Because it means something to him. Whatever happened nearly thirteen years ago, there must
be an explanation.

Harry sits on the sofa, puts his head between his knees and waits for his heart to stop
pounding in his ears. When he looks up again, Snape is still there, and he is wearing pyjamas
and a robe. Speaking of inappropriate. Bloody Dumbledore.

It all suddenly seems so ridiculous. The mug, Snape, his pyjamas, the prophecy, being Harry
Potter, the power he knows not. The only power he has is finding himself in impossible
situations. A strange noise escapes Harry, somewhere between a giggle and a sob. He wants
to ask Snape to explain but he doesn’t know where to start.

Harry watches as Snape takes his wand out of his pocket and waves it in the direction of the
kitchen. They both listen as drawers open and close, as cups clank and water pours. A mug of
tea floats out of the kitchen and lands in front of Harry, who is paying no mind to it and is
staring instead at the wand still held loosely in Snape’s fingers. Harry gets up and walks up to
the Professor, who is watching him like one watches a wild animal. Harry takes Snape’s
wand hand in both of his and lifts it up slowly until the tip of the wand presses right into
Harry’s chest. The Professor lifts an eyebrow in question.
“Legilimens,” Harry rasps out, and he half-expects it not to work, but it does. He can feel
Snape’s presence in his mind, so familiar now, and he pushes all the memories of this
morning - from the note to the meeting with Dumbledore to It’s because of Professor Snape
that your parents are dead to coming here - to the forefront of his mind.

The look in Snape’s eyes turns livid, and he grips his wand in a way that makes his fingertips
white.

“I despise that man,” the Professor growls out when Harry has nothing else to show. “Always
plotting. Always twisting.” He looks into Harry’s eyes. “I didn’t even know that Lily was
pregnant. I was doing my best to hate her back then.” He looks down at his wand, then back
at Harry. He reaches for Harry’s hand and places his wand into Harry’s palm - it feels strange,
holding somebody else’s wand like that - then Snape covers Harry’s hand with both of his,
just like Harry did only minutes before, and points it at his own chest. Harry expects what
comes next.

“Legilimens,” Snape hisses and Harry watches as memories flicker and he feels.

He overhears a part of the prophecy. He goes to the Dark Lord. He is disgusted with himself.
He is terrified of his Master. It’s a mistake, he knows it’s a mistake, he doesn’t even want to
be part of this anymore but there is no way out. People who wanted out died. His friends
died. He needs to survive. He needs to be useful. He delivers the prophecy. He kneels in front
of the wizard who was once Tom Riddle. Revulsion and hate and fear. He tolerates a heavy
hand on his head, feels relief at the praise.

“Have you heard, Severus? The mudblood you so love is due to have a little brat,” a witch
with cruel eyes says conspiratorially. “Born as the seven month dies,” she cackles. No no no
no no.

Guilt.

Going to the Dark Lord is useless. He knows no mercy. He goes to Dumbledore, he falls on
his knees, he pleads, he cries, he promises anything. Blue merciless eyes now instead of
brown. A new master.

So much guilt. So much love. So much hate.

-
The stream of images, thoughts and feelings cuts off. Snape’s chest is rising and falling like
he’s been running, and he is watching Harry as if waiting for a verdict.

“Okay,” is all Harry says. He doesn’t know what to think or feel just yet anyway.

“Okay?” Snape echoes incredulously. "No angry outbursts? No accusations?“

“You’ve done enough of that already.” Harry has never known guilt so heavy and corrosive.
How can Snape carry it inside every day and still be able to walk?

“I still don’t understand though. Why did you even join him? And if you and my mum were
so close… what happened?”

Snape walks to the sofa and sits heavily, and Harry follows him. Thank Merlin for magic,
because the tea is still hot, and Harry is freezing. It’s the only thing he can properly feel right
now.

“Shall I tell you a story, Potter?” Snape sounds lifeless when he asks and he doesn’t wait for
Harry’s answer. “Once upon a time, there was an abused boy with a drunkard muggle for a
father and a weak pathetic witch for a mother. The boy was poor, ugly and unloved. One day,
he met a girl from a good muggle family. The girl was pretty, kind and loved. The boy was a
wizard and the girl was a witch, and it united them despite all of their differences. The boy
told her about the world of magic, and the girl made him think that maybe he was not so
unloveable after all. They spent more and more time together. They studied, they played and
they dreamed. When it was time to go to Hogwarts, the boy was sorted into Slytherin, and the
girl into Gryffindor. The boy turned out to be the only half-blood in his year in the house that
prised purity. The boy didn’t make any friends. The girl, though, did make friends. She fit
right in. She was happy. And the boy was happy too, when he was with her. They still
studied, played and dreamed together. Her friends teased the girl for spending time with the
boy. The boy's housemates judged him for spending time with a mudblood. The girl did not
care. The boy did not care either. After all, he was judged by everybody anyway. However,
eventually, the other Slytherins realised that the boy was smart, and cunning, and powerful.
They included him in their circle, they told him tales of a different life. They promised him
he would be respected, important, influential. The girl did not understand. She wanted the
boy to stop reading about dark magic. She wanted him to stop being friends with other
Slytherins. The girl refused to talk to him until he changed his ways. The boy did not know
how to change and the girl did not know how to help him. The boy turned resentful and bitter.
The boy told himself that he did not need the girl. He told himself that he hated her. He
started calling her a mudblood.

The girl started spending time with somebody else who was much easier to love. The boy got
a mark on his arm that meant that he belonged at least somewhere. However, soon the boy
learned that to keep on belonging he needed to learn how to torture and kill. How to grovel
and endure pain. He tried telling the girl he was sorry. The girl said that she was scared of
him and closed the door in his face. The boy learned to torture and kill, to grovel and endure
pain. The end.”

There is a deafening silence that Harry finally breaks.

 “It doesn’t sound like love to me.”

“Oh, it was love. It was even more than that. However, love isn’t enough sometimes.” Snape
still sounds lifeless, and Harry doesn’t like it. Maybe it’s because Harry himself can’t feel
anything much at the moment, or maybe he needs to know that Snape and him are okay.

“Were you and my mum a couple?” He asks and Snape gives him a look.

“Do you really want to know if I was in a relationship with your mother?”

“Err… Actually, maybe not. Can I see the Mark?”

Snape sighs and silently rolls the sleeve of his left arm up to expose the Dark Mark, ugly and
red like a fresh brand.

“Gross.”

“Quite.”

“Can I call you Severus?”

Snape’s face turns to stone, but it’s this humorous sort of stone, Harry can tell. “No.”

“Sev?”

“Definitely not.”

“Sevvy?”

Snape points his wand at the mug that Harry is cradling, and the words Insufferable Brat
replace the pattern of leaves that it used to depict.

“Sevvy it is then,” Harry grins, and Snape cuffs him on the side of the head.

Harry feels a little bit less cold.

Chapter End Notes

If you wonder why Harry hasn't seen Snape delivering the prophecy with other
Voldemort's memories when he touched the diary, it's because he was so focused on
Horcruxes, so the memories were focused around them too. And his dreams are pretty
random, so I thought I could get away with it:)
 Chapter 24
Chapter Notes

Something short and fluffy just because. Happy Sunday:)

27th December, 1992

Harry wanders around the castle, plays with Fang, rides the motorbike with Hagrid and, after
some thinking, apologises to Dumbledore for having run away like that. If Dumbledore wants
Harry to trust him and go to him instead of Snape, Harry can pretend. So, they talk about the
prophecy, and Harry asks Dumbledore if he’s planning to train Harry to help him defeat
Voldemort, but Dumbledore says that it would only interfere with what was foretold, and
spins endless tales about love. Harry thinks about it a lot, love. And his mum. It’s like there
are three people now instead of one. The first one is the woman from the photos in the album
that Hermione and Hagrid have given him. The second one is the girl that Snape told him
about when he took Harry to Cokeworth, the girl who sent all the postcards. The third one is
somebody scared, judgemental and cruel, the girl from Snape’s story who chose not to fight
for somebody who clearly needed her. They are like puzzle pieces from three different sets
that Harry is doing his best to fit together but keeps on failing again and again.

He also thinks about how Snape said, It was love. It was even more than that. But what could
be more than love?

However, more than anything else, Harry waits. He hasn’t heard back from Hermione yet and
he’s beginning to get worried. What if something has happened to Hedwig? What if
something has happened to Hermione? What if her parents have decided that she shouldn’t be
talking to Harry and locked her in? He knows that this last thought is absolutely irrational but
he worries all the same.

When Hedwig finally swoops in silently during dinner and lands in front of Harry, it feels
like his heart has just grown wings. He pockets the letter straight away, and it sits there
heavily, like a secret. He strokes Hedwig absentmindedly, inhales the rest of his food and
runs, runs, runs all the way to the common room. Some portraits yell at him to slow down as
he passes, but they all are just a meaningless blur.

He sits in front of the fire, takes the letter out of his pocket, tears the envelope like a savage,
cuts his finger in the process and sticks it into his mouth, barely noticing. He drinks
Hermione’s words in and lets them settle in his bones. For the first time in days, he feels
calm.
Dear Harry,

We’re all stuck indoors because it’s hailing so horribly outside. Hedwig looked a bit ruffled
and pretty grumpy when she got here, so I’m not going to send her until the storm passes.
Naturally, I had to introduce her to the whole family because you can’t hide an owl in a house
for long.

I can’t even imagine how you must be feeling and I really want to be at Hogwarts with you. It
makes me feel so helpless to know that there is no way I could get to you right now. So, I wish
instead. I wish we were grown-ups. I wish we weren’t restricted by what adults think is right.
I wish we could Apparate. I wish you were here. I wish a lot of things…

It’s alright here, really, although I don’t know if I can take another round of Monopoly
without feeling sick. Mum and Dad kind of guessed about us just from looking at the photos. I
didn’t want to tell them at first because I was worried that they wouldn’t let you visit in
summer if they knew, but they seem to be alright with it. Well, Mum and I had a torturously
long talk and I swear her main goal was to embarrass me… Oh, and Gran took me clothes
shopping just before Christmas, and she was all like “Do you think Harry will like this on
you? Do you think he will like that?” It’s frustrating how as soon as a girl gets a boyfriend,
people expect her to please him instead of pleasing herself. And it was so frustrating how
Gran said, “Oh, Jean, you should have let Harry come too.” And Mum was like, “Yeah,
maybe.” And my dad was up for it from the beginning anyway… So, now they all ask these
questions about you, and Uncle Jerry tells stories about how he and Aunt Rachel met, and
how they wrote letters to each other. And Gran reminisces about Grandad and how much it
hurt to lose him. Her one true love, she says. Sam, the oldest of my cousins, says that he and
his girlfriend are looking at colleges together. Marnie, who’s my age, tells me that if I read so
much you’ll dump me. You see, everything is either about love or you. It’s like every moment
is saturated with you but you are not here and I miss you.

By the way, it seems you’ve got some competition. Joshua is five, he is crazy about trains and
very taken with me. Gran found a giant box of wooden tracks that Dad used to play with.
You’d be impressed with the structures that we build. If not for this kid, I’d go crazy with
longing.

Just a few more days.

Merry Christmas. I hope you’ve had a good one.

All my love.

Hermione

***

Harry’s mouth stretches into a smile, and love glows and grows and pulses in his chest. He
was stupid for having even tried to hide it, really.

He tries to remember what he wrote to her last time. Was it about Lily’s letters to Snape? It
seems that so much has happened since then, but he doesn’t think he could put it all into
words even if he tried. So he writes about his trip to Lockhart’s rooms and about a couple of
ideas he’s got on how to annoy him. He writes about how deep the snow is and how magical
the forest looks. He writes about the presents that he got and tells Hermione to let her gran
know that Harry would like Hermione even if she wore a potato sack. He writes that he’s
never played Monopoly, or built a train track in his life and that he’d probably enjoy it right
now as much as a five-year-old would.

Harry goes to the Room of Hidden Things and casts “Accio toy train” just to see what will
happen. To his surprise, a few fly at him from different directions. One of them is so big that
Harry has to fall to the side with a yelp to avoid it knocking him over, and yet another hits
him painfully right on the shin.

He picks that one up to see that it’s a tiny copy of Hogwarts Express engine, and it looks like
the right size to fit on Joshua’s wooden track too. That is if Harry remembers correctly from
watching Dudley play years ago.

Quite pleased with himself, he goes back to the tower and finishes his letter with,

I wish, too.

Just a few more days.

Love,

Harry

PS I hope Joshua likes his new train.

***

Later, showered and wearing pyjamas, Harry puts Hermione’s letter under his pillow and
settles down to sleep. As he begins to drift, his hand snakes under the pillow and his palm
rests right on the crisp paper, the cut on his index finger pulses and stings. That night, he
dreams of her.

***

3rd January, 1993

Harry is tapping his foot impatiently as he waits at the platform in Hogsmeade under the dark
sky, Hagrid’s lantern the only source of light. The train whistle blows in the distance and
Harry rises on his tiptoes straining to see.

A heavy hand falls on his shoulder. “Jus’ a few more minutes,” Hagrid chuckles, raises his
lantern in the air, and it swings from side to side.

Harry’s heart speeds up when he finally notices the distant lights of the Hogwarts Express,
and he unconsciously takes a couple of steps forward, like a moth to a flame.
The closer the train comes, the faster Harry’s heart beats, as if it wants to jump out of his
chest and race towards Hermione all on its own. The engine’s headlight becomes blinding,
and the brakes screech. Harry shields his eyes with his hand and struggles to see. The doors
open, and Hermione’s familiar shape bursts out of a carriage, her hair bounces as she runs.
Has she been waiting by the doors just as impatient as him, just as eager? Harry opens his
arms, and she slams into him like an avalanche, like nothing could have stopped her. He
catches her, solid, warm, real, not a dream, not a wish. Their noses brush, their lips meet
briefly and somebody whistles in the background.

“Hi,” Harry says through a smile, his voice raspy.

“Hi,” Hermione echoes. Steam is coming out of their mouths, it’s so cold, and Hermione’s
nose is quickly turning pink. Harry pecks the tip of it, and Hermione wrinkles it in a funny
way, and her smile grows.

“Let’s find a carriage before we turn into ice sculptures,” Harry says.

Their fingers entwine and, just like that, Harry’s world is whole again.
 Chapter 25
Chapter Notes

In this one, I'm imagining Draco as a scared little bird who is doing his best to look
fierce but is failing miserably.

3rd January, 1993

Harry has got this feeling - like an itch right under his skin - that only goes away when his
skin touches Hermione’s, and he wants, he needs, to escape, to steal her away, to finally be
alone with her after all these days of no contact. But people swarm around them and Harry
wants to bat them away like he would an irritating fly. The common room is chaos. Parvati
pulls on Hermione’s arm to ask a question, Ron shouts something into Harry’s ear and
guffaws, and Neville lifts a pot with some weird-looking plant up and explains something
excitedly. Lavender is giggling so much at something that she trips and falls into Hermione,
whose hand slips out of Harry’s. And then Dean is in front of him, and Hermione is even
further away. Harry listens with half an ear to what the boys are chatting about as he watches
Hermione being pulled towards the girls’ stairs. She tears herself away, rushes a few steps
back to him, and whispers into his ear. “Let’s feed the sharks now or they will tear us apart
later.” Harry wants to protest that they are already tearing them apart but Hermione is
following the girls up the stairs.

Harry sighs, resigned, and also goes to climb the steps with the boys.

***

As Ron sat with his brothers on the train, and Neville found himself in a compartment with a
group of Herbology enthusiasts, they all spent some time catching up, and it takes Harry by
complete surprise when Seamus suddenly asks, “So, Potter, what’s it like?”

Harry blinks at him, not understanding. “What’s what like?”

“Snogging, what else?” Seamus grins, Dean snorts, and Neville blushes. They are all looking
at Harry though, and there is no way he is talking to them about that. And anyway, he
wouldn’t call what Hermione and he have done snogging. They’ve shared gentle, tender
kisses and touches. It is certainly nothing like what he walked in on a couple of older students
doing in a broom cupboard last year.

“Get your own girlfriend and find out,” Harry goads and throws a pillow at Seamus with a
laugh, then continues quickly before anybody asks anything else, “I’ve got something better
to tell you anyway. Guess who has learned how to ride a flying motorcycle?”
It works like a charm. The boys gasp and say no way, and you’re shitting me, and nobody
says anything else about snogging. Thank Merlin.

***

Harry is poking about impatiently in the fire when Hermione sinks onto the sofa next to him.

“Sorry,” she says breathlessly and snuggles into his side. “How long have you been waiting
for?”

“Mmm, just about an eternity or so,” Harry answers as the tension leaves his body. He puts
his arm around Hermione and nuzzles into her hair. “Why did you take so long anyway?
Weren’t you all on the same train just now?”

“Umm… I might have performed a Notice-Me-Not charm and hid in a compartment with a
bunch of Hufflepuff first-years.”

“You! Slytherin!” Harry gives her an impressed look and chuckles when she

sticks her tongue out at him in reply.

“But still,” he continues. “You said Lavender and Parvati have interrogated you on the way to
London.”

“Ah, but it was before our ride to the castle in a carriage all by ourselves,” Hermione says
meaningfully and wiggles her eyebrows. Harry laughs. He loves how carefree and childish
Hermione is being. It makes him a little bit lighter too, so much so that he forgets all about
the Prophecy, Dumbledore and everything else that happened during the holidays.

“I suspect you’re not taking me seriously, Mr. Potter!” Hermione folds her arms and pouts
unconvincingly.

“Oh, I totally am. And I think we should give them something else to talk about.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He leans down to kiss her but before their lips touch, the portrait of the Fat Lady swings open
and Professor McGonagall steps through and claps her hands.

“Come on, you lot, off to beds with you! Lessons resume tomorrow! I refuse to have you
yawning in my class.”

The few students, mostly couples, who are still in the common room give a collective groan.

“You’ll thank me in the morning. I am waiting!”

Harry reluctantly peels himself from Hermione’s side.

“Night I guess,” he says and kisses her on the cheek while McGonagall is busy telling off a
particularly rumpled couple.

“Yeah.” Hermione strokes his cheek but lets her hand drop with a sigh when McGonagall
looks in their direction and clears her throat loudly. “Tomorrow is only a few hours away.”

***

8th January, 1993

Only there doesn’t seem enough time, not tomorrow, not the day after, and not the day after
that.

Wood decides to call a Quidditch practice straight after classes on Monday. On Tuesday,
Hermione lands herself in detention with Madame Pince for arguing loudly in the library with
a Ravenclaw about Werewolf rights. On Wednesday, Dumbledore wants to see him just to
check how Harry is doing because, apparently, they are the best of pals now. Then there is
Snape, and more Quidditch practice, and so much homework that it feels like a punishment
for having had two weeks off.

Harry begins to see the appeal of broom cupboards. There is one in nearly every corridor, and
they are small and quiet and private, especially if you know what spells to use. The thought
of pulling Hermione into one between classes to simply hold her close is unexpectedly
tempting, and the only thing that keeps him from doing so is the fact that it’s Friday and
they’ve got only two lessons left.

So, it isn’t he who gives in to the temptation. It’s Hermione who opens a door they pass with
a flick of her wand and pushes Harry in. He gives a surprised laugh as he trips on a bucket
and his back hits a wall. The door shuts with a click and the darkness is so thick that he can’t
see a single thing.

He can sense Hermione moving closer though, and he feels her hands as they move from his
neck to his shoulders, to his chest, and, his school robes already open, down and right under
his perpetually untucked shirt. They wrap around him and rest on his back, fingers splayed.
Harry is frozen for a moment having no idea what she is up to, but she simply rests her head
on his shoulder and stills, and he understands.

Hermione’s sleeves are rolled up, and her forearms and palms are pressed firmly to his bare
back, and this skin-on-skin and stillness is exactly what he needs. He puts one hand on the
nape of her neck and another one on her waist and holds her there. All the stolen hugs and
kisses, hand holding and knees touching, shoulders bumping and hands resting on each
other's thighs… these things haven’t been enough. It’s like the closer they become and the
more he falls, the greedier Harry gets.

They just stand there for a while, embracing in the dark without even saying anything. And
when they are late to their next class, it’s so much worth the points taken.

***
“Strolling around the dungeons again, Potter?” Draco sneers when he catches Harry making
his way out of Snape’s office. Although catches is probably not the right word considering
Draco knows exactly where Harry spends his Friday evenings.

“You’d be surprised how popular I am around here, Malfoy.” Even as he says it, a smile
spreads across his face. He just can’t play Draco’s games, at least not when they are alone.
So, Harry takes the invisibility cloak out of his pocket and drapes it over his shoulders, then
holds it open for Draco.

“Do you want to come and hide with me?” Harry grins, and Draco rolls his eyes and calls
Harry childish, but he joins him and he smiles a genuine smile all the same.

“I’d rather not hide indoors,” Draco whispers and they take the steps leading up to the
Astronomy Tower. The invisibility cloak does nothing to keep the crisp winter air away and it
nips at their fingers, at their bare necks and cheeks. They hastily cast warming charms and
huddle together resting their elbows on the parapet. Harry feels how Draco’s shoulders rise
and fall as he inhales deeply, and then exhales in a way that feels a bit too controlled.

“It’s so beautiful, isn’t it?” Draco asks as he looks at the sky. It is beautiful with the full moon
looking huge and mysterious as it dips in and out of clouds. However, it’s so unlike Draco to
say something like that that Harry glances at him in concern, and the next thing Draco says
makes him even more worried.

“I really don’t want to die,” he whispers, his voice strained, and then swears under his breath
dropping his head in his hands. Harry tentatively lifts his arm and rubs circles on Draco’s
back, who stiffens in return.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Trying to comfort you,” Harry answers but even to his ears, his tone sounds unsure.

Draco snorts.

“I guess it’s not working,” Harry says dropping his arm.

“Did I say you could stop doing that?” Draco complains. It’s Harry’s turn to snort now and
call Draco a drama queen, but he returns his hand to Draco’s back and, God, his shoulder
blades are so sharp, and Harry can feel every single bump of his spine.

“Why do you think that you are going to die?”

“You’ve seen the Prophet, right? That Amelia Bones has gone missing?”

“Yeah…”

“They suspended her in the air upside down, sliced her stomach open, and laughed because
she was squealing like a pig. She bled all over somebody’s tombstone. Bone of the father,
blood of the enemy, made me watch. Will build your character, he said. Bloody creepy
fucked-up-“
“Draco, you are making zero sense right now,” Harry interrupts Draco’s rant, who takes
another controlled breath in and tries again.

“They performed a ritual to give the Dark Lord a proper body, only something went wrong
and he looks like a cross between a skeleton and a very ugly lizard.”

“But that’s good, right? That it didn’t work?”

Draco’s bones shift under Harry’s palm as he laughs bitterly and turns to face him. It’s
strange to be so close to somebody under the invisibility cloak apart from Hermione, and
there’s something in Draco’s eyes that makes Harry want to take a step back.

“He’s using his connection to his servants through the Dark Mark. He is feeding on their
magic.”

“But that’s also good in a way. It makes Death Eaters weaker-“

“They are going to mark me this summer, okay? And a bunch of other kids because whatever
he is getting isn’t enough, and children’s magic is easier to access.”

And Draco is right, this is not good at all. It terrifies Harry to know that in this world parents
are willing to sacrifice their children to a monster instead of fighting against him.

“What will happen if he depletes your magic?” Harry asks although he suspects that he
already knows the answer.

“The best-case scenario, I become a squib. The worst-case scenario, I die.”

And there is nothing Harry can say to that, is there?

Then Draco turns on him, all sharp angles and fear and wild fury. He takes Harry by his
jumper and shakes.

“You!” Draco accuses. “You promised that you knew how to get rid of him. So go! Go! Do
your Saint Potter magic! Before they break other Death Eaters out of Azkaban and cut even
more people open!” Draco lets go of him just as quickly and takes a couple of steps back
slipping from under the cloak. Harry rips it off his own shoulders too, frustration sizzling
inside him at being attacked so abruptly. He wants to shout right back at Draco and tell him
that he is not the only one who wants to live. The only thing that stops Harry is the fact that
Draco’s hands are shaking so violently and that he looks utterly terrified as he carries on
rambling. “Before our big family reunion. From what Mother has said, Auntie Bella and
Uncle Rodolphus are a lot of endless fun.” Draco gives a bitter laugh. “Like my life isn’t
already horrid enough.”

Draco is muttering something else while kicking a wall furiously but Harry can’t hear any of
it. Rodolphus, Rodolphus… He knows that name. Rodolphus Lestrange. Married to Bellatrix
Lestrange. He left the diary with Lucius and the cup with Bellatrix, two of his most dedicated
servants. Auntie Bella.
“Draco. Draco! Malfoy! Stop attacking the wall and listen!” Draco freezes and looks at Harry
with pale wide eyes, his hair all over the place, red blotches on his cheeks. “Are you related
to Bellatrix Lestrange?”

It seems that Draco is so confused by Harry’s question that he forgets to be angry for a
second. “Yes. She is Mother’s sister, née Black. Why?”

“She has something that belongs to Voldemort,” Harry explains urgently. “You want him
dead before you get Marked? Help me find it.”

“Promise?”

Harry is not sure that he will be able to keep it but he promises anyway, and Draco nods
shakily, then walks back to the parapet and rests his elbows on the cold stone again, his
shoulders rising and falling rapidly.

“I’m sorry for shouting at you,” Draco says into the sky. “I know it’s not your fault.”

“I get it. You’re scared.”

“I’m not scared!” Draco protests, offended, and Harry snickers.

“Yeah, sure. And I don’t have an ugly scar on my forehead.”

They poke fun at each other for a bit, and Harry explains to him what the cup looks like.

“I’m scared too,” Harry whispers when they stand there in silence again. Draco doesn’t argue
this time.
 Chapter 26
Chapter Notes

Here's another one for you, lovely people. Enjoy!

9th January, 1993

The fire in the Room of Requirement springs to life in a cheerful greeting the moment they
step through the door. They haven’t been here since before the holidays, and to Harry, it feels
like returning to a sanctuary after days of battle, a sanctuary he doesn’t quite deserve. He
kneels by the coffee table to free his arms of a small mountain of snacks they got from overly
enthusiastic house elves first thing in the morning and sits cross-legged on the rug simply
because he can’t master enough energy to make it to anywhere else. He pokes at the food
absentmindedly not feeling particularly hungry just yet and automatically takes the mug that
Hermione hands him as she sinks into the softness of the sofa. Harry takes a sip of his
luxuriously thick hot chocolate and the sweetness of it turns to bitterness as he swallows, so
he places it on the coffee table too, scoots back and rests his head on Hermione’s knee.

“You’ve been quiet,” she says gently as her fingers start playing with his hair and he hums,
half agreement and half relief at feeling her touch.

His conversation with Draco yesterday made everything more real. Harry had managed to
convince himself somehow that he had time, and that, in the end, he would be the one to die
while saving everybody else. But it’s not the case, is it? It’s not some childish treasure hunt
either.

“People are dying but I’m sitting here drinking hot chocolate while the girl I love is stroking
my hair,” he grinds out bitterly and Hermione’s hand stills for a moment.

“What has Malfoy told you?” She asks resuming her actions, and everything spills out of
him. Voldemort and his new but fragile body, Amelia Bones’ death, Draco’s terror,
Dumbledore and the Prophecy and Snape. The only thing Harry keeps to himself is Snape’s
tale about himself and a girl named Lily but only because Harry feels that it’s not his story to
tell.

When Harry is quiet again, Hermione makes a fist in his hair - it’s getting too long and
desperately needs a cut - and tugs until he tilts his head back and their eyes meet. It’s strange
to be looking at her like this though, upside down, and he scrambles up and slumps into the
sofa feeling more like a rag doll than a human being.

He expects Hermione to say something but she takes his left arm instead and starts pulling his
sleeve up. Harry has no idea how she knows, but he isn’t even that surprised either. He lets
her expose four fresh shallow cuts on his forearm, and then he watches her as she leans down
and places a kiss on the one closest to his wrist.

“None of this-“ she moves higher, to the next one, and kisses it too, “is-“ kiss “your-“ kiss
“fault.”

When she looks up at him, her eyes are sincere and earnest and so full of acceptance that
something inside Harry tears and breaks and his eyes start to burn.

“But it’s my responsibility. Hermione, the Prophecy-“

“You are not alone,” she takes his face in her hands. “You’ve got me and Professor Snape.
And possibly even Dumbledore.” He doesn’t know what she means by that last one but he
doesn’t have a chance to ask because, the next thing he knows, she is kissing him on the lips
and it tastes like tears.

***

“What did you mean,” he asks later, after his cheeks are dry and their mugs stand empty.
“When you said, possibly even Dumbledore?”

Hermione gnaws at her bottom lip, thinking, then says, “Don’t get me wrong, I do believe
that he is manipulating you but not in the way that you think.” At his questioning look, she
explains further. “He is a clever man - he wouldn’t have achieved everything he has if he
weren’t. Think about it, Harry. Do you imagine he didn’t know you’d go straight to Snape
after he told you how Snape had overheard the Prophecy? He very likely knew that it was the
only way to make Snape tell you the whole truth.”

“Maybe,” Harry says uncertainly. “But why would he want that?”

“I don’t know… what if he actually cares about you? And Snape? He very likely knows how
much guilt Snape is carrying. What if it was his way of helping?”

“But why do it in such a twisted way?”

Hermione shrugs. “Maybe he doesn’t know any other way. Maybe he is trying to keep people
at a distance. Maybe he knows that he is going to lose them, so…”

“That’s a lot of maybes.”

“Mmm.” Hermione tilts her head in thought then leans to rummage in her bag and takes out
the notebook they’ve been using - it looks twice as thick now from all the dog-eared pages
and being opened and closed so many times. She leafs through it until she finds the list of
Horcruxes, although Harry is sure she knows them by heart now, just like he does. Hermione
traces a finger down all of five items with two of them struck out.

“We are still not sure where the cup is, but the locket and the ring… Harry, what if we ask
Dumbledore for help?” Harry frowns.

“But why? We’ve already decided that we can do it ourselves in summer.”

“But what if we don’t have to? What if we can take the little time we know we have and take
the train to the beach, and set up a tent in the garden and sleep under the stars and go to a
concert and I’ve got a bicycle, I can teach you to ride it…”

Harry understands then. “You want us to live now in case we can’t after.”

“I want us bright and in love and happy and so very alive that even Death itself won’t dare to
take you away from me.“

Harry doesn’t know if he can trust Dumbledore, nor does he know how many innocent
people he will be able to save but he knows that at least he can give Hermione that.

“Time for a bit of living?” He masters a playful smile.

“Yes, please.”

***

It’s dinner time and the corridors are virtually empty but they drape the invisibility cloak over
themselves just in case. After all, the portraits have got eyes too.

It’s different now, walking so very close to Hermione, and not only because he puts his hand
on her waist and pulls her close. He doesn’t remember being this aware of her body, of its
heat, of how her hips curve, of how much he wants to touch every bit of exposed skin. Like
right now, her sweater is too big and keeps on slipping off one shoulder, and he longs to trace
the collarbone with his finger, but she fixes it too quickly every time.

“Best smile award,” Harry whispers to the Lockhart on the painting, who shows all his teeth
and lets them pass with no questions.

“How vain! Using his own portrait as a door.”

“And that password of his too.”

Hermione is about to slip from under the cloak but Harry tightens his hand around her.
“Don’t. The mirror in the bathroom is really annoying.”

Harry points out all the bits about Lockhart’s rooms that he’s found odd and Hermione agrees
that he must have an obsessive compulsive disorder or something. When Harry opens the
wardrobe to expose the perfect rainbow of colours made up of Lockhart’s robes, Hermione
takes an indigo one with a cheeky grin and hangs it between lighter shades of pink.

“You are brilliant and evil,” Harry smirks.

When they enter the bathroom, it is just as pristine as Harry remembers. Hermione picks
Lockhart’s perfume up, unscrews the top and sniffs.

”It’s actually quite nice,” Hermione says in surprise and sticks it under Harry’s nose. “Try.”
“Hm. Like flowers,” Harry replies absentmindedly being busy trying to get a tiny potion vial
from the front pocket of his jeans. “Should’ve - damn - put it somewhere - else. There!”

“I can’t believe Snape actually gave it to you.”

“He made me brew it first.”

“But still.”

Harry shrugs noncommittally. “I think he despises Lockhart more than students do.
Remember the Duelling Club?” - Harry takes the stopper out of the vial with his teeth and
drops it into Hermione’s outstretched hand. “Snape utterly destroyed him. No wonder we had
only one meeting.”

“Yeah. Was kind of hot,” Hermione comments handing the perfume bottle to Harry, whose
hand freezes in midair.

“Did you just call Snape hot?” Harry asks incredulously.

“Maybe. Jealous?” Harry shakes his head, grins and takes the bottle from her.

“No. I’m just going to tell him, that’s all.”

“Don’t you dare!” Hermione squeaks and hits him on the shoulder making Harry nearly drop
the potion.

“Hermione!”

“Sorry! Sorry!”

Harry tips the contents of the minuscule vial into the perfume and the smell instantly changes
from pleasantly floral to a stench of somebody who hasn’t bathed in a month.

“Ewwww,” they both say in unison.

“Are you sure it will smell normal to Lockhart?” Hermione gives the perfume bottle a
dubious look as she screws the top back on.

“Pretty sure. We’ll only need to wait until tomorrow to find out.”

“Right.” Hermione makes sure the bottle is aligned perfectly with the others while Harry
pockets the empty vial and they take a step back. “Let’s go?”

“Let me just check where everybody is.” Harry takes the Marauder’s Map out to see that
there are still plenty of people having dinner at the Great Hall, which means that they
shouldn’t attract too much attention if they come and join now. His eyes dart around the map
out of habit as he touches the tip of his wand to the yellowed parchment to claim his mischief
managed, only his eyes snag on a familiar name. Peter Pettigrew. Wait. Peter Pettigrew?

“Look!” He pulls at Hermione’s arm urgently. “Peter Pettigrew in my dormitory!”

“Your dad’s friend? But he’s dead,” Hermione says in a shocked whisper, but Harry is
already folding the map and dragging her to the exit. The moment they are out of Lockhart’s
rooms and away from the guardian portrait, he rips the cloak off them and they run.

***

“But there is nobody!” Harry exclaims looking around the room. Scabbers, who’s been
snoozing in Ron’s open trunk, startles at his outburst and scampers under the bed. Harry
checks with the map again, and he sees that the dot labelled Peter Pettigrew has moved from
the foot of Ron’s bed to the bed itself… or under it.

“Wait a minute…” Harry whispers more to himself than to Hermione who is looking over his
shoulder and probably making the same conclusions. Ron’s rat is missing a toe. The only
thing of Pettigrew that was found was a finger. Harry wordlessly hands the map to Hermione
and carefully moves towards the bed, wand in hand, however, just as he starts to lean down,
the rat shoots from underneath Ron’s four-poster and dashes between Harry’s legs.

“Petrificus Totalus!” Hermione and Harry shout simultaneously but they both miss. Only
white sparks bounce off the stone floor as the rat squeezes itself under the door and out of the
room. Hermione flicks her wand at the door and it falls open with a loud bang. They run
down the stairs, nearly tripping, following the grey blur. Harry’s heart is hammering in his
ears. The rat is too fast, Harry won’t be able to - and the common room isn’t empty anymore.
Dinner must be over and Scabbers dashes around and between all the feet. Harry bumps into
somebody, people shout “Hey!” and “Watch it!” but he barely registers anything. Only the
rat, who is climbing up a pair of legs, and then a familiar voice yells out, “Ouch! Scabbers,
whatcha-“

“Petrificus Totalus!” Harry and Hermione shout simultaneously, and - yes! - Harry hits the rat
while Hermione’s spell gets Ron in the chest, and he falls stiff, the rat, also motionless,
clutched in his hand.

Some students shriek, some laugh, while others barely even notice what’s going on.

“Wicked!” The twins exclaim together with silly smiles on their faces.

“What has our Ronnie done-“

“To deserve such treatment?”

Harry looks around the room and swallows. Quite a few people are staring at them, and how
is he going to explain all that? But Hermione is already showing the map to the twins. She
points at it wordlessly and folds it away just as quickly.

“Oooooh,” Fred and George chant together.

“Alright!”

“Nothing to see here.“

“Nothing at all.”
“Just some family business.”

Harry watches in shock as his housemates grumble but go back to their own business.

“Why did they listen to you?” He asks in awe.

“Because, little brother-“

“They know that if they don’t-“

“We’ll prank them,” they finish together proudly.

“Right,” Harry says as he squats next to Ron and tries to get the rat - Peter Pettigrew? - out,
but Ron’s fingers are so stiff that it makes the job impossible. “How do you feel about
Levitating your brother to the Headmaster’s office?” He asks the twins because he doesn’t
see how he can get rid of them now.

While Fred and George are busy manoeuvring Ron through the portrait hole, Hermione links
their arms together and asks, “Headmaster? Are you sure?”

“Yeah. As you’ve said, we could use some help. If he helps us with this then, possibly, we
can trust him with other stuff,” he finishes in a whisper.

“Are you alright?” She lowers her voice too.

“I don’t know,” he replies honestly after some thought. “I don’t know what it means.”

They walk the rest of the way with Ron floating in the air like some weirdly shaped balloon
and Fred and George parading him down seemingly endless corridors and past gawking
students. The twins are bantering and making up jokes as they go, and Harry can see some
people giggle, but he can’t find it in himself to laugh. He has no idea what is going to happen
but he has a feeling it’s something big, and Harry isn’t sure how many more big revelations
he is able to take. So, he focuses on Hermione’s presence, on her hand resting in the crook of
his arm, and he takes comfort in the fact that at least this will never change. Hermione is his
constant for as long as he lives. However long that is.

“Strawberry and cream,” Harry says flatly, and moments later their odd group spills into
Dumbledore’s office, and chaos ensues.

Throughout it all, Hermione never leaves his side.

 Chapter 27

17th January, 1993

PETTIGREW CAPTURED ALIVE, the headlines scream. BLACK: CRIMINAL OR

VICTIM? And Harry’s least favourite, THE BOY WHO LIVED TO BE REUNITED WITH
HIS GODFATHER. Harry has endured a whole week of stares, whispers, pointing fingers,
intrusive questions and all sorts of looks. Hungry looks, pitying looks, curious looks,
mocking looks… He tried hiding from them in the beginning, eyes downcast, head down and
shoulders slumped. It failed to mute the gossiping whispers though, and he could feel anger
brewing inside him like one of Snape’s volatile potions. So, he started looking them in the
eye instead, stubborn and unwavering. That shut people right up.

There is something else though fluttering inside his ribcage, an emotion he refuses to name at
first. But it grows and expands and starts taking so much space that it becomes impossible to
ignore. Hope. Harry tries to punch holes into it so that it deflates with a pathetic sound like a
punctured balloon. There is no reason to hope. When has a single sodding thing gone right in
Harry Potter’s life? However, his brain helpfully supplies him images of meeting Hermione
on the train, of how he got on the Quidditch team, of Snape knocking at the Dursley’s door,
of Mrs. Weasley’s knitted jumpers - he is wearing one right now - of the twins gifting him the
Marauder’s Map, of the Grangers still wanting to have him this summer… So maybe, just
maybe, he could have a Godfather in his life too? But what if Sirius Black looks at Harry and
decides that he doesn’t want him? Or what if there is not enough of Sirius Black left after
more than eleven years in Azkaban? So, see, there is no point in hoping at all.

Harry still digs his photo album out from the very bottom of his trunk - he hasn’t looked at it
since that day at Hagrid’s months ago - and studies all the faces. Sirius, Remus, Peter and
James. They all look so innocent, so young. There were photos of both Pettigrew and Black
in the Prophet, in which both men looked more like animals than people. Pettigrew,
disgusting like the rat that he is, and Black, like a feral emaciated dog. A shudder travels
through Harry’s body, from the tips of his fingers, which are touching faces he’s never
known, all the way down to his toes.

Harry is crouched over the album, hidden by the curtains of his four-poster, he doesn’t feel
safe though. He feels naked, unprotected, as if every single nerve in his body has been
exposed.

He doesn’t even flinch when the door squeaks open or when he hears soft footsteps approach.
Somehow he now always knows when it’s Hermione. He knows it’s her the moment she steps
into the room even if it’s crowded with people. And when she isn’t there, he feels her absence
like a void.

The mattress dips as Hermione sits behind Harry and drapes herself over his back, her chin
on his shoulder, and her hair falls on one side in a long frizzy curtain. She wraps her arms
around his middle and squeezes tight, somehow making the weight of everything he is
feeling and thinking easier to carry.
“You make a really good blanket.” Harry takes one of her hands in his, places a kiss on her
palm, and then rests it back on his chest. She hums and traces a line with her nose up the side
of his neck.

“A good but distracting blanket,” he corrects himself as he closes the photo album. Hermione
chuckles against his neck.

“You looked like you needed a distraction.”

“Yeah?” Harry sits up straighter and half-turns to be able to see her face. “How else are you
going to distract me?”

He leans a little closer expecting a kiss and fails to notice a mischievous glint in her eyes. He
is not proud of the sound that he makes as Hermione digs her fingers into his sides where she
knows he is ticklish the most. He shrieks and twists away and laughs.

Harry gets reminded of that sunny day last year when they were blackberry picking by
Hagrid’s hut. Their tickle-wrestling and grass stains on their clothes. He remembers it so
vividly that it feels like he could step into the image as easily as one walks into another room.

“You are still my best friend,” Harry says when they lie, dishevelled and breathless, side by
side on their backs.

“You are still mine too,” she says as she curls into his side.

Harry used to worry that something would change between them, that somehow being a
couple would make their friendship smaller, but instead, it made it grow, blossom and thrive.
So who cares if Sirius Black wants him or not? After all, Harry has already got everything
that he needs. At least, this is what Harry tells himself.

***

19th January, 1993

Lockhart has been trying to convince people that he is the one who has captured Peter
Pettigrew, however, nobody can bear to stay long enough to actually listen because Lockhart
stinks. It seems the more people flinch away from him and hint at the fact that he needs a
shower, the more perfume Lockhart uses and the smellier he becomes.

Today, the stench in the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom is particularly pungent and
the front row of desks stands unoccupied with everybody aiming to sit as far from their
Professor as possible.

Ten minutes into the class, Lavender runs out and doesn’t come back. Most of the others sit
with their sleeves covering their faces.

“I think it’s time for Step Two of our plan,” Hermione whispers into Harry’s ear. Harry isn’t
sure if they even need Step Two because Lockhart looks positively miserable and his eye is
twitching like mad, but better safe than sorry. Harry refuses to tolerate this joke of a teacher
for the rest of the year. Besides, he could use another distraction. So he nods and whispers
back. “Tonight.”

***

20th January, 1993

He doesn’t expect their efforts to be paid off at breakfast the very next day but they are when
McGonagall shouts out, “What is the meaning of this, Professor Lockhart?”

Lockhart apologises and smiles a strained and desperate smile but it seems that he can’t tear
his hand away from his crotch. The Professors begin to share scandalised looks with Snape
being the only one who is staring directly at Harry. The Potions Professor rolls his eyes and
turns away but his mouth twitches in a familiar way.

“Professor Lockhart,” Dumbledore booms, “I suggest you should go and sort your issue out
immediately.”

Lockhart shoots off his seat, his hand furiously clawing at his crotch, and practically runs out
of the Great Hall, his face redder than Weasley hair.

“You have put the itching powder-“

“That we gave you-“

“Into Lockhart’s pants!”

Harry doesn’t think he’s ever seen the twins smile this diabolically and he fights a grin of his
own when he replies, “I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.” Hermione ruins
it completely though, uncontrollably giggling into his shoulder.

***

Lockhart doesn’t show up for lessons that day, or the next one, or the one after that. When his
rooms are checked, all his belongings are gone, and Dumbledore makes an announcement at
dinner that they seem to have lost yet another Defence Professor. Pity, that.

***

1st February, 1993

“I’m telling you, the new strategy-“ Wood has been going on and on about this new strategy
of his all afternoon, before practice, during practice, and now after, when they are walking up
the stairs leading into the castle.

The twins have had enough though. They exchange a look, catch up with Wood to stand on
his either side, pick him up by the arms ignoring his protests that are getting more and more
vocal as they approach a pile of snow taller than Hagrid himself, and launch Oliver right into
it.
Harry doubles up laughing as Wood shrieks and the girls giggle. He laughs so much that his
vision blurs with tears and he has to take his glasses off to wipe the moisture off his eyes.
When he puts them on again, he notices two tall men staring at him from the top of the stairs,
the Headmaster behind them, and Harry’s laugh gets stuck in his throat as his mouth forms a
surprised O.

Sirius Black was released two weeks ago, and when he didn’t show up straight away, Harry
decided that he wouldn’t show up at all. But here he is, not quite the wild man the Prophet
has depicted him to be, but not the boy from the photos Harry has got either. Harry is still
frozen in place when Black descends the few steps that separate them and engulfs Harry in an
embrace. He goes even stiffer as Black howls into his hair, his fingers clawing at Harry’s
winter robes. The long anguished sound turns into sobs and then into words.

“I’m sorry,” Black says. “I’m sorry.” Again and again and again. He calls him James too in
between, and this is what Harry’s been afraid of, that Azkaban robbed Sirius Black of his
sanity just like the Daily Prophet has implied.

Harry doesn’t know what to say. It’s okay? But nothing is okay, is it? Harry isn’t even sure
what Black is apologising for. He doesn’t feel like he can pat Black on the back either. Harry
doesn’t know if he even wants to. So he just stands there with his arms limp at his sides, and
when the other man comes to pry Black’s fingers off him with a gentle, “Sirius, shh, come.”
Harry feels relief. He spots the outline of Snape in the doorway too, and other kids in the
background who are craning their necks to try and see what’s going on. It’s dinner time so
everybody will be making their way down. Great, just great.

He recognises Remus Lupin now that the light from the Entrance Hall illuminates his kind
but tired face.

“I’ve got you, Padfoot,” Lupin tells his friend gently, something that finally helps Harry
shake off his stupor.

“Padfoot?”

It is the first thing Harry says to the men, and Lupin chuckles while Sirius is rubbing at his
eyes furiously with his back to Harry.

“Just a silly old nickname,” the man with light brown hair explains, the look in his eyes
warm.

A little spark of hope lights up in Harry’s chest once again.

“Moony, Wormtail and Prongs?” They are the names from his map. What if?..

The way Sirius Black spins to face him, his eyes red but no longer wet, and the way his face
lights up with something that makes him look alive is proof enough.

“How?” he croaks and Harry takes a folded piece of parchment yellowed with age out of his
pocket and holds it up between two fingers. A smile takes over Black’s pale face while Lupin
looks as if he’s seen a ghost.
“Look what little Pronglet has got, Moony,” Sirius elbows his friend. The twins gasp
somewhere from behind as they realise that they are standing in front of the creators of the
ingenious map, which makes Harry remember that they’ve got an audience.

“If I were you I would take this big family reunion somewhere private,” Snape drawls as if
reading Harry’s thoughts.

“Nobody asked you, Snivellus,” Black growls and looks like he is about to launch himself at
Snape but notices a little crowd that they are gathering and stops. Snape, however, doesn’t bat
an eyelid and simply gazes at Harry with his unreadable stare. Harry gives him a barely
perceptible nod trying to communicate that he’ll be alright, and, apparently, he succeeds
because Snape turns and stalks menacingly to the gathered students, his robes flaring.

“Never call Professor Snape that,” Harry tells Black, whose eyes go wide as if being
admonished is the last thing he expects, and it probably is. Thankfully, Lupin chuckles while
Sirius shakes his head in astonishment, and Dumbledore offers them his office for use only
after a few seconds of awkward silence.

When the three of them sit around a coffee table in armchairs that are so soft Harry isn’t sure
he’ll ever be able to get back up, the Headmaster finally leaves them alone.

Harry spreads the Marauder’s Map out on the table and this is all it takes for the two men to
be transported back in time. Harry drinks in all the stories about the Marauders. How they
met, the pranks they pulled, and the girls they had crushes on. They tell Harry to call them by
their first names and try asking him questions too but, not ready to talk about his personal life
and the Dursleys in particular, he barely says anything at all and bombards the adults with
questions of his own.

“What about Sniv-” Lupin clears his throat and Sirius stops himself mid-word with a wary
glance at Harry. “Snape. What about Snape?”

“What about him?” Harry asks cautiously.

“Why are you defending him? He still looks as slimy-“

“Professor Snape has done more for me than any other adult.” When Sirius opens his mouth
to say something else, Harry continues forcefully, “And I don’t want to talk about it right
now.” Sirius’s mouth snaps shut and he frowns.

“Did you know that James’s Patronus changed because of Lils?” Remus thankfully cuts in
and Harry shakes his head. Of course he didn’t know. There was nobody to tell him.

“Yeah. Your poor dad, I’ve never seen a bloke so smitten,” Sirius says with a smile that is
both sad and happy all at once. “His Animagus form was a stag from the beginning
obviously, but his Patronus, you’ll never guess. Try to guess, come on!”

Harry doesn’t really want to guess but he’d rather keep Sirius in this mood so he humours
him.
“I don’t know. A chimpanzee?” He tries.

Sirius hoots with laughter. “No, worse. A peacock! A bloody peacock!”

There are tears in Sirius’s eyes and his laughter is more on the hysterical side, so Harry
quickly prompts.

“So, it changed because he fell in love?”

“It did,” Remus smiles. “Lily’s Patronus was a dainty doe with these huge eyes, very pretty.”

“So, his turned into a stag. It was the thing that finally convinced her, I reckon.” Sirius is
positively beaming now.

“Convinced?” Harry clarifies.

“To give James a chance.”

Harry wants to ask more but Sirius speaks first, eyes full of glee. “What about you, kid? Have
you got your eyes on anybody?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Harry replies in the same tone and the men laugh merrily.

“I like you,” Sirius says then turns to Remus. “I like him.”

***

Hermione is sitting on the floor next to the gargoyle statue, a heavy tome resting on her legs.
She scrambles up the moment they appear though, and her eyes dart worriedly between
Remus, Sirius and Harry.

“I’m okay,” he tells her softly intertwining their fingers and moves to stand by her side.

“This is Hermione,” he tells the men lifting their joined hands up.

“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Black, Mr. Lupin,” Hermione addresses them politely albeit a bit
awkwardly.

Sirius looks at Remus, eyes bulging, “Remus, I was just called Mr. Black! Please tell me I
don’t look that old!” He clutches at his chest and pretends to swoon. Remus gives him an
exasperated yet affectionate look and faces Hermione.

“You can call us Remus and Sirius just like Harry. As you can see, this one,” he nudges Sirius
with his shoulder, “is all but seven years old.”

Sirius turns to Harry before Hermione can say anything though.

“Why didn’t you tell us you have a girlfriend?” He asks in a teasing tone that would make
any seven-year-old jealous. Clearly, he wants to make Harry and Hermione all flustered and
uncomfortable, but Harry won’t let him do that.
Harry lets go of Hermione’s hand to rest his on her waist and pull her close. It’s one of his
favourite things, the way Hermione’s body moulds to his as if they are two halves of the same
whole.

“My girlfriend, my best friend, the love of my life, the apple of my eye, my object of
affection, the light of my life-”

“You are no fun,” Sirius complains while Hermione is giggling by his side.

“I’m sure you’ll find something else to tease me about,” Harry grins.

Harry and Hermione walk them back to the main entrance, and they share hugs and goodbyes
- thankfully, Sirius doesn’t cry this time. And when they watch the older wizards’ retreating
backs, Harry has still got a smile on his face.

Sometimes, it seems, it is okay to hope.

 Chapter 28
Chapter Notes

I think there are going to be closer to 35 chapters than 40 but we'll see. I don't want to
rush things but I also don't want our poor darlings to suffer longer than necessary:) This
one got a bit angsty there towards the end. I hope you still enjoy it.

13th February, 1993

Harry is about to rap on the painting leading to Snape’s Chambers with his knuckles,
however, it opens before he even finishes raising his hand.

“Hullo, Professor,” he says easily while Draco is pale and as stiff as a rod by his side.

“I seem to be collecting lost boys,” Snape drawls as he steps aside to let them pass.

“Now you just need to find a Wendy,” Harry suggests and Snape snorts while Draco is eyeing
them as if they’ve lost the plot, and his shoulders go even stiffer. It’s not that Harry isn’t
worried too - after all, talking to a Death Eater’s wife and trying to convince her to switch
sides is not a walk in the park - but he prefers to deal with his anxiety by faking confidence
and being at ease instead of pretending that he is nothing but a statue.

“Relax. He’s not going to turn you into potion ingredients,” Harry tells Draco as he falls into
a now very familiar sofa.

“It’s easy for you to say,” Draco scowls. “You haven’t seen him Crucio people… or him
being Crucioed.”

Harry’s head snaps to look up at Snape. “Has he used Cruciatus on you?” Snape just raises an
eyebrow as if to ask, what do you think? It’s a stupid question, really, and Harry hasn’t got
too much time to think about it anyway because the fireplace flares to life with the flames
that are eerily green, and Narcissa Malfoy’s beautiful but cold face appears among them.

“Severus, what can I-“ But then her eyes go wide as she spots Draco. “What have you done?”
She hisses and there is worry behind her harshly uttered words.

“Draco has not done anything. We are here to negotiate.”

Draco steps away from the hearth taking a seat too, and Narcissa’s face loses the last shreds
of composure.

“Are you insane? This is Harry Potter!” Her finger pokes harshly through the flames and
right at Harry’s face while Snape becomes the recipient of her murderous glare.”
“I am well aware of that, Narcissa. This-“ he points at Harry as well - “is also the only chance
to keep your son safe.” Mrs. Malfoy’s mouth turns into a line so thin it seems that she doesn’t
have any lips at all.

“I am listening.”

***

When he and Draco come out of Snape’s chambers, Harry is buzzing with excitement.
Narcissa Malfoy holds a key to Bellatrix Lestrange’s vault. This should be easy.

“Isn’t it brilliant?” Harry takes Draco by the shoulders and gives the other boy a little shake,
not picking up on how tense he still is. Harry is practically bouncing on his feet. He will go
and talk to Dumbledore too, why not? What if they can get rid of them all within a month?
Or, damn, even a week. What if-

“What if they kill her?” Draco says in a scared whisper, like a child who has spotted a
monster in his room but is too afraid to shout. Harry comes down from his high, no, he
crashes, and winces as if he’s just hit the stone floor.

Harry touches Draco’s shoulder again, with more care this time, and gives it a gentle squeeze,
which prompts Draco to say more. “What if the goblins report her? What if my father finds
out? What if the Dark Lord finds out?”

“She practices Occlumency-“

“Do you think the Dark Lord won’t break her if he suspects something? You get your
precious toy. What about us?” Draco is breathing hard and he squeezes his eyes shut. It
reminds Harry of the few times when he felt so panicky that there didn’t seem to be enough
air. He wants to tell Draco to breathe, but he will probably snap at Harry if he does.

Draco is right. What if something does go wrong? Where does he and his mother go? Will
Dumbledore be able to help them? Harry recalls how the Headmaster helped Snape all these
years ago and frowns. No. Dumbledore will want something back. And maybe Narcissa isn’t
the most caring of mothers but she is Draco’s mum all the same. If only there was some
family that could help… if only…

“Draco?” Harry asks carefully. “You said your mum’s maiden name was Black. Is she related
to Sirius Black?”

“They are cousins. Why?” Draco sounds suspicious like he expects Harry to demand
something else of him.

“He said he inherited this big creepy house and that he is filthy rich.” Sirius also asked Harry
if he wanted to live with him when he and Remus showed up at Hogwarts again just a couple
of days ago, but Harry doesn’t want to think about it just yet. “I could ask him, you know, if
you guys could come and live with him.” Or us, if Harry says yes. Won’t that be weird?
Draco sneers. “Do you think we live in some sort of fairytale? Family means nothing. After
years in Azkaban, he will not want to have anything to do with the dark side of the family.”

Harry snorts. “You are not dark.”

“And you are not very bright.” Draco folds his arms and takes a step back clearly putting a
stop to this discussion. But Harry is going to ask anyway. After all, he doesn’t need Draco’s
permission for that.

***

14th February, 1993

When Harry and Hermione walk into the great hall chatting animatedly, they don’t notice the
decorations straight away. One moment everything seems like it should be, and the next there
is pink heart-shaped confetti in Hermione’s hair, and a bunch of equally pink paper cranes
zoom towards Harry and bump right into his head.

“Ouch! What the-“ The paper cranes keep on hitting him and messing his hair - like it needs
it - until he reaches a hand to snatch them one at a time. Hermione giggles.

“What?”

“One of them has made a nest,” she points at the top of his head, and Harry reaches with his
other hand to extricate it from his untidy mop. “I think they are supposed to be valentines.”

Harry looks around as they make their way towards their table. All the school banners are
charmed pink, gauzy fabric in every shade of - surprise, surprise - pink is draped over every
available surface, and baskets brimming with paper cranes rest next to each house table.
Harry watches as students pick one or two and stuff them in their pockets to probably send
later in secret.

Dumbledore is holding one in his hand right now and, not bothering with secrecy, whispers
something to it. Harry watches as it flies and bumps McGonagall in the head, making her
glasses slip down her nose. She gives the Headmaster a hard look but smiles all the same
when she unfolds the crane and reads the message.

“Huh, that’s how it works.”

Harry stuffs all the valentines into his pocket and is halfway through his beans on toast when
he notices that Hermione is being unusually quiet and, instead of eating, she is tearing her
pastry into the tiniest of pieces. Before Harry can ask what is wrong, Parkinson appears as if
she’s been waiting for this particular moment.

“You poor thing. Your boyfriend gets showered with love notes and you don’t get a single
one.”

“Oh, shut up, Pansy!” Angelina speaks up. “Everybody knows that she’s with Harry, that’s
the only reason they-“
“Doesn’t everybody know that Harry is with her too?” Pansy’s lip curls with disgust. Harry
wants to hex her. Actually, he is surprised Hermione hasn’t yet. He wants to say something
hurtful too, but nothing comes to mind, and Pansy leaves with an annoying little giggle
before he can come up with anything.

The Gryffindors share sympathetic glances and look away awkwardly, and Harry feels
annoyed. With Pansy, with his housemates, and with himself for not having done anything.
Hermione keeps on torturing her pastry, and Harry can’t see her face behind her hair. She
mutters, “It’s fine,” when he squeezes her knee, but it is clearly not fine.

Harry leans to where the basket is standing and a crane hops into his hand as if sensing his
desperate need. Without any pretence of secrecy, he whispers to the crane and then watches
as it flutters its paper wings, circles once around Hermione’s head, and then pecks her on the
nose. Hermione gives him a tiny smile and goes to unfold the note.

The confetti hearts look really pretty in your hair. There is one on your cheek as well. One on
your collarbone. Four on your shoulder. I want to kiss every spot that the hearts have
touched. Will you go on a date with me?

Hermione blushes prettily, gets up to get a crane of her own, whispers something to it too,
looking at Harry all the while, and when she sits back down, Harry is already reading the
message.

There is one right on the tip of your nose and one in the corner of your mouth. There are two
on your left hand and a constellation of them on your back. Yes, but only if you promise that
you will kiss them all off and that I can do the same to you.

Harry gets the other love notes out of his pocket and stuffs them in his - now empty - juice
glass. The cranes flutter weakly and Harry feels a bit sorry for the people who’ve sent them,
however, giving them hope would have been even less fair.

All of a sudden, Hermione’s note gets ripped out of his hand.

“Hey!” They both shout at the same time, and Harry realises that his note to her is also gone
from her fingers.

“This is private!” He grabs for one of the notes angrily but Fred raises his arm while
Angelina, who is on the other side of the table, stands up and starts reading the other
message.

“Aww,” she coos, then throws a biscuit at Fred’s head and waves the note in front of his face.
“This is what a love note is supposed to be like!”

“What does it say?”

“Let me see!”

Lavender is straining her neck to get a glimpse while George is already reading over Fred’s
shoulder, and Harry is getting properly pissed. He flicks his wand, summoning what belongs
to him and Hermione back, and sends Jelly Legs hexes at the thieves, who are thankfully too
distracted to react in time.

“Hey!” It’s their turn to protest.

“Be glad that I haven’t done anything worse.” Harry turns to look at Hermione to figure out
why she is not standing by his side sending hexes as well, but she is too busy shaking with
silent laughter. When she notices him looking, she just hands him the note, which, judging by
Fred’s protests, must belong to him.

I love you with all my butt.

I would say heart, but my butt is bigger.

“What?!” Fred asks, his legs still wobbling uncontrollably, “it’s funny!”

And with that, Harry can’t argue. He wouldn’t be able to even if he wanted to anyway. He is
laughing too hard.

***

The first thing he does when he and Hermione are out of the Great Hall is brush a confetti
heart off her cheek and replace it with a kiss. The tip of Harry’s nose gets the same treatment
from Hermione, and the corner of his mouth too. They keep on doing it until they get to the
Room, giggling childishly. Hermione brushes her lips against the top of his hand just as the
door appears and, after they’ve slipped inside, she turns his hand over and lays a kiss on his
palm. Harry doesn’t know how but this kiss feels different from the ones they’ve just shared
walking down the halls.

“You are so beautiful,” he says when Hermione looks up at him. Her eyes are darker in the
dim light, the fire gives her hair a coppery hue, her cheeks are flushed, and her skin is so
smooth and soft that Harry’s fingers twitch with the desire to touch. And why the hell not?
He promised he would, didn’t he? He brushes a heart off her collarbone and pulls on the neck
of her jumper exposing more of her fair skin. It looks more fragile there, almost translucent,
and he traces a line with a finger from her shoulder to her neck. Hermione’s breath hitches
and her eyes fall closed as he follows his finger with his lips.

“I’ve wanted to do this for weeks,” he says into her ear softly. “That jumper you’ve got that
keeps on slipping off one shoulder…” His voice trails off as he breathes her in. There is a
shift in the atmosphere as if the air around them is cracking with electricity, and it makes
Harry’s heart thrash around in his chest with anticipation.

“Why didn’t you?” She asks, turning her head, searching for his mouth blindly. Their noses
bump and their lips meet before Harry can think of an answer, and soon he can’t think of
anything at all because this is not their usual kiss. There is a hunger to it that neither of them
feels ready to explore, but Harry still lets his hands grab instead of just hold, he lets them pull
and press, and when their tongues meet for the very first time, the jolt of desire that travels
down his body is so strong it’s nearly pain.
“Harry,” she breathes, tearing her mouth away.

“I know.” He is breathing hard. “I know. Too much.”

Her hands travel under his jumper - a gesture he is now used to - her palms rest on bare skin,
and he holds her to his chest until their hearts calm down, until the need to press into her
becomes easier to handle.

“It’s like I want to crawl right under your skin.” Hermione’s voice is still a whisper, and her
arms tighten around him as if for emphasis.

“I’d let you,” Harry replies.

The truth is, there is probably nothing he wouldn’t let Hermione do.

***

Hermione sneaks into his bed that night. Harry is half-asleep already and he grunts in protest
as her cold feet brush against his.

“You okay?” He mumbles raising a hand to her face. Her cheek is wet and Harry blinks his
eyes open. “What happened?”

Hermione shakes her head, at least he thinks she does. He can’t really see in the dark, or
without his glasses, but he hears the sheets rustle and feels her hair tickle his face.

“The girls were talking - they thought I was asleep - they all think that you will dump me,
you know? They all think you’re with me out of pity or -“

“You know better than-“

“It’s not that,” she says forcefully. “They think I’ll lose you because you’ll grow out of it and
choose somebody else. And I’d rather it were the case than losing you because you are no
longer alive.” They haven’t really spoken about it recently. Hermione reads her thick dusty
tomes from the Restricted Section and Harry doesn’t ask her anything. He can see her
disappointment as she snaps each of them closed though, and the change in the angle of her
shoulders, and how one corner of her mouth always twitches unhappily.

“There is nothing, Harry. There is nothing. I’ve read about souls and ancient magic and
legends and immortality and I can’t find even a sliver of anything useful.” He holds her. He
wants to keep her close and tight and safe and away from all of this pain that’s always around
like a cloud above their heads. They’ve been pointedly not looking at it but it’s still
stubbornly hanging there, growing bigger.

“I want to graduate from Hogwarts with you. I want you to meet all of my family. I want to
rent a tiny and ridiculously overpriced apartment with you somewhere in London. I want to
come home to you. I want to have fights with you about unsubstantial things like dirty socks
and apple peel left on the counter. I want to wake up with you. I want you to be the first boy I
sleep with. I want you to be my only boy. And I don’t think you’ll get to be old enough for us
to do any of these things.”
Her words crawl into his chest and break his heart. Harry wants all of it and more. He wants
to give her everything but he can’t, can he? And it makes him feel so damn helpless. He has
come to terms with dying, he really has. Mostly. What he can’t fathom doing is leaving her
alone.

He is disgusted with the piece of Voldemort’s soul that he is carrying inside. He hates the way
it still haunts his dreams with visions and nightmares. At times he feels this anger that, Harry
is sure, is not his own. But maybe he can learn to live with it all? They could destroy the
other Horcruxes, capture Voldemort and keep him imprisoned. Give Harry a chance to live a
real life.

He holds her until she falls asleep, and when he follows her, there are no dreams.
 Chapter 29
Chapter Notes

Here's a bit more angst for you, lovely people. Enjoy.

15th February, 1993

When Harry wakes up, he feels stupid for having even thought that there was a different way
out but he goes to ask Snape between classes anyway.

“Can’t we just capture him and keep him in a cage? We could buy him a leash and a dog
bowl.” Snape doesn’t need to specify who Harry is talking about, and he watches Harry with
a sad sort of amusement. The way a parent watches a child when they talk about their dreams
of riding unicorns and travelling through space and time, not having the heart to tell them it’s
impossible. Harry sees the look but keeps on blabbering anyway. “We could take him for
walks. Do you think he’ll answer to Voldie?”

“There is only one issue with your otherwise brilliant plan,” Snape says evenly.

“The Dark Mark?” Harry asks with a grimace.

“The Dark Mark,” Snape confirms.

“Yeah, I figured as much,” Harry hosts his book bag higher on his shoulder and sighs. It’s
obvious, really. Voldemort would drain all his servants of power in an attempt to get out if
ever captured. Death Eaters or not, Harry wouldn’t want all these deaths on his conscience,
on top of everybody else Voldemort would kill on the way. “I just thought maybe there was a
potion or something.”

Snape shakes his head tiredly.

“Go,” he tells Harry, “the next class is about to start.”

***

25rd February, 1993

It feels like a multitude of hands grab and claw at Harry’s heart, pulling it in different
directions with no mercy. The longer he and Hermione stall, the more people die. There is an
article in the Daily Prophet today. Godric’s Hollow was attacked by people in dark hooded
cloaks. It doesn’t say Death Eaters but everybody knows. The Great Hall is a sea of whispers,
gasps and sobs. The number of casualties is unknown. Harry wonders how many of his
schoolmates have just become orphaned like him.
“We can’t wait anymore,” he whispers to Hermione, who is pressed into his side, her eyes
still darting between the passages of the article.

“We can’t,” she agrees. And even though she sounds determined, her fingers tremble.

***

The classes are finished for the day, and Snape is standing by his desk gathering papers when
Harry comes to ask another question.

“How much does Dumbledore know?” He asks resting his hand on the back of the nearest
chair.

“I do not know,” Snape folds his arms over his chest and his gaze turns penetrating. “Possibly
more than either of us thinks he does.”

“Can I trust him?”

“Not with your life.”

Harry huffs a bitter laugh. “Like my life matters.”

Snape’s eyes flash with anger.

“There are people to whom your life matters more than anything else.”

Harry wonders which people, apart from Hermione, the Professor means. He decides not to
ask.

“They’d better prepare for disappointment then,” he puts his hands in his pockets and his
shoulders hunch. He was meaning to say it in a cold, bitter way, but his body refused to
comply. He gives a chair leg a small kick. “I’m gonna tell Dumbledore about the remaining-
Well, you know.” Snape still doesn’t want to hear the specifics about the Horcruxes or how
many there are and Harry isn’t going to force him.

“Some advice then. Give him only one piece of information at a time. If you give him all the
cards, Albus might decide that the part of the Dark Lord’s soul which you host should be the
first one to be destroyed.” Harry winces at that but Snape doesn’t see. He turns away, stares
out of the window and doesn’t say another word.

On the way to Dumbledore’s office, Harry wonders if Snape counts himself among one of
those people to whom Harry’s life matters the most.

***

Harry is standing in front of the gargoyle blurting out all the sweets’ names that he can recall,
and when he runs out of ideas, he tries to reason with the stupid statue instead.

“He makes for a very reliable guardian, doesn’t he?” Dumbledore’s voice comes from behind
Harry’s back.
“You could’ve said that the Headmaster wasn’t in,” he mutters to the gargoyle sullenly and
turns to face Dumbledore, whose eyes are lit with amusement.

Harry is curious what these eyes are going to look like after their little chat.

Hungry, Harry decides some five minutes later when they are seated in Dumbledore’s office
and he has said his bit. His eyes look hungry.

“Let me make sure I understand. Upon touching the diary, you saw visions, one of which was
an image of a ring. The said ring is supposedly precious to Voldemort and you want my help
in locating it.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Dumbledore steeples his fingers and studies Harry’s face.

“And you believe it has something to do with the Gaunt family.”

Harry nods. When he feels pressure against his mind, he lets Dumbledore in willingly and
shows him the Gaunt Shack and the floorboard under which the ring is hidden. Then, he
shows him the ring itself. Dumbledore withdraws.

“I’m sorry, Harry, but I think it was simply a trick of a cursed object. The diary might have
had something akin to a Confundus charm placed on it. I would have alleviated your worries
sooner if you had come to me straight away.”

Merlin, Dumbledore must think Harry’s stupid. He nods all the same and pretends that the
Headmaster’s words have soothed him. Now, Harry can only trust that Dumbledore will
either bring it back or that he manages to destroy the ring when he finds it.

***

“I just don’t understand what the purpose of all this pretending is,” Harry complains to
Hermione when they are lying in his bed once again. They are getting reckless, he knows, but
when nobody discovered Hermione after that night nearly two weeks ago, she came to him
again, a couple of nights later. And this week, she’s been sleeping with him every night,
coming at midnight like clockwork. Harry doesn’t see the point in being careful anymore or
in hiding how intensely he feels. They touch even more than they used to. It’s like they are
obsessed with each other’s skin. They keep their sleeves rolled up - Harry’s scars are not that
visible anyway - and their forearms touch when they hold hands. Hermione wears long socks
instead of tights despite the cold, and Harry rests his palm on her bare knee during classes.
She’s got her hand under his pyjama top now, resting on his chest, while his is on the smooth
skin of her back. Harry has stopped trying to make sense of this need to be in constant
contact. There is no time left for doubts or holding back anyway. What would be the point if,
any day now, they could lose all of it?

“Maybe Dumbledore wants all the glory to himself,” Hermione suggests.

“I don’t care who gets the glory. As long as it’s done.” Hermione’s body tenses next to his,
and Harry pulls her closer and kisses her forehead before resting his against hers.

“Tell me about our tiny apartment,” he whispers into her hair. She is silent for such a long
time that Harry thinks she must not have heard him, and he is already drifting off when she
finally speaks.

“It’s in an old house with crumbling bricks, and the walls are so thin we can hear our
neighbours as if they are in the next room. It’s got old-fashioned floral wallpaper and ugly
rugs and it’s as cold inside in winter as it is outside. We’ll strip all the wallpaper, throw away
the rugs and make it our own. We’ll paint the kitchen cupboards the colour of the sea, and
we’ll put plants everywhere. And we’ll definitely forget to water them and kill a few but then
we’ll just buy new ones and, eventually, we’ll learn. None of our furniture is going to match
but everything will be super comfortable and full of colour. We’ll put silencing charms on the
walls. There’ll be books everywhere. You’ll still love flying, and you’ll leave your broom in
the most inconvenient of places, and I’ll always trip over it and tell you off. We’ll never fix
the heating. We’ll snuggle instead during dark winter evenings, talk and watch films… there
are so many good films I want you to see. I’ll warm my cold hands under your jumper and
you’ll let me, just like you let me now. We’ll take turns cooking but Sunday will be our
takeaway day. We’ll have a record player. I will probably work too much, and you will
complain that I come home late, but you’ll hug and kiss me anyway. And you’ll probably
meet with the boys every week and I will miss you terribly every time-“ She stops abruptly
and then says a bit awkwardly, “I think I got carried away.”

“It sounds absolutely perfect,” Harry mumbles, caught somewhere between sleep and being
awake. “I wish…” he says softly as his drifting brain paints pictures in his mind.

“I know,” she answers wistfully. “I wish too.”

***

27th February, 1993

“Potter!” Snape’s voice hisses in his dream. “Potter!” The voice turns more urgent and Harry
feels fingers dig into his shoulder and shake. He jerks awake and opens his eyes to find Snape
looming over him, lit by the light of the moon. Hermione stirs next to him, her breathing
hitches and Snape’s eyes go wide. The Professor must have only just spotted Hermione,
Harry realises. In his bed. Which can’t be good.

Snape looks at the ceiling and mutters something closely resembling fucking hell then looks
straight at Harry.

“Downstairs. Now.” He looks at Hermione. “Both of you. Bring a fang.” Snape glides out of
the room, more a shadow than a man, and Harry wonders if it has only been a dream, but
Hermione prods him when he doesn’t move, and they both spring into action. Harry grabs a
fang, which he’s got stuffed in a sock, from his trunk and two Weasley jumpers. He tosses the
one from last year to Hermione and pulls the bigger one over his head.
When they arrive downstairs, Snape is frantically pacing in the common room, his robe
thrown over his pyjamas, and dread fills Harry’s stomach.

“What-“

“Come,” Snape commands and sweeps out of the room, and Harry and Hermione have no
choice but to rush after him down flights of stairs, through halls and down narrow corridors
all the way to the dungeons.

“I can feel it,” Harry grits through his teeth and Hermione’s hand immediately finds his, her
thumb drawing soothing circles on his skin.

“Dumbledore?”

“Must be.”

It is Dumbledore. Sprawled out on Snape’s sofa, skin pale and damp with sweat, his eyes
moving uncontrollably under his closed eyelids.

Hermione gasps just as Harry notices it too. His right hand… it’s black.

“What-“ Harry tries to ask again, but Snape points his wand at Dumbledore’s hand and
growls, “The ring, Potter. Destroy the ring!”

Harry sees it then, as black as Dumbledore’s flesh.

Hermione’s fingers slip out of his as Harry wrestles with the sock trying to get the basilisk
fang out. The pull of the Horcrux assaults him with such violence that his whole body
trembles, but then Hermione rests her fingers on the back of his neck and, thank God, he can
breathe again.

They move as if they’ve done it a million times before. They kneel in front of Dumbledore,
the fang clasped in their hands, and it sinks into the ring like its butter. A hiss escapes the
stone, and black liquid oozes out of the hole. The moment it’s done, Snape shoves them aside
and starts chanting over the Headmaster in a language Harry doesn’t understand. Harry
shivers, maybe from Snape’s deep voice or maybe because he looks at Dumbledore’s ugly
limb again. Hermione and he are huddled together with their backs pressed into the coffee
table. Its edge must be digging into Harry’s spine, and he thinks Hermione is pressed flush
against him, but, strangely, he can’t really feel anything. Snape stops his eerie chant and
waves his wand, removing Dumbledore's robes and leaving him only in his trousers. Harry
sucks in air through his teeth at seeing black tendrils spread all the way up the Headmaster's
arm. They wrap around his shoulder and lick his neck. Dumbledore looks so frail, so pale, so
helpless and old. If only Harry had never told him… They should’ve gone with Hermione
instead. He should have kept his mouth shut.

“I should have never…” Harry whispers, his eyes wide and scared.

“It is not your fault that some men make foolish mistakes,” Snape says evenly and turns to
face them. “He is going to live. For now.”
“What exactly happened?” Hermione speaks for the first time since they got here, her voice
small and scared.

“The ring was cursed. I couldn’t get it off him. I am not certain but it seems Albus put the
ring on, then, when he realised that it was cursed, attempted to destroy it with this.” Snape
nods at a sword resting against the wall.

“Is it… it can’t be!” Hermione gasps.

“Godric Gryffindor’s sword, yes. Goblin made. Dumbledore asked me for a sample of
basilisk venom back in November and I suspect he endeavoured to infuse the sword with it. It
must not have been enough.”

“So what now?” Harry asks not able to tear his eyes away from the Headmaster’s blackened
flesh. Snape notices and summons a sheet from his bedroom that flutters across the room and
covers Dumbledore’s fragile form. Harry drags his eyes away from the Headmaster and to
Snape’s unreadable face.

“Now, we wait. I have contained the curse for now but it will spread, albeit slowly.”

A solemn silence fills the room. Harry reckons they should get off the floor and possibly out
of Snape’s Chambers. Why does he feel so heavy?

“Come,” Snape says for the second time today but instead of urgent it only sounds tired.
Harry forces his limbs to move, helps Hermione up as well and they all cram into the
Professor’s tiny kitchen.

Snape gets Harry’s Insufferable Brat mug out, his Dungeon Bat one appears on the counter
next, and then he glances at Hermione, who’s got her arms wrapped around her middle and
looks as miserable as Harry feels. The Professor points his wand at yet another mug before
placing it next to others, and Harry leans slightly to the side and reads: Unbearable Know-It-
All. Hermione smiles shakily and Harry squeezes her hand.

“Am I a part of the family now?” She asks while Snape fills the cups with hot water and adds
some honey and a few drops of something from a vial that smells pleasantly like herbs.

“Family, hm?” He hands her the mug. “I suppose.”

Harry takes his from the Professor next, and much-needed warmth spreads through him as he
takes a sip.

“Now, back to another issue.” Snape looks at each of them seriously. “Please tell me you are
not having sex.”

Harry chokes on his tea while Hermione makes a little squealing noise in the back of her
throat.

“Why would you even-“ but it seems Harry won’t be allowed to finish any of his sentences
today.
“I don’t know, Potter. What am I supposed to think after finding two underaged students in
bed together?”

Harry knows that his face is on fire and he has never been this uncomfortable in his entire life
but he makes himself look at Snape anyway.

“We just sleep,” he says as evenly as he can, fighting his embarrassment. “We snuggle. We
kiss sometimes but that’s all we do.”

Snape’s posture becomes less rigid upon hearing that and Harry thinks that the Professor is
going to let it go. Unfortunately, he is mistaken.

“Ensure that from now on you sleep in your own beds.” Harry doesn’t like the sound of that.
He doesn’t like it at all but resolutely keeps his mouth shut. It doesn’t matter anyway. It’s not
like Snape is going to check on them. So, he jerks with surprise when Hermione is the one
who speaks.

“No.” Her voice is quiet but firm.

“I beg your pardon?”

“No,” she repeats, louder now. “How long do we have? How long do I have until I’m left
alone? Do you think my heart is still inside my own chest?” Hermione fires questions at
Snape and they seem to hit like bullets because the Professor winces with each one.

Harry wraps an arm around her and she melts against his side. “You’ve got my heart too,” he
whispers to her, not caring a single bit about the audience.

“What happened earlier? When you were getting the basilisk fang out.” Snape asks
seemingly out of nowhere and Harry doesn’t understand.

“What do you mean?”

“Your body was tense and your hands were shaking. However, the moment Miss Granger
touched your neck, you relaxed again.”

“I had no idea it was that obvious… I feel them. It’s like a compulsion charm. The need to
touch is nearly unbearable. When Hermione touches me though, this pull becomes more like
a buzzing in the background.”

“Hm,” is the only sound Snape makes in reply and everything becomes quiet again.

They finish their drinks in silence, and when they cross the living room again, Harry avoids
looking at Dumbledore’s prone form.

Snape walks them all the way to their common room, and just before he leaves, he speaks
again.

“Come together next Friday. The Dark Lord is planning to take control over the Dementors of
Azkaban. I want to start teaching you the Patronus Charm.”
Excitement stirs inside Harry at learning something this advanced but he is too tired, too
emotionally drained, to experience it fully. Hermione nods enthusiastically though and Snape
seems happy enough with that. He turns and leaves without another word.

“He didn’t stay to check if we’d go to our own dormitories,” Harry muses.

“No… don’t you think he was a bit strange?” Hermione asks.

Harry snorts. “Isn’t he always strange?”

Hermione traps her lip between her teeth, clearly thinking about something, but then says,
“You know what? Never mind. Let’s just go to sleep.”

Harry knows that Hermione’s brilliant mind is connecting the dots and coming up with
theories but he doesn’t ask. He trusts her to tell him when she’s got it figured out.

“Let’s go,” he agrees. Neither of them even spares a glance at the girls’ stairs.
 Chapter 30
Chapter Notes

Writing this chapter made me feel happy. I hope that you get some good vibes from it
too:)

6th March, 1993

The sky is the colour of a fresh bruise and the rain is battering the roof with violence. Harry
peeks out of the changing rooms and at the stands that seem to be made up of a collection of
yellow and red umbrellas depending on who is supporting which team.

A hand falls on his shoulder and gives him a friendly shake.

“The faster you catch the Snitch, the sooner we can go and dry,” Wood says cheerfully. The
team often joke that their captain must be on some sort of drugs because his level of
enthusiasm and positivity can’t be natural. However, Harry shares his good mood today.

Dumbledore is fine. The match was supposed to take place last week but it was cancelled.
Harry still remembers the guilt settling heavily in his stomach when McGonagall made an
announcement at breakfast a week ago using words like gravely ill and recovery not
guaranteed.

However, Harry can see Dumbledore in the stands now, as odd as ever, with his rainbow
umbrella and equally garish robes. They haven’t spoken yet, not really. The Headmaster
stopped Harry a couple of days ago when he and Hermione were on the way to class. “I am
sorry,” Dumbledore said. Harry couldn’t wrap his mind around it. Wasn’t he supposed to be
the one to apologise? Frustratingly, Dumbledore left before Harry could ask anything, and, on
top of that, he still doesn’t know what exactly happened to the ring.

The piercing sound of Madam Hooch’s whistle penetrates his thoughts, and minutes later he
is in the air, rain attacking his back. The crowd cheers and boos and gasps collectively as the
game goes on, and Harry thinks that it might be his last match ever. He speeds up in an
attempt to leave this thought behind, his eyes searching for the Snitch. It appears just as a bolt
of lightning illuminates the sky and Harry whoops, exhilarated, fast and so very alive. I want
us bright and in love and happy and so very alive that even Death itself won’t dare to take
you away from me. This is something he can do. The Snitch eludes him, makes him take
impossible turns and reckless dives. His robes are heavy with rain and his fingers are numb
but he can feel this fire burning inside of him and he is unstoppable. There are no other
people, there is no competition, just him and this pesky golden ball that has escaped his
fingers yet again, shooting straight for the sky. Harry makes a wish, no, he decides that if he
catches this Snitch then everything will be okay. Everything will work out if only he flies a
little bit faster, just a little bit higher… and - yes! - he’s got it, icy cold and slippery with rain
but there is no way Harry is letting it go.

The crowd cheers and gasps and boos some more. Hands pat him and grab him and mess his
hair. He laughs with everybody, and high-fives, and hugs and pats back.

Harry manages to slide the snitch into his pocket in all the commotion thanking the stars that
Madam Hooch is too busy arguing about something with Professor Sprout.

The party in the common room this evening is the best one yet.

***

26th March, 1993

Harry has tried every happy memory, he’s filled his mind with smiling faces, loving touches,
every bit of sunshine and every single match they’ve won, and Hermione, always Hermione,
but nothing happens.

“Expecto Patronum!” His voice is confident and his wand movement is precise but there is
not even a spark. Hermione huffs, just as frustrated as he is, from his side, and when he
glances at Snape, the Professor looks the least impressed he’s ever been.

“After four weeks, I expected something better. I expected at least something.” Snape’s tone
is sharp and his eyes penetrating. “Put your wands away.”

They do and watch Snape as he takes a chair, spins it around and straddles it, his arms
crossed. “The mechanics of your spell are correct, so the only problem lies in here,” he taps
his temple with a long pale finger, “for both of you.”

Harry puts his hand in his pocket and absentmindedly starts spinning the Snitch in his fingers.
He’s been carrying it around everywhere like a lucky charm, like a little piece of hope.

“It’s hard to be happy.” It sounds ridiculously childish to his ears so he tries to explain. “It’s
like happiness is always tinted with something else.”

“Exactly!” Hermione pipes up. “Every moment of happiness I experience is like a future pain
if it makes sense.” She says it calmly as if it’s just a fact now and not a problem she’s been
desperately trying to conquer. “All my happiest memories have Harry in them, and the
memories that don’t have him don’t seem to be happy enough.”

“Every moment of happiness is tinted with pain and loss,” Snape says with empathy and they
exchange sad little smiles.

The Professor dismisses them shortly after that. “If you can’t trick your minds into being
happy,” he says, “there is nothing else I can do.”

***

27th March, 1993

The Snitch flutters its wings in Harry’s pocket from time to time as if testing its limits, but all
it takes to soothe it is a single touch. Harry doesn’t this time though. He takes it out instead,
holds it between his thumb and index finger and watches the ball stretch out its delicate
wings properly for the first time since Harry caught it. The light from the fireplace in the
Room of Requirement makes it glisten with flicks of orange and gold, and the Snitch
trembles in his light grip and buzzes excitedly as if it’s alive and longing for freedom.

Hermione looks up from her book at the noise and makes a tiny gasp.

“Where did you get it?” Her eyes are wide and curious, and Harry has no idea why he kept it
secret from her. He reckons it felt a bit silly. And desperate. It still does really. Every time his
thoughts become a little too dark, he touches the Snitch, and then tells himself that he has
caught it. He has caught it, which means that everything has to turn out alright.

“I nicked it after the last match,” he confesses.

“Such a rebel,” Hermione mocks but Harry is still watching the Snitch thoughtfully, the play
of different shades of orange, the fluttering of wings. She closes her book and shuffles closer.

“It’s so pretty up close,” she muses.

“It was a real bugger to catch.” Hermione snorts at that and Harry smiles. “I was the most
challenging one yet and… don’t laugh, okay?”

“I won’t,” she promises still smiling.

“It’s my wish of sorts. I decided that day that if I managed to catch it, we’d figure it all out.
That we’d have all the time in the world and do all these things on the list and more.”

Hermione isn’t laughing and she isn’t smiling anymore either.

“So I thought, what if when we try and conjure a Patronus, instead of thinking about all the
happy moments of the past, we think about the future and all the things we’ll be able to do
together.” Harry lets go of the Snitch and it shoots away from him and towards the ceiling,
then starts darting from corner to corner looking for a way out but then settles on flying
gentle circles around the room. Harry decides that he will let the golden ball go but only
when all of Voldemort is dead and Harry is still alive.

“And you call me brilliant!” Hermione bounces on the sofa a couple of times and reaches for
her wand.

“I should’ve known you’d want to try straight away,” he teases and pecks her on the nose.

They don’t take turns like they do with Snape. They sit next to each other, Harry’s left hand
on her right knee, and close their eyes. Harry thinks about their summer - no, too close. He
thinks about graduating from Hogwarts. He dreams how they will take their exams and then
take the rest of the summer off. How they will travel, it doesn’t even need to be far. They can
hop from town to town, walk until they are dead on their feet, and fall into the same bed at
the end of the day. And nobody will ask any questions because they will be old enough.
Bright and in love and happy and so very alive. Together. He can feel a warm feeling start
blossoming in his solar plexus, just a little dot at first that expands and grows bigger than his
fears, bigger than his grief.

“Expecto Patronum!” He casts and Hermione’s voice echoes his at exactly the same moment.

A cloud of soft-looking white mist leaves their wands, and Harry thinks he can make out a
swish of a fluffy tail and a twitch of an ear before the magic dissolves.

Hermione is the first one to squeal in triumph. She throws her arms around Harry’s neck and
he returns the hug lifting her off her toes.

“We must go show Snape!” Hermione exclaims suddenly, her tone urgent.

“Teacher’s pet,” Harry jests and ducks when Hermione aims a blow at his head. He is just as
excited to show off their progress too though, so he checks the map to find Snape in the
Potions classroom and hopes that the Professor won’t be annoyed with them for interrupting
whatever he is doing.

***

Harry is about to burst through Snape’s door when Hermione catches him by the arm and
knocks, looking at Harry pointedly.

The door opens to show Snape at his desk with a stack of parchment so high it’s nearly as tall
as him.

"If it can wait, I would rather you came back later.” The Professor doesn’t look up but carries
on scribbling something furiously on the margins of some poor kid’s work.

Harry and Hermione exchange a look trying to decide whether they should go and come back
another time, but their elation is too fresh, so, with a nod, they close their eyes just like they
did in the Room. It doesn’t take much effort for Harry to fill himself with that warm and
mellow feeling. His left hand seems to reach for Hermione all by itself as if touching her is
an essential part of the spell.

“Expecto Patronum!” The words leave their lips together again, their hearts beat in sync, and
a burst of mist from both of their wands fills the room with a glowing white light. Harry wills
it to form into two shapes but the mist only lingers for a moment before dissolving in the air.

Snape is not looking at the parchment anymore. He is gazing at the spot where two spells met
to form a big cloud of mist, and he is smiling.

“What did you do differently?” Snape asks, his smile still lingering in the corners of his
mouth.

“It wasn’t a memory…” Harry says. He doesn’t really want to share what exactly he was
thinking about.

“It was a wish.” Hermione finishes, and it seems to be enough for Snape.
“A wish, hm?” He taps a finger on his lips. “It seems you need to tweak your wish just a little
bit and you shall get there.” Harry knows that he is positively beaming and so is Hermione.
Maybe it’s a leftover effect of performing the charm, or the fact that the strictest and
grumpiest of teachers smiled at seeing their progress or-

“And now,” Snape interrupts Harry’s train of thought, “I wish for you to help me with these
assignments.” A stack of parchment slides out from the bottom of Snape’s paper tower
directed by the Professor’s wand and lands on one of the desks. Snape looks at them
meaningfully.

“You trust us to mark Potions homework?” Hermione asks, somewhat dazed, as if this is the
highest praise she could’ve received from a teacher.

“Do not look so happy, Granger.” Snape Levitates a couple of quills and a bottle of red ink to
the desk too. “You shall see what I mean in a minute.”

Harry sees. Were their assignments last year written that poorly? And the handwriting, it’s
barely legible in most cases.

Explain why the potion changed the colour from black to fuchsia midway through the
brewing process.

Because pink is a prettier colour.

It didn’t want to be green anymore.

To annoy Professor Snape. Harry snorts at that one.

“Something amusing, Potter?” Snape asks without lifting his head up.

“Nothing you haven’t seen before, Professor.”

Ginny’s answers are pretty decent though. She and Harry haven’t said anything to each other
apart from a quick hello since the beginning of term, and Harry feels a bit guilty about that.
She was touched by Tom Riddle too after all. He should have at least asked how she’s been
coping. But then he remembers her crimson face on St. Valentine’s Day as she watched him
put the love notes in his pocket. So maybe better not.

“I never want to be a teacher,” Harry declares when they are finished, the stack on Snape’s
desk looking sizeably smaller too.

“These might be the wisest words you have ever uttered,” Snape deadpans then glances up.
“What are you waiting for? Shoo, before I give you more work.”

“Dinner is about to start,” Hermione says in her no-nonsense tone, her hand on the door
handle. “You should have a break and eat something.”

“Miss Granger, I have been looking after myself for years. Believe me, I will manage without
your guidance.”
“Clearly not. You are too skinny.” Hermione turns the handle right then and slips out of the
classroom without another word. Harry doesn’t know whether to laugh or to run away as
quickly as he can. He chooses the latter.

***

Snape does come to dinner though. He is looking straight at Hermione as he loads his plate
with a steak and kidney pie and a selection of vegetables, and takes his first bite. Hermione
nods approvingly, Snape rolls his eyes, and Harry laughs into his elbow trying to pass it as a
cough, but he can’t hide the merriment in his eyes.

“What’s so funny?” Ron asks.

Harry shakes his head. “Just an inside joke.”

Ron looks a bit hurt as he turns back to Seamus but Harry doesn’t think he could have
explained it even if he tried. Besides, Ron wouldn’t believe him anyway if Harry told him
about how human the grumpiest Professor of Hogwarts can be or how fearless Hermione
actually is. and this fuzzy tickly feeling in his chest…

His little family.

 Chapter 31
Chapter Notes

I saw a young couple the other day, aged 13 or so. They were holding hands and
bumping into each other playfully. And then the boy took his coat off and gave it to the
girl because it was freaking cold and I just melted into a giant puddle. They made me
think of Harry and Hermione and I just had to share.
Happy first day of winter, guys. Keep warm:)

28th March, 1993

Draco has been avoiding him, and when Harry confronts him, he gets an angry snake instead
of a boy.

“There’s more than one spy at this school, Potter,” the Slytherin hisses. “The last thing I want
is to be seen with you.”

When Harry demonstratively dangles the invisibility cloak off one finger refusing to take
offence, Draco sneers and walks away. It’s almost like the beginning of their first year, he is
even back to calling Harry Potter.

Harry doesn’t know why he is even bothered considering how Draco has been. Maybe he’s
got a thing for prickly Slytherins. Or maybe, subconsciously, he finds comfort in being
spoken harshly to because the Dursleys messed him up for good.

He complains to Hermione about it in between writing the answers to a seemingly endless

number of questions for his Potions homework. He tries to sound annoyed instead of hurt but
she sees right through him, she always does.

“Once you joked that the Dursleys were lovely people compared to Lucius Malfoy,” she says
in that pensive way of hers.

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Well, you have me and the Weasleys and Snape. And still, you find it hard to trust Sirius.”
Sirius has invited Harry to spend the Easter Holidays with him, Remus, a perpetually grumpy
house elf and a rude and loud portrait of Sirius’ mother. Harry still hasn’t decided if he will
go or not, and he doesn’t really want to think about it right now, so he shrugs noncommittally
and goes to study his quill. He needs to get a new one, this one makes too many blots.

“And you find talking about it uncomfortable,” Hermione concludes and Harry wrinkles his
nose. Thankfully, her thoughts move back to the point of this discussion. “Has Draco ever
had anybody supportive in his life? Anybody to protect him from his dad? Does he have
friends here that he can be himself with? Anybody at all he can trust?”

“I’ve tried, you know,” Harry feels a bit annoyed now but he doesn’t know if it’s with Draco,
Hermione or himself for caring so much. “And anyway, he didn’t have a problem hanging out
with me last year.”

“His situation was very different last year,” she says emphatically, and Harry can’t argue with
her but he doesn’t feel like agreeing either.

“Can’t we just admit that he is being a prat whatever his reasons are and move on?” Harry
whines.

Hermione smiles at him indulgently. “He is being a prat.”

“Thank you!” It’s silly but Hermione calling Draco a prat makes Harry feel so much better.

***

29th March, 1993

Harry is sitting in front of Dumbledore in the Headmaster’s office and looking at Tom’s ring.
It’s harmless now, resting on the smooth surface of the desk, with a little crater in the middle
of the stone. Harry is looking at the headmaster too and trying not to remember how horribly
frail and nearly lifeless he seemed. However, even the brightness of a yellow paisley glove
which hides the blackness of Dumbledore’s hand isn’t enough of a distraction.

“Does it hurt?” Harry asks nodding at the cursed hand.

Dumbledore raises it and starts to examine it as if he can see through the silky fabric.

“It would but Severus’s potions work like magic.” The Headmaster smiles but it’s weak and
fades too quickly.

“I’m sorry-“ Harry starts but Dumbledore interrupts him.

“I have something to tell you. If you still feel like apologising to me after, you may.” Harry
nods, somewhat frustrated, and waits for Dumbledore to speak but the Headmaster opens one
of his multiple drawers instead and gets a thin blue book out with a bookmark sticking out.
He opens it and slides it to Harry across the desk.

“The Tale of the Three Brothers,” Harry reads. “Is it the one with the gifts from Death?”

Dumbledore’s eyebrows rise in surprise. “The Deathly Hallows, yes. I did not expect you to
know it, being raised by muggles.” Harry digs his nails into his palms. He doesn’t like to be
reminded of his relatives or who exactly chose to place him with those horrible people.

“Do you recall which gifts they were?” Dumbledore asks, oblivious to the tension in Harry’s
body.
“The Invisibility Cloak,” the first one is the easiest to remember. His cloak is the reason
Harry wouldn’t leave Draco alone until he told him the whole tale. “The most powerful wand
in the world,” he recalls, eyes wandering around the ceiling as he is forcing his mind to
remember. “And something that could bring back the dead, although they didn’t come back
right.”

Dumbledore nods appreciatively and gets his wand out. Harry has never looked at it properly
before. The wood is much darker than his own, almost black, and the design is so intricate
that it looks like a work of art. Harry squints at the silver band at the base which has some
marks on it but he can’t make them out.

“The Elder Wand.” Dumbledore places his wand on the desk next to the ring. He holds his
hand out to Harry. “The invisibility cloak, if I may?” Harry is reluctant to give it to the man
but, on the other hand, Dumbledore was the one to gift it to Harry in the first place. So, he
takes the Cloak out of his pocket and hands it to Dumbledore, who gestures for Harry to
place it next to the other objects, and Harry can see where this is going now.

Dumbledore picks the ring up and the stone falls out and rolls across the desk with a clatter.
Harry stops it before it reaches the edge and returns it to its place.

“The Resurrection Stone,” Dumbledore finishes and looks at Harry with his piercing blue
eyes.

“But it’s just a story,” Harry’s voice comes out in a whisper.

“All stories begin somewhere.”

Harry reaches for the stone. The hole is right in the middle of a triangle engraved on it.
Harry’s eyes dart to the book that’s still open. There’s a symbol right next to the title. A
triangle with a circle inside and a line dividing it in half. Before Harry can ask what it means
though, Dumbledore speaks.

“I have tried to repair the damage. I was hoping that the Elder Wand could accomplish the
impossible. When it didn’t work, I thought I needed to regain some of my strength first.
Alas…”

“Headmaster,” Harry asks, not quite understanding, “why is it important?"

“The Deathly Hallows, Harry. The one who possesses them becomes the Master of Death. If
you were the one to acquire them all, you would be able to live.”

It takes a moment for Harry to realise that Dumbledore knows exactly what he is. A
conversation with Snape flits across his mind.

How much does Dumbledore know?

Possibly more than either of us thinks.

So, Dumbledore knew this for who knows how long. And he knew that there was something
that could help Harry survive. And he kept it to himself. If he had only told Harry, Harry
would have known not to destroy the stone. If only the Headmaster hadn’t put the ring on. If
only…

Anger creeps up his throat and comes out in an accusation. “Why didn’t you tell me? You
saw the ring in my head. You knew straight away,” he says through clenched teeth and one of
Dumbledore’s little twirling devices explodes, pieces flying everywhere.

“I only wanted to see a glimpse of Ariana. To say I was sorry.” Dumbledore doesn’t even
flinch. He sounds defeated but Harry doesn’t care, neither does he care who Ariana is.

“That’s what you said to me too. I am sorry. How many more people have you let down?”

“Too many,” Dumbledore says sadly, vulnerably, nothing like the man Harry is used to
seeing. Bile rises in Harry’s throat. He grabs his cloak off the desk and gets up so quickly his
chair falls backwards with a thud. He speeds to the door when a spell sizzles past his ear and
hits the wall.

“What the-“ he turns to see Dumbledore pointing the Elder Wand at him, the tip already
glowing with red light.

“Expelliarmus,” Harry shouts, and Dumbledore’s wand leaves the Headmaster’s fingers and
flies straight to Harry, who catches it easily with his left hand.

“Take the stone too,” Dumbledore says.

Harry doesn’t argue but only because he can’t get out of here fast enough. He summons the
now useless thing wordlessly, what he actually wants to do though is cast Reducto at each
object in Dumbledore’s office. It would be so satisfying to destroy the man’s possessions with
his own wand.

Harry turns on his heels and rushes out of the door and down the steps.

***

It’s late when he comes back to the common room, so much so that most of the students seem
to already be in bed. There is a couple snuggling in the dimmest corner, a seventh-year with
his nose in a piece of parchment and Hermione by the fire. Harry is still holding the bundle
that is his cloak, the Elder Wand and the Resurrection Stone. He dumps it all
unceremoniously on the table in front of Hermione and collapses onto the sofa with a grunt.

“Whose wand is this?” She asks curiously, sitting up.

“Dumbledore’s,” Harry replies but doesn’t explain further. He knows he needs to but where
does he begin?

“You will either start talking willingly or I will have to torture the information out of you,”
Hermione threatens and a smile tugs on Harry’s lips despite his mood. So, just like the
Headmaster, Harry begins with the story.

“Once upon a time, there were three brothers…”

***

“So, you are the Master of Death?” Hermione pipes up, eyes full of hope.

“I would be the Master of Death,” Harry corrects, “if we hadn’t damaged the stone.”

“Repair it,” Hermione tells him urgently.

“Don’t you think that if Dumbledore couldn’t do it, I don’t stand a chance?” He argues.

“Just try!” She is looking at him with her wide brown eyes. They are full of determination
and hope, and Harry doesn’t want this hope to shatter.

He picks the Elder Wand up and it feels warm in his hand, familiar even, as if he’s held it
before.

“Reparo!” He tries, he really does. He focuses on his magic, on his spell, on the flow of it
through the most powerful wand on Earth, but nothing happens.

“I told you…” but Hermione doesn’t look disappointed. She rests her warm palm on top of
his right hand and says with even more urgency, “Do it again.”

He humours her not expecting anything much.

“Reparo!” He casts again aware of the connection that he and Hermione share, of how her
palm goes from warm to hot against his skin.

He thinks it’s a trick of light at first, it’s late after all and it’s easy to imagine you are seeing
exactly what you want when the only remaining source of light is the fire in front of you.
Harry picks up the stone and runs his thumb over its smooth surface, his mouth falling open
with surprise. Hermione exhales sharply next to him.

“How did you know?” He asks.

“I didn’t. It was just a hunch.”

“But what does it mean?” He looks at her, not daring to hope. “Hermione, what does it
mean?”

“I think,” she says, her voice shaking, “it means that we are going to have all the time in the
world.”
 Chapter 32
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

30th March, 1993

Harry stuffs the Elder Wand and the Resurrection Stone in the bottom of his school bag. He
doesn’t want to think about them, he doesn’t want to be tempted, yet he is painfully aware of
the fact that he could summon his parents if he wanted to. He doesn’t want to. He doesn’t
need to. He saw them in the Mirror of Erised and it only made him feel his loss more acutely.
If he spoke to them, would he even be able to let them go?

Hermione rests her hand on his knee that he’s been bouncing up and down. “You are doing it
again,” she says under her breath, her eyes on Professor Flitwick, who is explaining the
Memory Charm, not that Harry has been paying attention. He is too wound up, too
impatient…

“Just ten more minutes,” she tells him. Just ten more minutes and they can go and bother
Snape again. Harry isn’t sure it’s such a good idea, really. Snape will want the Stone. He will
want his Lily, Harry knows. Just like Dumbledore wanted his Ariana. Just like Harry wants
his parents. Or does he?

Hermione’s fingers dig into his knee and he forces his heel to stay on the ground. Eight more
minutes. He wishes he could memory charm himself into forgetting about what exactly was
in his bag. He looks at the clock again. Are those hands even moving? Merlin. It’s the longest
day ever.

***

A mix of fifth-year Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs are still trickling out of the Potions
Classroom when Harry and Hermione arrive. Hidden under the Invisibility Cloak to avoid
attracting attention, they plaster themselves against the wall and wait for all of the students to
pass.

“It was utterly disgusting,” a girl complains. “It got in my hair.”

“It got in my hair,” a boy mocks, his arms in the air.

“Oh, shut up, Zack. You shrieked.”

It feels like forever until the hall is clear and all the voices have died down. Harry looks
around and when he doesn’t see anybody, he rips his cloak - The Cloak - off them and pulls
Hermione by the arm into the classroom. He’s pretty sure she is rolling her eyes right this
second at his impatience, but if somebody can explain it all to him, it’s Snape, and Harry
needs to understand.
“What now?” Snape sounds tetchy, more so than normal anyway.

“How dare you speak in such a tone to the Master of Death?” Harry says menacingly, his
stance wide, hands on his hips. Hermione ruins it though by hitting him on the stomach with
the back of her hand, and Harry deflates with an oof.

Snape is staring at them with a blank expression.

“If you do not have any serious matter to bring to my attention, kindly leave,” he finally says.
“Or I will make you deal with this.” He points at the ceiling, which holds a large splat of a
particularly revolting shade of greenish brown. Now that Harry thinks about it, the classroom
doesn’t smell all that nice either.

“Oh dear,” Hermione says, her head tilted to the side.

However, Harry refuses to be distracted. “I’m not messing about.” He digs in his bag until his
fingers find the stone and the wand. He walks up to Snape’s desk and lays them out together
with his cloak in front of the Professor, whose eyes go momentarily wide.

“I want to show you something” Harry says and, without a moment of hesitation, Snape
points his wand at Harry.

“Legilimens.”

***

“It is believed that to truly become the Master of Death, one needs to not only possess these
objects but to master them,” Snape explains in his lecture voice, pacing back and forth in
front of his desk.

“What does it mean, to master?” Hermione voices the exact question Harry was about to ask.

“It means they need to respond to you, obey you.”

“Obey,” Harry says with distaste. He doesn’t like this word.

“And while I am not concerned about the Invisibility Cloak as you have been using the
blasted thing successfully for who knows how long, I am not so certain about the Elder Wand
or -“

"The wand likes me,” Harry interrupts. He stretches his arm out - he has no idea how he
knows it will work, he just does - and the wand leaps from Snape’s desk, shoots past the
Professor and lands neatly in Harry’s hand. He grins. “See?”

“Hm.” The Professor quirks an eyebrow.

Harry points the wand at the splat on the ceiling and mutters the cleaning spell, which gets rid
of the revolting thing in an instant. Both of Snape’s eyebrows rise this time. “I see. And the
Resurrection Stone?”
Harry frowns. He loves his cloak, and while he is not entirely sure about the Wand, he can
feel a connection to it. But he really, really dislikes the Stone.

“It nearly killed Dumbledore.” Harry juts his chin out and looks stubbornly at Snape.

“It was not the stone that nearly killed him. It was the Dark Lord’s curse, and I believe you
know it.”

“Nothing good can come from summoning the dead,” Harry argues.

“It depends on your intention and how strong you will is. I suppose not using the stone at all
is a form of mastering it but you will live in constant wondering. Aren’t you asking yourself
right now, Potter, what it will be like? What will they look like? How will it feel to be able to
finally speak to them?”

Harry is.

“How do you do it?” Hermione asks.

“You focus on the person - or people - you want to call and flip the stone three times.”

“As simple as that?”

“I believe letting go of the person that you call is the main challenge.”

“How do you do that?”

“Well, you stop touching the stone and they disappear.”

“What will be difficult is resisting calling them again and again and again,” Harry cuts in.

“Precisely,” Snape tilts his chin in agreement..

“This would be considered the true mastering then, right?” Hermione asks and then continues
without waiting for a response, thinking out loud. “Anybody could summon the dead but
most would become dependent on the power of the Stone. The Stone would become the
Master instead of a useful tool.”

“Astute as always, Miss Granger.”

Harry thinks about the Mirror of Erised again. He walked away from that, didn’t he? He
didn’t go looking for it again. He might have spent the whole night crying after seeing his
parents for the first time but he was okay later. Besides, his friendship with Hermione was
still new and he didn’t feel like he had anybody, not really. Now he does. Come to think
about it, he is a very different boy now. He doesn’t feel alone anymore. He isn’t that
desperate to cling to pale imitations of what his parents used to be when they were alive.

“So, let’s say I’ve mastered the Hallows. What next? How do I use them to get the Horcrux
out?”
Snape looks at him but doesn’t say anything and Harry feels like something inside him drops.
“I still have to die, don’t I?”

“But then you can choose to come back,” the Professor explains.

Harry supposes it’s not so bad. It’s definitely better than simply dying. All he needs to do is
master the Hallows. Easy as pie.

“Right,” he says, silently summoning the Resurrection Stone and interrupting whatever
Snape and Hermione are discussing.

“Wait!” Snape sounds alarmed and Hermione calls his name but Harry is already flipping the
stone while holding the image of his parents in his mind. They want him to master the Stone?
He will master the Stone.

It goes cold in his fingers and Harry watches as frost crawls across the Stone’s surface. It
pulses in his hand twice before two shadows glide out of it. They twist and turn, barely
human at first, and unease spreads through Harry’s body. It doesn’t take long though for them
to take shape and gain colour and, all of a sudden, Harry’s parents are standing right in front
of him in the middle of the Potions classroom. Snape makes a strange noise in the back of his
throat and Hermione gasps. Harry, however, stays silent. He blinks a few times and rubs at
his eyes. It’s because he can’t believe what he is seeing and not because he is desperately
trying not to cry. He will not cry. If he does, he won’t be able to study their faces like he is
doing now. They look familiar and entirely foreign all at the same time. His mother - are his
eyes really this green too? - reaches her hand out to him and looks at him with so much love
that the shreds of composure he’s been clinging to shatter completely.

“Mum,” he says shakily and takes a step closer. Harry cautiously reaches his hand out and
touches his fingertips to hers. They are translucent though and all he can feel is slight tingling
and frosty cold. He closes his eyes and lets a couple of tears run down his cheeks. He can do
this. He can do this. He can do this.

“My sweet brave boy,” his mum says and touches her ghostly hand to his cheek. Harry’s eyes
grow even hotter and when he opens them, his mum’s face is a blur. He rubs the wetness
away with a sleeve and sniffs. They are the same height, Harry notices with surprise. And she
looks so young, barely older than seventh-year students. “We love you so much,” his mum
tells him and his dad nods and grins the grin Harry has seen reflected in the mirror and in
photos that Colin has taken. His dad takes a step closer and rests a hand on his shoulder. He is
tall and broad-shouldered but so very young too, and the unfairness of it all twists Harry’s
heart.

“You’d make a brilliant Marauder,” his dad tells him. “We are so proud of you.” Despite the
cold that his parents have brought with them, heat spreads through Harry’s body. It’s like he
can physically feel their love, and the hole that he has carried all of his life is finally
beginning to fill.

All the questions that Harry used to want to ask his parents do not matter anymore. No
amount of words could do what their phantom touch, their kind and loving smiles and eyes
full of pride are doing now. This is enough. At this moment, Harry realises that he will be
able to do what he has to.

He raises the stone in front of him, his fingers numb with the cold. “I love you too,” he tells
them with a sad little smile. “But I need to let you go now.”

“Wait!” His mum puts her hand on his wrist and when he doesn’t let go of the stone, she
rushes away from him and to the window where Snape, his back to the room, is standing. The
Professor is bracing himself with his palm on the wall as if it’s the only thing that’s keeping
him upright. Harry watches his mum duck under that arm and put both of her hands on
Snape’s cheeks, and his whole body shudders.

“Look at me,” she says and, “I forgive you.” She then whispers something that Harry can’t
hear but he can see her mouth, and he is pretty sure she’s just said I love you, Sev, and then
something else too. And Harry doesn’t understand. Lily has abandoned Snape. She has
chosen somebody else. He glances at his dad, but he is looking away, his face impassive.
Isn’t he jealous? Doesn't he want to know what his wife is saying? Harry glances back at his
mum just in time to see her kiss the tips of her fingers and touch them to Snape’s face.

That’s when Harry’s fingers go slack and the stone clatters to the floor, his parents gone,
leaving only a chill in the room.

“Get out,” Snape says evenly without even turning.

“What? Why?” Harry’s stomach twists uncomfortably.

“Get out!” Snape yells and it’s raw and desperate and full of pain, and Harry cringes away
from it. Snape must hate him. Snape said wait but Harry didn’t listen, did he? And now
Snape is hurt and it’s Harry’s fault and isn’t it ironic? Last year, Harry would’ve given
anything to be able to speak to his parents, and now the only thing Harry is worried about is
that Snape will never talk to him ever again.

Hermione’s fingers find his and she tugs at his hand silently and, somewhat in a trance, Harry
summons his things and lets her pull him out of the classroom.

Snape never turns.

***

Harry is aware that he is being led somewhere past closed doors and windows through which
the setting sun is gently shining. Everything is a bit fuzzy but he doesn’t care where they are
going anyway. He only cares that he was so stupid. How many times has Snape helped him
out? How many hours of his personal time did the Professor give up to teach Harry, guide
him, comfort him… And now Harry had to go and ruin it all. Did Harry have to use the stone
right in front of him? To summon not just his parents but the love of Snape’s life? He said
wait. Did Harry choose to pay attention? No. So damn stupid, never thinking, always ruining
everything, good for nothing -

A door bangs closed and arms wrap around him tightly.

“You need to breathe,” Hermione says with urgency. But isn’t he breathing already? “Try and
match me,” she instructs. He frowns but focuses on the feeling of Hermione’s chest
expanding and contracting against his, the tickle of her breath on his jaw, and this is when he
finally realises that he is breathing too fast and that he is a bit light-headed too. He tries
again, and again, slower, steadier. Inhale. Exhale. He can feel Hermione’s heart beating. He
can feel her hands on his back, going up and down with each breath, soothing him. She
always does it. Comforts him and calms him down, even when he doesn’t feel he deserves it.

“I’m okay,” he reassures her hugging her back. Well, he isn’t okay okay but at least he is
breathing normally now.

“Seeing your parents must have been such a shock,” she says emphatically. She is right, it
should’ve been a shock. It wasn’t though.

“It’s not why I was flipping out,” he says quietly.

“Then why?” She looks confused.

“Because Snape will never forgive me for that. He probably hates me.”

“Oh, Harry. He definitely doesn’t hate you. It was painful but he doesn’t hate you.”

“How do you know?” Harry challenges.

Hermione bites her lip, thinking. “How did you feel when Professor Snape showed you your
mum’s postcards?”

“I cried like a baby,” Harry replies with a self-deprecating smile and Hermione smiles sadly
back.

“Did you hate Professor Snape for it?”

“Of course not.” Harry scratches his nose where Hermione’s hair is tickling him and tries to
remember. “I felt grateful. Vulnerable I guess. Alone. Sad.” He tucks Hermione’s hair behind
her ear but it springs back out again.

“He doesn’t hate you,” Hermione repeats, and this time, Harry believes her or, at least, he
tries.

“You are very good at this,” he says.

“At what?”

“Making me feel better.” Hermione beams.

***

Snape doesn’t come to dinner and Harry is worried. He tells himself that it’s better to wait
until tomorrow, that Snape doesn’t want to be bothered, that he shouted for them to get out,
and there is every chance that he still feels wounded and wants to be left alone. So, when
Harry tells Hermione that he’ll see her later and takes the stairs leading to the dungeons, it’s
against his better judgment. He puts the Invisibility Cloak on, having no desire to be
questioned by any Slytherins he happens to pass, and lets his legs take him to the entrance to
Snape’s Chambers.

He knocks on the painting of a cauldron with a trembling hand and tells himself that Snape
might not open it for him anyway. He does though. The Professor looks as dark and
menacing as always in his heavy robes but his eyes are red. Harry realises that he still hasn’t
taken the Invisibility Cloak off, but Snape must know that it’s him. After all, the man hasn’t
shut the painting, however, he hasn’t stepped aside to let Harry pass like he normally does
either.

Impulsively - just like everything else he does - Harry shrugs the cloak off, takes two steps
right up to Snape and wraps his arms around the Professor’s middle, who goes as stiff as a
rod. Harry is tense too, which makes this the most awkward hug in history but he only clings
on tighter.

“Please don’t hate me.” Harry knows he sounds pathetic but Hermione’s logic wasn’t enough
to convince him. He needs to hear it from Snape, who huffs, and Harry can’t tell if it’s in
amusement or irritation or both. To Harry’s relief, Snape puts his hand on Harry’s head and
ruffles his hair.

“You are an impulsive, reckless, impertinent and quite often extremely irritating child… but I
don’t hate you.”

“You don’t?” Harry asks, taking a step back and looking up.

“You seem to have grown on me. Like mauld.” Snape says with a humorous twitch to his
lips.

“I am very hard to get rid of.” Harry’s mouth stretches into a wide smile and his shoulders
relax as if an enormous weight has been lifted. “Are you okay? Do you want some company?
I can grab some food for you from the kitchens, you’ve missed-“

“Potter,” Snape interrupts him and Harry snaps his mouth shut.

“Get lost.” Snape’s eyes are smiling despite his words and Harry could fly, no broom
required.

“Yes, sir.” And this time, when he leaves the man’s presence, it’s with a light heart.

On the way to the common room, he thinks about how love has made him soft. He spent his
early childhood surrounded by harsh words, by prods and punches and, sure, they left scars of
their own, but Harry has never felt this overwhelming need to be accepted, to be forgiven and
reassured. And maybe Harry’s skin isn’t as thick anymore, and maybe he cries sometimes
and panics, and maybe all this love that he is carrying has made him vulnerable. But it has
made him strong, too.

***
Hermione is leaning over a book, her face entirely hidden by her hair, and when Harry stands
behind her back and brushes it aside, she doesn’t even startle. She can probably feel Harry’s
presence just like he can sense hers. He leans down and showers her neck with butterfly
kisses. “I want to try the Patronus charm again.”

“Now?” She asks while copying something from the book and onto a sheet of paper.

“Why not? I’m happy. I love you. Snape doesn’t hate me.” She uses the sheet as a bookmark
and turns to look at him.

“Uh-huh. Just like I’ve said,” she teases.

“Well, you are not always right,” he replies in the same manner.

“Oh, really? Name one time when I wasn’t right.”

Harry thinks for a moment and then shrugs.

“I’m sure I’ll come up with something in a minute,” he says as he holds her book bag open
for her while she gathers her things.

“So, Patronus?” He asks again.

“Why not?” She echoes his words. “I’m happy. I love you. And I’ve finished my Herbology
homework.”

“All very good reasons to be happy… can I copy?”

“Harry, no!”

“Please?”

“No!”

“Even if I rub your feet?”

“Even if you rub my whole body.” Hermione realises what she’s just said and makes an odd
sound, something between a squeak and a choking noise, then she clears her throat and tries
again, completely ignoring Harry’s chortling. “What I mean is, do your own homework,
Potter.”

***

Once in the Room, Harry holds her and kisses her and lifts her off her feet. He doesn’t know
where all this joy is coming from considering they’ve had a pretty stressful day. All he knows
is that if this ferocious happiness can’t produce a Patronus then nothing will. Life is so good
and he’s got so much hope and love and passion and he’s got a future. He won’t need to give
anything up. So what if he still has to die? He’s got the Hallows and a feeling in his gut that
everything will be okay.
 “Now,” he tells Hermione, while smiles are still playing on their faces and their hearts still
feel so full.

He knows it’s going to work this time. He just knows. He doesn’t even need to close his eyes
and search for a memory. It’s all in him already right now.

“Expecto Patronum!” He hears Hermione’s voice by his side, he feels the heat radiating off
her body, and the light that he sees is blinding. He watches as two shapes spring out of their
wands and start chasing each other around the room. His mouth falls open.

“But they are…"

“Beautiful,” Hermione finishes for him, and it is not what he was going to say but he can’t
argue either.

“They are absolutely stunning,” he agrees.

Chapter End Notes

So, does everybody know where this is going now or is it just me? :D Any guesses on
what their Patronuses are?
 Chapter 33
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

30th March, 1993

“Hermione,” Harry tries again when their Patronuses are no longer making circles around the
room. “They are absolutely identical.”

Hermione looks at him with that smile of hers that she sometimes sports, the one that’s got a
secret hiding behind it. “They are.” She wraps her arms around his neck and repeats they are
one more time, then throws her head back and laughs.

“You know something,” Harry accuses although it’s not very convincing considering how
wide his own smile is. She is looking at him, her bottom lip between her teeth, and there is
something shy about the way her eyelashes flutter and her cheeks turn pink.

“You might think it’s silly.”

“I like silly, especially if this silly is making you so happy.”

“It’s just a story.” She says it like it’s no big deal but Harry knows better.

“The Deathly Hallows is just a story too. Tell me.”

“It’s not even a proper story. It’s a belief some magical kids grow up with. Parvati told me but
she said it barely ever happens. The last time it happened in her family was something crazy
like three hundred years ago. And I found some references in the books I’ve been reading but
nothing recent…”

“Hermione, you still haven’t told me what it is.”

“Oh, right.” She looks at him shyly again. “Identical Patronuses belong to soulmates, Harry.
it means that you and I are, well, soulmates.” Harry’s smile grows even bigger and he kisses
Hermione on her flaming cheek. He doesn’t understand what Hermione is so nervous about.

“I could have told you that without the Patronus Charm,” he says as earnestly as he can.
Hermione lays her head back on his shoulder and they simply stand there, in the middle of
the room, arms around each other, eyes closed and breathing in sync.

“It explains a lot, really,” Harry murmurs into her temple and Hermione hums in agreement.
It explains why he’s felt a connection to her from the very beginning and why a hole appears
in his chest every time they are apart. It explains their need to touch each other and to sleep in
the same bed. It explains why Harry’s body responds to Hermione like that and why he longs
to do the things that he is definitely not ready for. It explains no visions when she is around
and no bad dreams. The way she always makes him calmer. The way her touch protects him
from being overwhelmed when a Horcrux is near. The way he wants to hold her so tight as if
he longs to absorb her body into his. Knowing all this, there is no way he can die. No way he
will leave her alone like… Like Lily left Snape.

“Oh my God,” he whispers, and Hermione lifts her head to look at him with worried eyes.
“My mum’s Patronus was a doe.” Hermione’s hand flies to her mouth, her lips parted in
surprise. “Haven’t I told you?” Harry asks and Hermione shakes her head.

“Poor Professor Snape,” she whispers.

Harry holds her tighter, so tight that a little gasp escapes Hermione, but she holds on to him
just as fiercely.

“Never leave me,” he says, voice full of emotion.

“Never. I promise.”

***

2nd April, 1993

Harry has left Snape alone for the rest of the week but now it’s Friday and he wants to say
goodbye. Sirius is coming to collect Harry tomorrow - something that Harry is still not so
sure about but he wants to give it a chance. Besides, he’s never told Snape that he and
Hermione have succeeded at producing corporeal Patronuses. A part of him wants to keep it
secret because it’s something precious, something that is only theirs. Soulmates. However,
Harry is pretty certain that the reason Snape started teaching them the spell had nothing to do
with Dementors at all, so there is no point keeping it from the Professor if he already knows.

Harry knocks on the door to Snape’s office and slips through when it opens, pulling the Cloak
off.

“You missed Wednesday,” Snape says instead of a greeting from his usual place at his desk.

“I thought you’d need some space,” Harry explains as he takes the chair opposite. He feels a
bit awkward after everything that has happened but he is determined to ignore the feeling
until it passes. Snape doesn’t reply and Harry, not knowing how to breech the subject more
gently, blurts out, “They are foxes.” He wants to cringe at how awkward he sounds. He forces
himself to relax, making his body slump in the chair, and clarifies, slowly this time, “My and
Hermione’s Patronuses are foxes.”

There is a knowing glint in Snape’s eyes.

“Rather fitting. Adaptable, clever and extremely annoying creatures. Identical?”

“You knew,” Harry says, somewhat sullenly.

“After having observed you on the night the Headmaster got himself cursed, it was
impossible not to notice that the connection the two of you share is unusual.”
“Especially when one has experience of such matters.” Harry promised himself that he
wouldn’t mention anything to do with his mother yet he doesn’t have any control of his
mouth it seems, and his curiosity is killing him.

“Indeed,” Snape replies calmly, and Harry relaxes, and it’s not forced this time.

“You believe in soulmates then?”

Snape snorts.

“As if you cannot feel it, Potter. Doesn’t every cell in your body shout with relief each time
you touch? Doesn’t the darkness in you shrink away at her presence? What about the gaping
hole in your chest every time you are apart?” Harry doesn’t reply but he doesn’t need to.
Snape is looking at him with such intensity, and Harry is sure he can read his face like an
open book.

“After I took the Dark Mark, it ached constantly for several months. Lily and I had already
stopped talking at the time, yet, still, being in her presence dulled the discomfort
considerably.” There is no pain in Snape’s voice, no bitterness, only acceptance. And maybe
even a bit of relief. Harry wonders if he’s ever talked to anybody about it or if he’s been
holding it all in for years.

“I still don’t get it, you know,” Harry says with caution. He feels like he shouldn’t pry but, on
the other hand, he is desperate to understand. “If you were feeling what Hermione and I are
feeling now, how were you able to let each other go?”

Snape sighs and holds a finger to his lips, and when he speaks, it’s slow and measured, as if
he is carefully choosing his words. “My love was not kind. It was jealous. It wanted to
possess… You are rather popular among your peers, are you not?” Harry supposes that he is,
although he would never consciously think of himself as a popular kid. “Miss Granger trusts
you to be friends with all those people. She trusts that you will always come back to her. She
knows that even when you give your time to others, your heart, your soul, still belongs to her.
I did not have such trust.”

Harry tries to imagine what it would be like if Hermione complained every time he went to
Quidditch practice or spent time with the boys or with Snape. If she insisted that he should
spend the Easter Holidays with her instead of encouraging him to try and build a relationship
with his godfather. If she nagged him and argued and clung on to him so hard he couldn’t
breathe. He scrunches his face up at the image.

“So, you understand now.”

Harry nods slowly.

“Your father was a good man. He was a pain in my arse when we were children,” Snape
clarifies and it’s Harry’s turn to snort, “but he became a good man. Lily deserved somebody
like him in her life. I can see it now like I couldn’t back then.”
“You are a good man too, now.” Snape smiles. It’s not a smirk, it’s not a twitch of his lips. It’s
a proper smile.

“I should hope so.”

***

3rd April, 1993

He and Hermione sleep in a tangle of limbs under the protection of the canopy and privacy
charms, and when Harry wakes up, he has no idea how he is going to spend nearly two weeks
away from this. He wants to change his mind. He’s been changing his mind several times a
day since Sirius asked him and it’s not just because of Hermione. Harry is scared. He nearly
asked Snape to come and check on him in a couple of days in case Sirius and Remus turn out
to be like the Dursleys. Or worse. Harry chases these thoughts away like he would angry
dogs that only bark but do not bite. He refuses to live in mistrust and fear of abuse for the rest
of his life. And anyway, if something does happen, he’s got the most powerful wand of them
all. He’ll be fine.

There is another fear that is even more prominent though, and he can’t chase this one away.
What if he grows to love Sirius and what if he wants to live with Sirius permanently? What if
Sirius, after spending time with Harry and getting to know him, changes his mind? What if he
decides that Harry is not worth it after all?

“You are thinking too loudly,” Hermione murmurs and snuggles closer, half-lying on top of
him. Harry would be content to stay exactly like this for the rest of the holidays.

“I wish you could come,” he tells her and lifts his head to kiss whatever part of her face he
can reach - her eyebrow it seems, it’s hard to tell in the dark.

“A part of me wants to ignore my parents and just go with you.” A part of Harry wants her to
do it, but another part agrees with Mr. and Mrs. Granger not letting Hermione stay with two
men they have never met.

“I wish…” He doesn’t need to finish the sentence, knowing that Hermione will get exactly
what he means. I wish all of this was over and we never had to be apart.

“Me too.” She nuzzles his neck and gives a contented sigh.

It’s still early, and Harry lets himself bask in Hermione’s closeness, in her warmth and the
comfort that he feels when they are together. There was some awkwardness at first, when
they only just started sleeping in the same bed, and they did try to strategically angle their
bodies away from each other when falling asleep, but they seemed to gravitate back towards
each other in the night anyway so they gave up and let their limbs fall where they may.

It’s so easy now, being around Hermione, so simple. Harry lets his hand draw patterns on her
back and silently begs the sun to take a little bit longer to rise.

***
 “Just be yourself,” Hermione tells him as she hugs him goodbye in the Entrance Hall.
“They’ll love you.” Harry holds her tighter and kisses the corner of her mouth before taking a
step back, his hands still on her waist.

“The only person I need to love me is you. I’ll be happy if they don’t dislike me.”

Hermione smiles in an exasperated sort of way. “They will love you. Just like I do.”

“Hopefully not exactly like you do,” Harry grins.

“Maybe not exactly…”

Harry takes another step back and lets his hands slip from her waist.

“I love you,” he tells her. He tells her this every day but now it seems even more important
than ever.

"I love you too. Now go. Before I cry in front of everybody.” Her lips quiver. If he doesn’t go
now, he will not leave at all. He turns away from her and towards Sirius, who is waiting at the
bottom of the stairs. He makes his legs move and tries to mirror his Godfather’s grin but it
feels all shaky and wrong so he stops trying.

Walking away from Hermione feels like cutting out his own heart. He does it though, one
step at a time, and when he looks back to wave goodbye, she is no longer there.

Chapter End Notes

You've seen it coming, right? Right?

 Chapter 34
Chapter Notes

100000+ words. Wow. Thanks to everybody who is reading this. Your support is the best
motivation!

3rd April, 1993

To his great relief, Harry is still standing upright and feels only mildly nauseous when Sirius
apparates them into a dingy alleyway littered with cigarette butts, broken glass and candy
wrappers.

“Home, sweet home,” Sirius singsongs as he pushes past a bush overhanging somebody’s
garden wall and into the street. Harry rushes after him, the broken glass crunching under his
trainers.

“Grimmauld Place,” he reads the sign out loud just to say something.

“Isn’t it the loveliest view you’ve ever seen?” Sirius opens his arms and grins so wide it looks
a bit unhinged.

“Isn’t it just?” Harry plays along. “I especially like the dead rat over there. Oh, look, and a
broken window!”

Sirius claps him on the shoulder and laughs. “It’s even better on the inside.” Seeing the look
on Harry’s face, Sirius laughs even more. His godfather seems to be in better spirits than
when Harry saw him last. He’s gained some of the much-needed weight too and his face
doesn’t seem as haunted. He is also sporting a goatee that wasn’t there before.

“Do you like it?” Sirius asks. He’s clearly noticed that Harry’s been staring.

“It suits you.” However, it’s not exactly what Harry’s first thought was upon noticing it.
Hermione’s words echo in his mind. Just be yourself. “I liked it better without though.”

“Oh?”

“It makes you look older.”

“Older?” Sirius looks horrified.

“Just a smidge,” Harry teases.

Sirius stops abruptly and, for just a moment, Harry thinks that he is mad. However, Sirius
only points at a townhouse with the number twelve on the door. “This is us.” He looks at
Harry hopefully but Harry isn’t sure what the man is hoping for.

“It looks big,” Harry comments as they walk up the steps and to the front door, which has got
a door handle in the shape of a serpent, a door knocker - a snake biting its tail - but no
keyhole.

“Put your hand on the door,” Sirius instructs. Harry hesitates briefly but does as told. He feels
little licks of magic all around his hand, and when Sirius touches the tip of his wand to the
door and chants something awfully complex, a sensation of pins and needles travels up
Harry’s arm, which makes his face twist with discomfort.

“Wards,” Sirius explains. “All done. You can open the door now.”

“No key then?”

“Who needs keys when you’ve got magic? Go on.”

Harry doesn’t know why he is so hesitant. It’s a house. Just an old house. He was feeling fine
walking down the street. He tells himself to stop being silly and twists the door handle.

The hallway is dark and dingy, the wallpaper is peeling, the floorboards creak under their feet
and the house smells a bit musty, but, apart from being old, there doesn’t seem to be anything
unusual with the place. Harry tells himself to relax.

“You’re back,” Remus appears from downstairs, a kind smile on his face and a kitchen towel
in his hands.

“You’ve done the dishes again,” Sirius sounds disapproving but Remus just shrugs.

“He doesn’t listen to me.”

Harry doesn’t have a chance to ask who he is because of a sudden yell.

“Filth! Half-breeds! In our ancestral home! Such disgrace!”

“Let me introduce you to my lovely mother!” Sirius shouts over the noise and beckons Harry
to a portrait of an old witch, whose face is twisted with disgust. Thankfully, the onslaught of
words stops as she eyes Harry with narrowed eyes. However, the quiet doesn’t last long.

“A Potter! Those fools! A waste of precious pure blood! Oh, my poor heart!” The woman
wails, Harry blinks at her owlishly, Remus looks exasperated and Sirius barks a derisive
laugh, then points his wand at the portrait, causing a black curtain to fall and cover the
witch's ugly face, silencing her at the same time.

“Umm…” Harry says when he recovers, “I don’t want to be rude but why don’t you just take
her portrait down?”
“Oh, we’ve tried,” Sirius explains. “But the woman used a permanent sticking charm and
warded it as well… We’ve tried blasting the bloody thing off the wall, cutting it out of the
frame, painting over it… Nothing works.”

“Do you mind if I try?” Harry asks. He does have the Elder Wand, so it’s worth a try. If it
doesn’t work, no harm done. However, he doesn’t want to miss his chance to impress his
potential future guardian.

“Be my guest!” Sirius smiles and waves a hand at the portrait but he clearly doesn’t expect it
to work.

Harry very much hopes it does.

He focuses on his magic, on the connection he has with this wand, and puts more power
behind the spell than probably necessary but he desperately wants it to work.

“Finite Incantatem,’ he enunciates and the portrait in its heavy gilded frame falls to the floor
with a bang followed by the witch’s renewed shrieking.

Harry’s mouth hangs open. “I didn’t expect it to actually work on the first try!” He shouts
over the yelling.

Sirius casts the Silencing Charm, shutting the woman up again, and then looks at his wand in
surprise. “It’s never worked on her before!” He turns to Harry and bows with a boyish smile,
“My saviour.”

“Haven’t we tried Finite Incantatem?” Remus asks, bemused.

Sirius scratches his head, “Surely…” He doesn’t seem to be too bothered though because he
shrugs and kicks the portrait with a satisfied smirk, causing it to fall face-first onto the floor.

“Let’s show you around!” Sirius rubs his hands together and beckons them up the stairs, and
as they walk higher and higher, exploring rooms and chatting easily, Harry’s tension
diminishes until it’s barely even there.

“How old are you exactly?” Harry asks Sirius as they step into a room whose walls are
covered in posters of motorcycles and half-naked girls. Sirius just laughs and messes Harry’s
hair before leading him past what Harry knows now to be Remus’s room and back to the
third floor.

“This is your room,” Sirius opens the door that they previously walked past and the three of
them step through. “It’s got an en-suite too, so you can feel free to do all the things that
growing boys do.” Harry is only aware that Sirius has just said something embarrassing or
inappropriate because Remus has elbowed him in the ribs, but Harry is too busy looking
around in wonder. His own room. He doesn’t know why he is so surprised. He guesses he
expected a guest room. Something temporary, impersonal. He didn’t expect the door to have
a plaque with his name on it, or Gryffindor banners on the walls, or a bedspread with snitches
and tiny brooms, or a perch for Hedwig.
“I love it!” Harry says with feeling and beams at the men, then takes his suitcase out of his
pocket, places it at the foot of his bed and returns it to its normal size. The last bit of
uneasiness leaves his body and he sighs happily.

He will be okay here.

***

It takes Harry by complete surprise when, as they are making their way down the steps, his
body goes more and more rigid the lower they go, and when they reach the kitchen in the
basement, his muscles are tense, his fists are clenched and a drop of sweat treacles down
between his shoulder blades. What is going on with him? Is it some weird fight or flight
reaction because his body recalls that most of the worst things that happened to him at the
Dursleys took place in the kitchen? Or maybe he is coming down with something?

“Kreacher!” Sirius bellows, not paying Harry any mind, and a tiny door in the corner creaks
open, letting out a grumpy old house elf that Harry has heard a bunch of unfavourable things
about. The elf is the last of his worries though. The moment that little door opens, Harry’s
discomfort intensifies. An ugly dark feeling wraps around him like a blanket, coats his teeth
and sets his nerves on fire, and this is the moment Harry realises that there is a Horcrux in the
house, behind the drab door through which Kreacher has appeared.

Harry forces himself to breathe and pay attention to what the adults are saying. Luckily,
Sirius is still arguing with the elf.

“Kreature doesn’t have to listen to half-breeds,” the elf mutters, apparently meaning Remus.
“My poor Mistress, my poor Master Regulus-“

“I am your Master now. And as your Master…”

But Harry is not listening anymore. He needs to get out of here. He needs to think.

“Bathroom,” he blurts out and races back upstairs.

***

Harry slams his door shut and leans against it in relief. It’s okay. He is okay. Now… What can
he do? A fang! He dives for his trunk and rummages through it, shoes and shirts and socks
flying everywhere, until he finds what he needs. He’s got a bunch of them - just like
Hermione - although he is sure she doesn’t keep them stuffed in socks like he does. He puts
one in the pocket of his hoodie. Alright. What’s next? He could tell the adults… But what if
they don’t take him seriously? They will very likely just laugh. No. Kreacher must know.
What is a Horcrux doing here anyway? Which one is it? What if it is some other one that
Harry doesn’t know about? If so, how many more might there be? No. There is no point
worrying about it right now. All that matters is that there is a Horcrux in the house and Harry
needs to destroy it. He needs to wait. He needs to talk to Kreacher. He needs Hermione. He’s
never destroyed one without Hermione. But he can’t wait that long. And he can’t even write
to her. Hedwig is with her now. He will have to do it on his own. Somehow. Without getting
overwhelmed.
A knock on the door interrupts his frantic thoughts and Sirius pokes his head in a moment
later.

“Is everything alright, pup?” Sirius’s eyes dart around the room, and only now Harry notices
the mess he’s made. He gets up from the floor, summons all the stray things back into his
trunk and shuts the lid with his foot.

“Yeah,” he tries to look sheepish instead of agitated. “I thought I forgot something. But it’s
fine. Sorry.” Thankfully, Sirius doesn’t ask any more questions.

“Remus thinks you might want to go out, see what’s around. We can walk along the canal,
grab some lunch…”

Harry lights up. “Yeah. It’s a brilliant idea!”

Now all he needs to do is stay out as long as possible, exhaust the adults, wait until they fall
asleep, find the Horcrux, possibly stun Kreacher in the process, and destroy the said Horcrux
without letting it possess him. Job done. A piece of cake.

***

The further away from Grimmauld Place they are, the cleaner the streets get, and Harry’s
mind seems to clear too. He doesn’t forget that a Horcrux is waiting for him in the house - a
Basilisk fang that is still in his pocket is a good reminder of that - but he manages to keep his
focus on the here and now. They walk along the canal, and Harry studies the colourful - and
sometimes rude - graffiti on the walls, and reads the names on little boats. Shark Bait, Carpe
Diem, The Wanderer, Aquamarine 2. He wonders what happened to the original Aquamarine
when yet another whiff of weed hits his nose.

“Blegh.” His face scrunches up in disgust.

“Mmm,” Sirius sighs at the same time. “Do you think we can buy some from them, Moony?
Remember the old days?”

Harry is pretty sure that Sirius is joking, although the longing in his eyes looks real. To his
shock, the look on Remus’s face is not much different.

“I don’t know how people can smoke something that smells so vile,” Harry says, incredulous,
eyes moving between the two men.

Remus chuckles. “Don’t worry. I won’t let your godfather get smashed.”

“It would help you with the pain,” Sirius sounds exactly like a devil on one’s shoulder might.

“Just like the potions do,” Remus cuts off and throws a sideways glance at Harry, who takes
the hint. No asking about pain potions.

Another scent hits Harry’s nose and it’s mouthwateringly good this time.

“Whatever this is,” he says, mostly to change the topic. “I want it.”
“Oh, the joys of street food,” Sirius claps him on the back. “I’m up for it.”

They take the steps to a square, and Harry’s eyes dart between different stalls. It’s not just
food but art and accessories and books and there’s a man playing the guitar, his fingers
moving so quickly that, surely, magic must be involved. Harry wishes he had some muggle
change in his pockets. A train rattles past somewhere behind the houses, people are laughing,
children are running, burgers are sizzling on a grill, and the sun is shining brightly giving
everything a golden hue. There is so much life. So much life but Hermione isn’t here. Instead
of letting himself go all maudlin, Harry tells himself that it’s another thing to put on the list,
something else to look forward to. Next time he is here, he decides, he will be holding
Hermione’s hand.

***

They eat tacos and Harry’s mouth tingles pleasantly with its flavour. They walk from stall to
stall and Sirius gets excited like a child while Remus quietly takes everything in with a gentle
smile. Sirius buys a black wristband with a creepy eye in the middle and immediately adds it
to the others already hanging on his wrist. He keeps on asking Harry if he wants anything,
and Harry keeps on refusing because Sirius has already bought him food and lemonade and
Harry isn’t used to people spending money on him. He keeps on saying no until he tries on a
leather jacket at Sirius’s insistence and looks in the mirror. It’s a bit big but it does look cool.
Sirius steps up to him, and Harry notices that his godfather’s jacket is similar to the one
Harry is trying on. It feels nice, like they are a team.

“Let’s get it, pup,” Sirius says. “What’s the point of being loaded if you can’t spend your
money on the people you care about?” Harry can’t help but smile and nod. People you care
about.

He keeps the jacket on. He explains it to himself with the fact that It’s dusk and, without the
sun, the air turns cool. On the way back, they pause to listen to a street band, and Sirius sings
along to a song Harry has never heard. People are gathering, dancing, clapping, drinking, and
shouting jovially, and Sirius pulls him out of the crowd and towards the canal again. Boats, lit
up from the inside, bob up and down on the water like massive lanterns. A cat runs past, the
bell on its collar jingling merrily. A woman with dark eyes and a floral shawl over her
shoulders is walking from person to person, looking at their palms and muttering something
with urgency that doesn’t fit the mood of this place. Harry doesn’t like her. He slows down to
hide behind the adults’ backs, but she catches his eye and barges past the people in the way,
making a line for Harry. She grabs his hand, casts the briefest of glances at his palm and
cackles. Sirius looks furious. He goes to grab her wrist but the woman lets go and jumps
back, pointing a finger at Harry.

“Your love will kill you,” she cackles again and walks away, likely to bother somebody else.
Harry feels frozen in place though, and it’s only when Sirius slings an arm over his shoulder
that he comes out of his trance.

“What a whacko,” Sirius laughs and pulls Harry along. “Come on, pup. Let’s get home.”

Harry smiles automatically and tries to shake off the uneasiness the woman has left with him.
Your love will kill you. What an odd thing to say.
***

The townhouse is dark and quiet, has been so for a while, and Harry reckons he’s waited long
enough. Initially, he was planning to break into Kreacher’s den, stun the elf and quickly deal
with the Horcrux, but he is awfully curious about how Kreacher came to possess a piece of
Voldemort’s soul. His best guess is that Tom Riddle entrusted a member of the Black family
with it and now, with all of them being gone, the elf has taken charge. However, it is just that,
a guess, and Harry longs to know the truth.

“Kreacher,” he whispers into the dark while sitting on the edge of his bed. Sirius said that he
ordered his elf to obey Harry, so it’s worth a try. And if things go south, Harry can always go
with plan A.

A door bangs downstairs, and Harry can only hope that the others are deeply asleep. It feels
like forever before the old elf appears in his doorway, muttering profanities under his breath.

“What does nasty Potter brat require from Kreacher?”

Harry points his wand and casts a privacy charm, and Kreacher cringes away from it as if he
expected to be the spell’s target.

“Kreacher,” Harry says confidently. “I want you to tell me about the Horcrux in your den.”

Kreacher narrows his eyes, bares his teeth and screeches, his voice full of menace. “Kreacher
knew it! Kreacher could sense the darkness in this filthy half-blood! Kreacher will not let
Potter boy return Master Reguluses’s locket to the Dark Lord. Kreacher will kill you!
Kreacher will kill you! Kreacher will…”

Harry’s wand is at the ready but no matter how hard Kreacher tries to lunge at Harry, some
strange magic is stopping him from doing so. The elf is struggling against it, clawing at the
floor and twisting as if bound by restraints, but he doesn’t get any closer.

Harry lowers his wand and prays that the Privacy Charm he cast is strong enough.

“Kreacher, stop!” The elf doesn’t react and Harry raises his voice even more. “I don’t want to
take it back to Voldemort! I want to destroy it!”

Kreacher stills and looks up at Harry with bulging eyes.

“Kreacher has tried everything,” the elf whines. “Master Regulus ordered Kreacher to destroy
the locket but Kreacher let him down. Kreacher is a bad elf. Bad bad bad bad-“ Harry gets off
the bed and comes closer, stilling when he is just out of reach.

“I know how to destroy it,” he says earnestly, then adds, “You can destroy it. You can be a
good elf for your Master Regulus.” And maybe it’s cruel to manipulate the elf like that but
Harry doesn’t know if he is capable of doing it by himself, knowing how badly he gets
affected. He doesn’t know what will happen if he touches the locket without Hermione.
Besides, this is what Kreacher wants.

“What does Kreacher need to do?” The elf looks up at him with watery eyes.
“Bring it here.” His voice is a command, and this time Kreacher doesn’t hesitate. He pops out
of the room and back in within seconds, Slytherin’s Locket dangling from his fingers, and the
pull of it makes Harry’s breath catch. Harry only needs to come closer, he only needs to touch
it, and his soul will be whole again. He stretches his hand out, his fingertips mere inches
away, but Kreacher snatches it away and hisses like a wild cat.

“You say Kreacher can do it!” Harry’s mind clears enough to leap back, all the way to the
bed, enough to grab the basilisk fang from the bedside table and throw it to the elf, who
snatches it from the air with surprising dexterity.

“Stab it,” Harry grits through his teeth, crawling backwards on his bed until his back hits the
wall, until he is as far away from the locket as he can possibly be without leaving the room.

Kreacher doesn’t hesitate even for a fraction of a second. He places the locket on the carpeted
floor and raises his skinny arms, fang gripped in both hands, ready to strike. Only the
Horcrux senses the threat and falls open with a click, and pulses with life - Harry can feel it
like a blast, and the hairs on the back of his neck rise. A dark-haired man rises from the
locket, and, at first, Harry thinks it’s young Tom Riddle, but his features are not right even
though the man is just as handsome.

“You failed me,” the man says in a cold deep voice that rumbles through Harry’s bones, and
Kreacher falls to the floor, weeping. “I died for you and you failed me. You are pathetic. You
disgrace this noble house.”

“Kreacher is sorry, Master. Kreacher has tried.” The elf is kneeling on the floor, his hands -
still holding the fang - clutched to his chest, his ugly face twisted in remorse. “Kreacher will
take his punishment!”

“The only fitting punishment for you is death!” The man points at the fang clutched in
Kreacher’s shaking hands, and the elf looks down, and then back at his Master, his eyes
terrified.

“Do it,” the man, Regulus, Harry guesses, commands, and Kreacher turns the fang until it’s
pointing directly at his heart.

“No!” Harry shouts, his wand pointed at the fang ready to summon it back. “Kreacher, this is
not your master Regulus, this is the Horcrux! Stab it! This is what your real Master Regulus
wanted!”

The man turns to look at Harry, and its shape morphs into Hermione but the features are
sharper and Harry has never seen such a cruel twist to her mouth before. The impostor opens
its mouth but the only thing that comes out is a piercing scream as the illusion gets sucked
back into the locket with a familiar hiss, black substance bubbling out of the locket. The fang
falls from the elf’s hands and Kreacher sobs, his head buried in his knees, his giant ears
tremble and narrow shoulders shake.

Kreacher’s done it. It’s gone. Another Horcrux is gone, leaving only one.
Harry rubs his sweaty palms on his trousers and gets off the bed on shaky legs. He kneels
next to Kreacher and tentatively rests his hand on a bony shoulder.

“You did it, Kreacher. Your Master Regulus would be so proud of you.”

The elf launches himself at Harry, throws his arms around Harry’s neck, and continues to sob
loudly into his shirt.

Harry pats him on the back awkwardly while trying to calm down his own racing heart. This
could’ve gone horribly wrong. It didn’t though. So everything is fine.

Harry looks at the gross black mess on the carpet and quickly casts a cleaning charm to reveal
a sizeable hole underneath.

Now this will be tricky to explain come morning. The thought startles a laugh out of Harry.

Who cares about some hole in the carpet when he and Hermione are so close to ending it all?
 Chapter 35
Chapter Notes

Remember how I said there might be less than 40 chapters? Now I think that there might
be a few more than that :D

4th April, 1993

Harry spends half the night talking to Kreacher and another half tossing and turning and
trying to get used to the sounds of an unfamiliar home. The house seems alive. Floorboards
creak somewhere upstairs, something rustles, a branch scratches against the window, water
rushes through pipes, and they moan with age… Harry covers his head with a pillow and
wishes for Hermione. He would’ve cast a Silencing Charm but he doesn’t feel safe enough
just yet. What if something happens? What if somebody approaches and he doesn’t hear? He
remembers meaty hands jerking him out of his sleep and pulling him roughly out of bed all
too well.

Harry groans, rubs his eyes furiously and swings his legs over the side of the bed. He goes to
the bathroom, and when he comes out, there is a violet tint to the previously dark sky. He
decides that it’s enough to call it morning and, having put a jumper on over his pyjamas,
Harry trods quietly down the stairs.

A few hours later, when Sirius comes into the kitchen, the table is laid with breakfast goods
and Harry and Kreacher are chatting amicably. Sirius stops in his tracks as if Petrified, his
eyes bulging.

“What-“ is all he manages to say and Harry chuckles.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he explains. “So I came down here and -“

Remus steps into the kitchen then, rubbing his eyes. He walks around Sirius and blindly falls
into one of the chairs.

“Morning,” he rasps, opening his eyes properly and looking around. The surprise on his face
isn’t as pronounced as on Sirius’s but it’s there.

“Who made all this?” Remus asks as Sirius approaches the table and sits down too. Kreacher
places a cup of coffee in front of him and a cup of something else - steaming and smelling
strongly of herbs - in front of Remus.

“Thank you, Kreacher,” Remus says, clearly bewildered.

“Err… as I was saying,” Harry tries again, feeling a bit uneasy under the men’s stairs. “I
couldn’t sleep and Kreacher taught me how to make puff pastry.” Harry points at a platter
towering with a selection of Danish pastries.

Sirius twists in his chair to look at his elf. “You taught my godson how to bake?”

“Master Harry reminds Kreacher of his poor Master Regulus.” The elf explains as he floats
the dishes from the counter and into the sink.

“Master Harry,” Remus repeats, still bewildered.

“Have I woken up in a different dimension?” Sirius asks looking around. “Everything

looks… lighter.”

Harry takes a sip of his tea, hiding his grin behind the mug. Sirius has no idea. Having a
vicious Horcrux in the building can’t have been good for anybody’s mood or for the
atmosphere in the house itself.

Harry picks up a pastry and takes a bite. It melts in his mouth and he hums in pleasure.
Hermione would love these.

“Hey, Kreacher, do you have a little box I can put one of these in?” Harry asks while
demonstratively lifting his pastry a bit higher in the air.

Kreacher snaps his fingers and a paper box appears right in front of Harry.

“Cool. Thanks, Kreacher, you’re the best!” Harry beams at the elf. He ignores the stares and
busies himself with placing a pastry of his choosing in the box and casting a preservation
charm on it. He’ll send it to Hermione with his next letter.

“Definitely a different dimension,” Sirius mutters.

“Enjoy it while you can,” Harry suggests, taking another sip of tea.

“He’s got a point,” Remus agrees and pierces a sausage with his fork. “You,” he points the
sausage at Harry, “have got some very special magic.”

“Lily was like that too. One couldn’t help but love her.” Harry’s face goes warm.

“James had a bit of that too.”

“James was like Marmite. People either loved him or hated him.”

“No one stayed indifferent, that’s for sure…”

Harry relaxes into listening to the two men reminisce about the past. He learns that his dad
saved a girl's cat when it got stuck somewhere on the roof in the thunderstorm. However, he
also learns that James set a boy’s tie on fire in the middle of the Great Hall, for which he was
in detention for a week. He took a shy girl that other students bullied to Hogsmeade as a date
to help her out but he also stripped another girl down to her underwear while still in class
because she was being nasty. Harry doesn’t ask how long that detention lasted.

“You see,” Sirius explains, “your dad had a strong sense of what was right and what was
wrong. He took it upon himself to correct the wrongs.”

“Only he wasn’t always right. He did make Snape’s life hell.”

“And he adopted Peter into our group because he felt sorry for him, and look how that turned
out.”

Solemn silence descends upon the room, and the only sound that Harry can hear is the
clinking of dishes as they wash themselves.

“Snape said that my dad changed. That he became a good man,” Harry prompts, wanting to
hear more.

“Did he actually say that?” Sirius asks, shocked, and Remus chuckles noticing the expression
on his friend’s face.

“We’ve all changed,” Remus’s eyes crinkle in the corners, “apart from Sirius, that is.” Sirius
throws his half-eaten pastry at Remus, who dodges and laughs silently, but the merriment
disappears from his eyes after just a moment. “There was war. Plus Lily was a huge influence
on him.”

“And then his parents died after contracting Dragon Pox,” Sirius adds.

“Just after James and Lily’s wedding.”

“They never even got to meet you, pup.”

“You were the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Do you know that I’ve given you your very first broomstick?”

“You would zoom around the garden-“

“Lily was so worried you’d hit a tree-“

“You never did though-“

“You did get stuck in a hydrangea that one time.”

Both men laugh and Harry feels all soft and warm, and his eyes grow hot.

“We were spoiling you rotten. There was so much love in that house…” Remus says with a
wistful smile.

Harry looks down and sniffs, and, a moment later, wiry arms wrap around him.

“I know we don’t know each other very well but we love you, pup.”
A warm hand falls on his head. “We do. I’m sorry we weren’t there for you.” Remus
apologises with feeling. “I should have-“

“We are now,” Sirius interrupts.

Harry doesn’t know how to take this. He wants to melt into the men’s embrace and to cry for
the boy he could’ve been and for the life he could have had, but he can’t.

“I’m sorry.” His voice cracks. He extricates himself from their arms and escapes to his room.
Why is pain so much easier to take than love?

He curls on his bed and lets himself cry. And then, finally, he sleeps.

***

When he wakes up, it’s already dark outside. He casts a Lumus and blinks at the bright light.
When his eyes get used to it, he notices a steaming cup on his bedside table. It smells like
camomile.

Remus and Sirius told Harry they loved him and he ran away and disappeared for the rest of
the day. And they brought him tea. Harry picks the cup up and takes a sip. With honey. His
heart does something strange and fluttery in his chest.

Harry needs to explain why he left like that to the men. No, he wants to explain. He turns the
light on in the room with a flick of his wand and looks around, his eyes catching on the
Gryffindor banner on the wall. He is a Gryffindor.

No fear.

He gets up and goes to look for the adults.

***

It doesn’t take long until he finds Sirius and Remus sitting on the sofa in the library. His
godfather is resting his head in his hands and Remus has got his hand on Sirius’s back,
stroking and murmuring something softly.

Harry clears his throat and both men look up. Sirius’s eyes are red but Harry hopes that he is
simply tired.

“How are you feeling, Harry?” Remus asks in his gentle way.

Harry shrugs and walks into the room, stopping just short of the sofa.

“I want to tell you something,” Harry says, looking down. He pulls at his sleeves until they
cover his fingers. He has an urge to close his eyes. Gryffindor, he reminds himself again. No
fear. He looks up to see concerned glances. He swallows.

“The Dursleys abused me.” When the men’s eyes go wide and their mouths fall open as if to
start bombarding Harry with questions, he automatically takes a step back and wraps his arms
around himself. “Just listen, okay?” he pleads. Remus nods slowly and Sirius just stares.

“It wasn’t anything horrible. It was more like neglect.” Harry shrugs again and looks away
but then forces himself to resume eye contact. “The main thing is, they didn’t love me. That’s
why I’m not very good at this.” He gestures at the men awkwardly, and then at himself. “I’m
good with Hermione, but it’s different. Snape is the only adult I’m close with and he sucks at
feelings too.” The thought makes Harry smile. “Mrs. Weasley hugged me a couple of
times…” his voice trails off and he shrugs yet again. “I like you both,” Harry looks at Sirius
and then at Remus apologetically, “but it’s not easy,” he finishes and hopes that it’s enough.

“Thank you for telling us.” Remus is the first to speak.

Sirius takes a bit longer though, but what he says makes Harry feel all warm again. “My
family was rubbish too, so I get it. If you ever want to talk about anything, I’m here. But I’m
never going to pressure you. Neither of us will. Right, Moony?”

“Right,” Remus smiles and Harry smiles back although it’s a bit shaky.

“Now,” Sirius claps his hands on his thighs, “how about some dinner? You must be hungry.”

“Starving,” Harry grins, glad for the change of subject.

They do bombard Harry with questions over their plates of carbonara and vegetables but they
are all about his friends and Hermione and school life and Quidditch, and Harry doesn’t
mind, not one bit.

***

5th April, 1993

Hey soulmate,

I’m sorry I left so abruptly on Saturday. I really didn’t want to cry in front of everybody. I
thought I’d go to the Room of Requirement but halfway there I realised that it was our room
and that being there without you felt wrong. So, I ended up hiding in my bed, where Lavender
found me and decided to cheer me up with a makeover as is her way. It turned out rather fun
in the end. She got a bunch of girls from different years together, and we exchanged clothes,
turned the wireless on and had a fashion show just for us girls. To be honest, I was quite
annoyed in the beginning and I didn’t expect to enjoy myself. But I did! I guess I don’t always
know what’s good for me.

I’ve also found out that the girls in my dorm have noticed that I don’t sleep in my bed, they
just haven’t told anyone. It made me appreciate them so much more. I’ve always thought that
Lavender was shallow and such a gossip too. It appears that she can keep a secret. They all
can. Do you think the boys know?

Professor Snape has given me a very interesting book. It’s so thick and heavy that one could
possibly kill with it. There is something I’ve learned. Something I’d like to talk to you about.
But I can’t do it in a letter, so it will have to wait until you are back. I don’t think you’ll like it
very much… Anyway, I’ll tell you later.

I miss you terribly. I’ve forgotten how to sleep by myself it seems. I toss and I turn and I
reach out in the darkness of the room… but you are not there. But I’m truly happy that you
are with Sirius and Remus. I don’t want you to feel bad for being away.

You deserve to have a family and I hope that they can become yours.

I love you.

Be safe.

Yours,

Hermione

Harry sniffs the parchment and instantly feels stupid. But then he sniffs it again because
Hermione smells a little bit like parchment sometimes. Like paper and ink and library books.
He closes his eyes. He breathes. He puts the letter under the pillow. They are going out now
but he will reply as soon as he can.

Hedwig hoots from her perch in Harry’s room.

“I just miss her, girl,” Harry tells his owl. “I miss her so very much.”

***

6th April, 1993

“Where’s Remus?” Harry asks when Remus doesn’t show up for dinner. He wasn’t here at
lunch either.

“He’s gone to check up on his flat. He’ll be back sometime tomorrow.” Something about
Sirius’s smile makes Harry think that there is more to it than that.

“He didn’t look very well this morning,” Harry says, fishing for more information.

“He’s got a condition,” Sirius explains reluctantly. “It’s nothing serious though and he doesn’t
want you to worry.”

“Oh,” is all Harry says. Doesn’t he trust Harry? Or is it something really bad that Sirius
doesn’t want to tell him about? Whatever it is, Harry decides not to push. He knows what it’s
like to have a secret. Remus will tell him in his own time. If he wants to.

***

Harry is standing in front of the Black family tapestry tracing lines with his index finger. He
circles it around the burn marks - the people who have been blasted off - and reads some
names out loud - Lycoris, Hesper, Callidora, Cygnus - until he finds the Malfoys. He still
hasn’t asked Sirius whether he’d want to help Narcissa and Draco out. There’s still time.

Harry knows that Voldemort is planning to break the prisoners out of Azkaban with the first
heatwave when the Dementors are at their weakest. They are the creatures of cold and
desperation after all. And Narcissa is planning to get the Cup out of Bellatrix’s Vault just
before then. The summer is not that far off though, so Harry really should-

“I see you are admiring my family tree,” Sirius says derisively. Harry ignores his godfather’s
tone, his finger still at the Malfoy’s.

“I am kind of friends with Draco,” Harry volunteers. “Or I used up be.”

“That’s… surprising,” Sirius responds after a moment of silence. Harry hears him sip
something and swallow. He doesn’t turn to look.

“What do you think about Narcissa?” He asks.

“Narcissa?” Sirius sounds a bit surprised. “We’ve suffered through enough family gatherings
together I suppose… She was smart and she thought she was better than anybody else. She
was lazy too. I remember she wanted to marry somebody rich and influential and never have
to lift a finger. I guess she got exactly what she wanted. Why?”

Harry turns to look at Sirius and hopes that Draco doesn’t hate him for this. “I think Lucius
Malfoy abuses them. I saw him hurt Draco on a couple of occasions, and there were some
things that Draco said…”

Sirius looks a bit sad but he only shrugs. “It was Narcissa’s choice.”

Harry tenses up. “It wasn’t Draco’s.”

“What do you want me to do?” Sirius bristles.

“Can you get in touch with her? Like, say that she can have shelter with you if she wants to?”

Sirius laughs and Harry doesn’t see what’s so funny.

“This is one of the first things I did, kid. You know what she said? That she did not want to
have anything to do with blood traitors.”

Harry feels taken aback. He thought that, surely, she’d seek safety, if not for herself then for
her son.

Sirius seems to notice the look on Harry’s face because he says, “They are not like us, Harry.
They are not… like us.”

***

7th April, 1993

Hey right back to you soulmate,

Things are good here. And weird. Confusing.

Sirius and Remus seem to genuinely care about me. We’ve been out a couple of times. Sirius
took me shopping. I think he is trying to make up for the lost time. We talk a lot. Remus and
Sirius share stories and they ask me questions about me like they are actually interested in
what my favourite food is and what subject at school I excel at. It’s strange. I’m not used to it.
I’ve told them a bit about my life before Hogwarts. They looked upset but they didn’t push me
or make me feel weird. It was… a relief.

The last twenty-four hours have been odd in a totally different way though. Remus didn’t look
all that well yesterday morning, and then he disappeared for more than a day. Sirius went out
for a couple of hours today leaving me with Kreacher, which was fine, but when he returned,
he was so upset. And he started drinking. He drank a bit yesterday too but it was nothing this
bad. He started shouting and breaking things and I didn’t know what to do. Thankfully,
Remus came home and he swore a lot and kinda wrestled Sirius upstairs. Remus came down
later, after Sirius fell asleep, and told me that Sirius has therapy every week and that it makes
him act funny sometimes.

I know that Sirius has been through a lot but… It made me want to leave. I was so desperate
to go back to you, I nearly asked Remus. But then I started thinking about what it might do to
Sirius and began to write this letter instead.

I… Merlin, Hermione, I want to be with you so very much. But I also want to be here. Despite
everything that has happened, I want to give this a chance. I don’t want to run away.

I’m glad that you are spending time with the girls. Have I been monopolising too much of
your time? There are some things that I can’t give you. Like, I won’t be any good in a fashion
show, I’m sure.

I miss you terribly. I want you to be here, with me. Oh, and I’ve also got something to tell you
but can’t do it in a letter.

I love you. More than anything in this world.

Always yours,

Harry

Harry folds the letter and ties it to Hedwig’s leg together with the pastry that he saved, and
watches her glide out of the window and into the sky.

He wishes he could fly away too.

 Chapter 36

11th April, 1993

Harry is not in a good mood. It’s been four days since he sent his letter to Hermione and she
hasn’t replied yet. He is annoyed at Sirius’s cheerfulness and conspiratorial glances he keeps
on sharing with Remus. He doesn’t care for Easter or chocolate eggs or the roast that
Kreacher is working on, although it does smell pretty good.

“Go make yourself useful,” Sirius says, handing Harry a mountain of plates.

“Is anybody else coming apart from the Tonks?” Harry met them earlier this week albeit
briefly.

“You never know,” Sirius waves his hand at Harry dismissively and turns away, but not
before Harry sees a hint of a smile on his face. His godfather is plotting something and Harry
doesn’t like it.

He dutifully takes the plates to the dining room though and then stops to gaze out of the
window. Still no Hedwig. He sighs and is about to go back down into the kitchen when
somebody knocks on the front door.

“Harry! Can you get the door?” Sirius shouts from the kitchen.

Harry doesn’t think anything of it, his mind busy worrying about Hermione. He was worried
during their Christmas break too, when Hedwig was a couple of days late, but it was just a
snowstorm. There must be a reason too now.

He turns the handle and swings the door open. And freezes. He expected to see Tonks with
her bubblegum pink hair or Andromeda with her signature Black features or the plain but
kind face of her husband Ted. What he didn’t expect was to see Snape in muggle jeans and a
Bowie T-shirt, holding a bottle of wine.

“I know it must be challenging, Potter, with your atrocious upbringing… but even you should
know that it is polite to invite your guests inside the house.”

Harry doesn’t have a chance to reply because a blur of brown pushes past the Professor and
engulfs Harry in a tight embrace, and the force of it makes him take a couple of steps back to
save them from falling.

“Hermione?” Her name comes out in a question although he knows it’s her. How could he not
when his whole body sings at the contact?

She lifts her face and Harry kisses her without thinking, and it’s like a gulp of much-needed
fresh air. He rests his forehead on hers and closes his eyes only to snap them back open again
and move away just enough to be able to look at her.
“I was getting worried,” he accuses.

“I know, I’m so sorry. Sirius wrote a letter to Professor Snape and he suggested that he should
bring me with, and my parents too if they wanted, so I had to send Hedwig with a letter to
them first, and then I thought that it would be amazing if I could surprise you but then a
realised that you’d probably be cross with me for not responding but it was too late-“

Harry puts a finger on her lips and grins. “It’s okay,” he tells her and she kisses his finger
before he moves his hand to tuck her hair behind her ear. “I missed you.”

“Aww,” Sirius’s voice comes from behind him. “Young love.”

Harry remembers that Snape is there too, only when he takes a step away and looks around,
he realises that it’s not just Sirius and Snape. Hermione’s parents are here too, watching them
with amused grins. Harry’s face goes hot. He’s just kissed Hermione in front of Mr and Mrs
Granger. Is he allowed to do that? Harry has no idea how he is supposed to behave in front of
them. The only thing he knows is that there is no way he is leaving Hermione’s side right
now.

“Err… hi Mr Granger, Mrs Granger,” he gives them an awkward wave, his other hand still on
Hermione’s waist. “Professor Snape,” he smiles with more confidence at the man. “You are
the last person I expected to see.”

Sirius steps closer to him and puts his hand on Harry’s shoulder.

“When you said that Sniv- Severus here is the most important adult in your life, I felt like it
was reasonable to invite him to lunch, get to know the man my godson so admires.” Snape
looks at Harry as if he is… pleased? Proud? Sometimes it’s hard to tell with Snape.

“Well, you chose to go and get yourself arrested, Black…” Snape drawls. “Somebody had to
look out for the kid.”

Sirius holds his palm to his heart and pretends to swoon. “Low blow, Snape,” he chuckles
and, to Harry’s surprise, he steps up to the Professor, shakes his hand, accepts the wine and
compliments his T-shirt, then moves to the Grangers.

“It’s an honour to finally meet the parents of this amazing young lady.” He lowers his voice
and continues in a loud whisper, “Harry is so smitten.”

“I’m gonna show Hermione my room,” Harry declares before Sirius can embarrass him any
further. He takes Hermione by the hand and pulls her towards the stairs.

“Keep the door open!” Sirius shouts after them and guffaws when Harry looks back just to
make a face at his godfather. He thinks about shutting the door just to spite him but decides to
leave it open in the end, just a tiny crack.

***

They snuggle on Harry’s bed and catch up in quiet voices. Hermione shares the latest school
gossip and Harry tells her what living with Sirius and Remus has been like. They touch each
other’s faces with tender fingers and Hermione’s hands travel under Harry’s jumper like they
often do. Harry is so overjoyed, so full, so complete, just lying there and breathing in sync
that he nearly forgets to tell her about Kreacher and the Horcrux. It seems like such a long
time ago now. Hermione has got a frown on her face and her bottom lip is trapped between
her teeth when Harry finishes speaking. He feels guilty for putting this expression on her
face. He kisses the crease between her eyebrows and when it doesn’t have any effect, he
smoothes it out with a finger.

“Hermione, I’m fine.”

“But what if you weren’t.”

“But I am.”

“But-“

He stops her, pressing his lips to hers. Because it’s a pointless argument. He already knows
he’s been reckless and he is fine. Hermione kisses him back, and there is desperation behind
it, and fear. Harry wants to kiss it right off her.

“I’ll kill you myself one day,” she promises when they come up for air, but then a peculiar
look comes over her face.

Your love will kill you. Harry gives a nervous laugh.

“You reminded me. On my first day here, this crazy wo-“

A loud crack echoes against the walls and makes them jump.

“Master Harry, Kreacher was asked to inform you and your Miss that lunch is about to be
served.”

“Thanks, Kreacher!” Harry’s smile is a bit strained because his heart is beating wildly in his
chest, but the elf doesn’t seem to care as he bows and pops away. Harry tries to remember
what he meant to tell Hermione but then decides that it is probably nothing important.

“We’d better go.” Harry gets off the bed, holds his hand out to Hermione and pulls her up.

“You know, everybody will know exactly what we’ve been up to,” she says with a teasing
smile.

“What, talking about Horcruxes and arguing about me putting myself in dangerous
situations?”

She looks at his lips pointedly, which makes Harry look at hers, bright red and swollen from
all the kissing.

“Oh,” he says and then grins. “I guess it won’t matter if we do it some more.” He leans down
again.
“We’ll be late,” Hermione argues but she still rises on her tiptoes and meets him halfway.
Their lips barely brush when she twists away and runs out of the room.

“Race you!” She shouts, laughing. Harry grins and runs to catch up. Merlin, he missed her.

***

They burst through the door to the dining room, Hermione a step ahead.

“I win”, she proclaims but the laughter dies in her throat. Harry reckons it doesn’t help that
everybody is already at the table and staring, including the Tonks, whom Hermione hasn’t
met yet.

“Umm, hi,” she gives the room a weak smile. Harry takes her hand and gives her fingers a
reassuring squeeze. He is a bit nervous too, but this is his family, kind of, maybe, and he
wants to draw the attention away from Hermione.

“Hullo, Andy, Ted…” he grins wickedly when he looks at their pink-haired daughter,
“Nymph-“

“Don’t you dare! I’ll hex you!”

Sirius guffaws and Harry, as they take their seats, quickly explains to Hermione how Tonks
hates her given name.

“Why did I end up seated between two children?” Snape, who now has Harry on one side and
Tonks on the other, complains with mock distaste.

“Hey! I’m twenty years old!” Tonks exclaims, annoyed. However, she then smiles
mischievously and morphs into an old lady. “Better?”

“Much,” Snape deadpans just as the food appears seemingly out of nowhere like it does in
the Great Hall. Hermione’s parents gasp, and Sirius takes this opportunity to tell them about
house elves and how magical households work.

“No fridge?” Mr. Granger looks like somebody just announced the end of the world. “No
microwave?”

“What’s a microwave?” Tonks asks.

Sirius and Remus take turns answering the Grangers’ multiple questions and Snape ends up
giving Tonks an introductory course on muggle appliances. Nobody is paying them any mind
it seems, and Harry and Hermione relax into being their normal selves. They move their
chairs closer together and they talk softly and they touch like they normally do - Harry’s hand
on her knee, Hermione’s lips against his ear, whispering, feet playing under the table…

When Harry finishes his dessert and sees that Hermione still has some on her plate, he scoops
some with his spoon and stuffs it in his mouth as quickly as he can.

“Hey! That’s mine!”

“Not anymore.” Harry darts his tongue out at her. It takes him by complete surprise when
Hermione pounces on him and licks his mouth with a flat tongue, icy cold from eating ice
cream.

“Gross,” he whines, wiping his face with his sleeve while Hermione is folded in half, her
whole body shaking with laughter. If they were alone, Harry would pin her down and tickle
her until she surrendered. But they are not alone and, speaking of other people, why is
everybody so quiet?

“Serves you right,” Hermione says, straightening up, just as Harry dares to look around the
table. Everybody’s staring at them, amusement in their eyes.

Hermione gives a tiny squeak.

“Sorry,” she apologises. “I forgot where we were.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen a boy and a girl this much at ease with each other,” Andromeda
observes, and although her face is serious, she doesn’t sound judgemental, just curious. Harry
has no idea how to respond to her comment.

“These two have been joined at the hip since day one,” Snape comes to their rescue, and
Harry throws him a grateful glance, then - with some help from Hermione - tells everybody
the story of how they met on Hogwarts Express, Pansy Parkinson and dung bombs included.

“Nothing else connects people like pranks,” Sirius says sagely. “Right, Moony?”

Harry takes Hermione’s hand and relaxes into listening to more stories.

***

The adults get a bit too merry with drink. That is, everyone apart from Snape, who volunteers
to Apparete everybody to their respective houses, which gives Harry and Hermione a few
moments to say goodbye.

“You could stay here and not tell anyone,” Harry suggests, only half-joking.

“Maybe Professor Snape forgets to come back for me.”

The front door opens, and Snape and Sirius step back in, Remus having gone upstairs some
time ago claiming to be exhausted.

“Or maybe not.” Hermione deadpans and Harry snorts.

“What’s so funny?” Sirius’s words blur into one but his eyes look clear.

“We were hoping Professor Snape would go straight back to the castle,” Harry explains.

“I would,” Snape drawls, “but I am too scared of Minerva. She would have my head if I
returned without her best student.”
Hermione blushes at the compliment and peels herself from Harry’s side.

“Thanks for coming. And for bringing Hermione.” Harry smiles genuinely.

“It’s been more pleasurable than I anticipated.” A corner of Snape’s mouth lifts and he ruffles
Harry’s hair and then shakes hands with Sirius.

“Until next time, mongrel.”

“See you around, dungeon bat.”

Harry thinks that the two men getting on is possibly the biggest surprise of the day.

***

When he and Sirius are left alone in the hall, Harry turns to his godfather to give him a quick
hug.

“Thank you,” he says. Sirius sways on his feet a bit and chuckles.

“There’s nothing to thank me for, pup.” Sirius slurs.

“Yes, there is,” Harry argues. Sirius has given him a place that feels like home, he has invited
people who are important to Harry, and he’s even managed to be civil with Snape. He has
charmed the Grangers and said that they were welcome any time and invited Hermione to
stay this summer. He has made Harry feel like he belongs.

Harry doesn’t say any of this though. He runs back to his room, leaving his smiling godfather
in the hallway, and hopes Sirius understands it all without words.

***

It’s only when he is lying in bed that Harry realises that Hermione never said what she
wanted to tell him that she couldn’t put in a letter.

***

16th April, 1993

When the first week at Grimmauld Place seemed to have lasted forever, the second has flown
by in a blink of an eye. And although he misses Hermione just as terribly, a part of him
wishes to stay a bit longer. So, when he packs to go back to Hogwarts, he decides to leave
some things behind - just a few books, some clothes, and the toothbrush - he’s got another
one anyway. He takes the shampoo though. Sirius had bought it for him before Harry arrived
and, by some miracle, it makes his hair stick up a little bit less.

Harry shrinks his trunk and puts it in his pocket, his chest tight.

“You can stay a couple of days longer,” Sirius says from the doorway. “It’s only Friday.”
“Tempting,” Harry smiles. “I promised Hermione to be back today though, and I have barely
done any homework while here.”

“Well,” Sirius says, and Harry thinks he looks a bit nervous. “I’ll see you in summer then?”

“Yeah.” Harry smiles cheekily. “Kreacher will miss me if I don’t come back.”

Sirius steps up to him and gives him a one-armed hug. “I will miss you.” He kisses the top of
Harry’s head before stepping away and Harry is speechless. No adult has ever kissed him.
Ever.

“I’ll miss you too,” he manages to get out in the end, his voice sounding strange to his own
ears.

Harry says a quick goodbye to Remus before Sirius and he leave. Down the worn steps, along
the familiar street, past the window that’s still broken - at least the dead rat is now gone - and
into the dirty alleyway. And although the surroundings haven’t really changed, something
inside Harry did. It’s not a dreary and alien place anymore no matter what it looks like. It is
home.
 Chapter 37
Chapter Notes

Please don't hate me *nervous laughter*

16th April, 1993

When Harry enters the castle just in time for lunch, there is a skip to his step and a smile that
has grown so wide his cheeks hurt. No matter how great a time he’s had, he missed Hogwarts
and his friends and flying and, obviously, Hermione, and he is about to burst with happiness
at being back.

He is trailing his fingers along a stone wall making his way to the Great Hall when, just a
foot short of the entrance, an angry shriek stops him in his tracks. A moment later,
accompanied by jeering and hoots of laughter, a rather wet Pansy Parkinson - is it pumpkin
juice? - runs past him.

Hermione is the first to look up when he walks through the doors and a smirk that she is
wearing morphs into a joyful smile.

“Harry!” She exclaims and heads turn to look at him but he doesn’t see anybody else. Two
seconds is all it takes for his arms to be full of Hermione Granger.

“What have I missed?” Harry asks curiously when they take their seats at the table.

“Pansy spat in Hermione’s drink!” Ron says angrily, his ears red.

“She did what?!”

“She was horrid!” Parvati spits. “She said-“

“Parkinson has been unbearable since you’ve gone, Harry,” Lavender jumps in.

“She called her a Mudblood.“

“Which is nothing new,” Hermione comments dispassionately.

“And then she spat in her juice and said that Hermione should drink it because it was her only
chance to have something pure in her body,” Parvati explains, her mouth twisted in disgust.

“But our Hermione-“ Fred, or maybe George, says.

“-very politely-“
“-declined and said that Pansy could have it back.”

“And she threw the juice right in her face.”

“I wish I’d seen that,” Harry smirks, giving Hermione’s knee a squeeze, then frowns.
“Lavender, what do you mean about Pansy being horrid?”

“Isn’t it obvious? She mostly left Hermione alone because she’s scared of you.”

“Huh?” Lavender and a few others look at him like he’s being slow.

“You prank the people that annoy you. Parkinson must have thought that, as you weren’t
here, she’d be able to get away with being her regular nasty self to Hermione.”

And that, Harry thinks, was a huge mistake.

***

“So what is it that you couldn’t write to me about?” Harry asks the moment he and Hermione
find themselves alone.

Hermione casts a sideways glance at him. “I’ve decided that it doesn’t matter.”

And no matter how much Harry asks, she doesn’t utter a word.

***

23rd April, 1993

It’s surprising how little he had to do. The very next meal, Harry, a glass of pumpkin juice in
hand, purposefully bumped into Parkinson just as she was leaving, spilling liquid down her
top.

“I’m so sorry, Pansy!” He exclaimed apologetically, eyes innocent and wide. "I didn’t see you
there.” Parkinson only growled, her face turning even more puglike, before storming out of
the Hall.

It’s been a week, and so far Parkinson has had the pleasure of being covered in gravy, tomato
juice, fried eggs, fish pie, baked beans… just to name a few, and none of them were Harry’s
doing. Pansy must have annoyed a fair share of people because even Slytherins didn’t come
to her rescue, and Harry saw Draco snigger quite a few times. He even looked at Harry once,
eyes full of mirth, and for a brief moment, it felt like they were friends again. That is, until
Draco turned his pointy nose up and looked away.

Unfortunately, it seems that their fun on Pansy’s behalf is over because Dumbledore has just
got up to make an announcement - Harry thinks he has caught the Headmaster wince as if in
pain but it’s hard to tell for sure.

Dumbledore taps his goblet with a spoon and patiently waits until all the eyes are on him and
the murmurs have died down.
“May I ask that everybody from now on consumes their food and drink at their appointed
tables. If somebody chooses not to do so and a spillage occurs, be it onto the floor or a
person, they will serve detention with Mr Filch. Thank you for your compliance.”

The Great Hall gets filled with boos and complaints, which get quickly shut down by a bang
from Professor McGonagall’s wand accompanied by her stern glare.

“It’s about time,” Hermione says. “I was beginning to feel sorry for her.”

Harry is torn. On the one hand, he knows what it’s like to be on the receiving end of bullying,
but on the other, Pansy has brought it upon herself. And maybe it makes him more like his
dad than he would like to be but, if it protects the people he loves, he doesn’t really care.

***

17th May, 1993

Hermione is hiding something. She is not withdrawn like she was in October, nor is she quiet
or tearful. They still spend every possible moment together. They study, often with other
Gryffindors from their year, and they listen to the music and spend time in the Room of
Requirement. They sleep in the same bed and they talk and they dream and they add to their
list. They snuggle and they kiss and they get carried away sometimes but that’s okay. There is
still that little bit of doubt. What if they don’t have much time left? What if being the Master
of Death means nothing at all? What if it’s just a story? Besides, with everything that has
happened, that is still happening, Harry doesn’t feel very much like a child anymore.

There have been more Death Eater attacks that the Daily Prophet has been very cryptic about.
Their schoolmates have lost parents, relatives and friends. And still, all they can do right now
is wait and pretend that they are just clueless kids. Harry is rubbish at that, waiting. He is
impatient and frustrated and he is confident that there is something Hermione is not telling
him.

“Can’t you just tell me?” He asked a few days ago.

“Can’t you just trust me?” Hermione retorted, exasperation in her voice.

And Harry does. But every Monday when he’s got Quidditch practice, a strange feeling
appears deep in his throat. It was barely noticeable at first, like a yawn that just won’t come.
It’s been getting worse though, and today it comes with pain, like when you swallow a bite
that’s a bit too big. What the hell is she doing?

When Wood announces the end of their practice, Harry doesn’t bother with the changing
room. He races his broom right to the entrance and then marches to the Gryffindor tower
determined to get an explanation out of Hermione.

He feels frustrated with her. They said no more secrets. She promised.

When he steps through the portrait hole, Hermione is in their usual spot, and although her
books are spread out on the table in front of her, she is not studying but sitting with her eyes
closed, hugging her knees to her chest. She looks pale and tired, and she doesn’t even look
when he places the broom on the floor and lowers himself onto the sofa next to her.
Hermione leans into him and sighs. It’s such a relaxed and happy little sound that Harry feels
guilty about what he is going to do.

“Remember Halloween?” Harry asks. “We said no more secrets.” Hermione tenses up and is
about to move away but Harry wraps an arm around her shoulders and pulls her closer. “I
trust you. I know that whatever you are doing is important. But I know that you are doing
something. I can feel it.” A shiver travels down Hermione’s body and Harry feels it through
his. “I think it has something to do with that book you mentioned. I think that Snape is
teaching you something. I also think that you don’t trust me.” She flinches and when she goes
to move away from him, this time he lets her. She looks into his eyes, and Harry has no idea
what she is searching for, but after a minute she takes his hand and says, “Come.”

He does, without question.

***

In the Room, while Harry is sitting on the sofa, Hermione is pacing in front of the fire
nervously, wringing her hands.

“I was worried that you would try and talk me out of it. And that… I’m still worried that you
will see me differently and that you won’t be able to love me anymore. Not like you do now
anyway.” She stops and looks right at him. “Does it mean I don’t trust you?”

Harry isn’t sure if it’s a rhetorical question but he answers anyway. “You don’t trust that I will
love you no matter what.”

“I...” She resumes her pacing. “I think I’m just being a chicken.” A nervous giggle escapes
her.

Harry gets up and takes her by the arms. “Come on, Hermione,” he urges her, “just let it out.”

She takes a deep breath and then blurts out, “Snape has been teaching me Avada Kedavra.”
And this is the last thing Harry expected. His mouth falls open but Hermione doesn’t give
him time to process it or ask any questions. “The Chamber of Secrets, Harry, do you
remember? I asked Snape if it was hard. And he said-“

“Not if you have got enough hate in you. I remember. Hermione, what-”

“I have got enough hate in me, Harry. Professor Snape explained how the curse worked and
engorged a spider. I did it on my very first try. On my first try, Harry! What kind of person
does it make me?”

Harry has no idea why she wants to know how to kill. He’s got a feeling it is not about
protecting herself from Death Eaters but he decides that right this moment it doesn’t matter.
What matters is that Hermione is afraid. She’s afraid that Harry will think she is a horrible
person, and he’s not sure that words will be enough to convince her otherwise. And anyway,
Hermione is the one who is good with words but Harry is all about acting before he can
properly think about it.

He looks to the corner where a large spider has made a home. He takes Hermione by the hand
and leads her closer to it, then gets his wand out of his pocket, the holly one this time, and
points it at the spider. Harry has seen, he has felt Tom cast the curse so many times in his
dreams that he doesn’t even need to think. He gathers all the hate he’s got, not knowing
whom it belongs to, Tom or himself.

“Avada Kedavra.” He says it calmly, confidently, as if he’s done it times before, and Harry is
not at all surprised when a jet of green light hits the spider, and the creature’s legs twitch
before going still. Hermione’s hand flies to her throat.

“Do you feel it too?” Harry asks.

“It’s like it pulls on my soul,” Hermione whispers, her eyelashes wet.

“Do you think any less of me?” Harry asks. Hermione looks startled by the question.

“Of course not!”

“Neither do I.”

She launches herself at him and hugs him so fiercely that all the air escapes his lungs, and
Harry smiles despite the gravity of the situation.

“You are so silly sometimes,” he tells her, a mix of tenderness and sorrow in his voice, and
Hermione sighs against his neck. It’s not fair. All the impossible situations, all the challenges,
all the grief and hope and love and fear and fighting. He feels like he is a hundred years old.

When Hermione starts speaking again, her words tickle the skin of his neck and send shivers
down his spine.

“That’s not all. Snape brought a rat next. That was easy. Then a snake. Last week, he had a
fox. A fox, Harry! Just like ours… I couldn’t do it. But today… I killed it today. Snape told
me that it was sick and dying anyway, but he did it only after.” She is breathing hard and he
runs his fingers through her hair, trails them down her neck and under her chin. He makes
Hermione look up at him.

“Why?” Harry asks, making sure there is not a note of accusation in his tone.

“Because I believe that I can kill the Horcrux.”

Harry swallows and his fingers tremble when he touches her cheek. He knows which
Horcrux exactly she means.

“Are you sure?” He asks trusting her to know what he implies. Not are you sure this will
work but are you sure you are willing to do it. Because to kill the Horcrux, she will have to
kill him.
Fire in her eyes, she replies, “I am sure.”
 Chapter 38
Chapter Notes

Hey everyone. I hope you've all had a lovely Christmas! I feel like I've been eating and
drinking non-stop all week :D It's time to come out of my sugar coma and get back on
track:)

24th May, 1993

Harry picks up a poker and gives the coal in the fireplace a shove, then watches as specks of
orange fly and glow in semi-darkness. It seems that even the Room of Requirement is letting
them know that it’s after curfew and it’s time to go to bed, but Harry has one more question
to ask.

“What exactly has made you so convinced that you can destroy the Horcrux anyway?”

Hermione sits on the floor next to him, takes the poker out of his hand and leans it against the
mantle, then takes Harry’s hand in hers.

“I wanted to know more about what we are.” Hermione is absentmindedly tracing the lines
on his hand with her nail as she speaks and his fingers twitch. “So, I went to Professor Snape
and complained about how useless the books I borrowed from the library were, and asked
him if he had anything else. He gave me that book I mentioned in my letter.” She swallows
and doesn’t say anything else for a while. Hermione’s fingers move to his wrist and follow
the veins up his arm. It tickles but in a nice way and he closes his eyes. “It wasn’t the most
pleasant of reads.”

Harry laughs dryly. “I can’t imagine Snape owning anything pleasant.”

Hermione doesn’t share his amusement.

“Apparently, there were times when people used to take this soulmate business way too
seriously. Ancient pureblood houses used to perform a ritual as a part of their wedding
ceremony. They would split their souls by committing murder and basically become each
other’s Horcruxes in an attempt to replicate the bond that soulmates share.”

“That’s gross… Wait. It doesn’t mean that Voldemort and I are married?” Harry means it as a
joke but he still feels sick at the mere idea.

“As long as you haven’t given him a piece of your soul, you’re safe.”

“My soul is all yours.” Harry leans in and kisses the top of her head. “But, really, that’s
disgusting.”
“Tell me about it. However, they had their reasons. Soulmates were believed to be extremely
powerful. They were like these power couples of the past, for which they were feared and
hunted down. That’s why true soulmates did their best to keep their connection secret.”

“I guess it makes sense that it’s more of a legend these days. It’s safer like that.” Harry
doesn’t even want to imagine what it would be like to be hunted for something they had no
control over. For something that should be seen as a blessing.

“There was an account of a family in the book, a couple with identical Patronuses who had
two children and were living in hiding. They were discovered and a group of wizards came to
deal with the thread. They thought that it would be fun to use Imperius on the woman.”
Hermione’s voice is full of repulsion, and Harry catches both of her hands between his palms.
“They… they made her cast the Killing Curse on her children.”

Harry inhales sharply although he doesn’t know why he is surprised. He has seen all too
many times what dark wizards are capable of.

“They made her cast it on her husband too.” A shudder runs through Hermione’s body and
Harry wraps an arm around her, holds her tight and mentally curses Snape for letting
Hermione read this book. “The curse worked, Harry. It hit him but he didn’t die.”

“But her children died?” Harry frowns.

“Her children died.”

Harry recalls the night his parents were murdered - he’s seen it enough times through
Voldemort’s eyes that the memory seems his own. If Voldemort had Imperiused his mum,
would she have resisted? Or would she have killed her own son too? Isn’t a mother's love
supposed to be the strongest there is?

Harry stiffens and Hermione turns in his embrace. The look in her eyes is enough for Harry
to know that there is no way he can make her change her mind.

Desperate to lighten the mood, he stretches his lips into what Sirius calls a signature Potter
grin and asks, “So do you want to do it now?” Hermione grabs a notebook from the coffee
table and smacks him on the head.

“If you are being serious right now, I’m going to-“

“Kill me?” His grin goes wider even though he covers his head with his hands just in case,
but Hermione jabs him with a corner of the notebook in the chest instead. Harry snatches the
offending object away and throws it over his shoulder when Hermione grabs him by the neck
of his jumper, pulls him in and crushes her lips against his. Before Harry can get over his
shock and respond, she pulls away and exhales.

“I can’t believe you are okay with it all,” she says, relieved, and rests her head in the crook of
his neck and Harry strokes her back instead of a response. He doesn’t tell her that he has
doubts or that he is certainly not happy that Hermione is learning dark curses.
He understands her reasoning and he isn’t going to stop her but he doesn’t like it, not one bit.

***

25th May, 1993

There’s an itch in the back of Harry’s mind, an irritation that seems to have no cause. He
snaps at Seamus for no reason at all and has a fight with his shirt buttons, and he swears
profusely when he hits his elbow on the edge of a side table in the common room.

“What’s wrong?” Hermione asks, her hand flying to Harry’s shoulder, her eyes concerned.

“I don’t know,” he says. “Maybe I didn’t sleep all that well.” Although he did. He always
does when Hermione is there.

“Maybe you just need some food. Mum says men get angry and stupid when they are
hungry.” She loops her arm through his and pulls Harry towards the exit.

“It can’t be true,” he replies with a huff. “If it were, Uncle Vernon and Dudley would’ve been
the kindest and the smartest people on earth. I don’t think I’ve ever met anybody as stupid as
Dudley. Have I told you about that one time when…”

Harry distracts himself from his bad mood by telling Hermione a couple of stories, and
Hermione reciprocates by sharing one about Mandy, her old bully, embarrassing herself in
front of the whole class. And when they sit at the Gryffindor table for breakfast and Mrs
Norris jumps on his lap, Harry’s irritation is barely there at all.

“It’s good to have you back, little mog,” Harry murmurs to the cat scratching its head. “Your
human missed you a lot.” Harry looks to the head table and locks eyes with Filch. The man is
smiling, all crooked teeth on display, and Harry can’t help but grin back.

“I was beginning to think those Mandrakes would never mature,” Hermione says, stroking
the cat’s back, then continues, her tone thoughtful. “I think I’ll ask my parents to buy me a
cat for my birthday… Maybe a Kneazle.” Mrs Norris moves to her lap and rubs her face on
Hermione’s chin. “What do you reckon?”

Harry swallows a bite of his toast before he speaks. “It’s your pet. You can get whatever you
want.” He smiles at her then adds quickly. “As long as it’s not a bulldog.” Harry takes
another bite of toast and when he looks back at Hermione, there’s a slight blush to her
cheeks.

“What if…” she casts her eyes down before looking straight at Harry again. “What about
after Hogwarts? If we move in together, it will be your pet too.”

“You mean when we move in together?” He asks, and somebody, very likely the twins, starts
making kissing noises at them. He ignores them and watches as Hermione’s whole face lights
up. It’s funny, really, that she is still shy about some things, uncertain, as if they haven’t spent
hours dreaming about what their future might be. Maybe that’s the thing. They are not only
dreaming right now.
“I love cats,” Harry says and strokes Mrs Norris’s back, and the cat stretches out on their
laps.

“When’s the wedding?” Lavender asks, and a few others join in the teasing. Harry doesn’t
mind. They eat and poke fun at each other and laugh, his earlier mood all but forgotten.

***

It’s only when they pass Snape when walking from class to class that Harry’s anger spikes
and prickles his throat. He wants to step onto the Professor's stupid billowing robes and yell
into his sneering face. The urge is so strong and unexpected that Harry’s legs stop moving.
It’s only the pull of Hermione’s hand that brings him back to the present. He lets his body
carry him on autopilot and loses himself in his thoughts.

Of course. Harry has no idea how he hasn’t seen it before. Snape is the reason Harry is angry.
What kind of person teaches a student how to cast Avada Kedavra without losing the ability
to sleep at night? Was it his plan all along? Did he give the book to Hermione already
knowing what it would lead to? Did he manipulate her into thinking this was her idea?

“I need to go have a word with Snape,” Harry tells Hermione when their last class of the day
is finished. She frowns but he rushes off before she has a chance to ask anything.

***

The Professor is not in the classroom like Harry expected, and when Harry tries Snape’s
rooms, nobody answers. He marches to his office next, his annoyance growing, and his knock
is more aggressive than it needs to be.

The moment the door cracks open, Harry bursts through it, walks right up to Snape’s desk
and asks, his tone accusing, “Are you planning on becoming the next Dumbledore?”

Snape lifts his eyes up from what looks like a letter and stares at Harry dispassionately.

“You will have to make more sense than that, Potter, if you want an answer.”

“Why did you give Hermione that abhorrent book?” With that question, understanding
flashes in the man’s eyes.

“She finally told you then.”

“Why did you do it?”

Snape sighs and folds his arms. “Because she asked me to.”

“Yeah? And you had absolutely no other books that you could have possibly given her?!”
The Professor’s face turns stony.

“I do not appreciate your tone, Potter,” Snape growls.

“And I do not appreciate you teaching my thirteen-year-old girlfriend how to kill!” Harry
shouts. He honestly didn’t think that he was this affected by this whole thing but, clearly, he
is.

Snape takes a deep breath and gestures at the chair opposite his own. “Potter, sit.”

“I don’t want to,” he says stubbornly and stuffs his hands in the pockets of his robe and looks
away. “You were the first adult I trusted.”

Snape sighs again and rubs his temples. “Miss Granger came to me the first day of Easter
Holidays. She asked if I had anything more factual on soulmates than the library had to offer.
I gave her the only book that fit that requirement. She came back four days later and asked
me to teach her the Killing Curse. I refused. She said that she would teach herself. Knowing
Miss Granger, I had every reason to believe that she would follow through. We discussed all
the possible outcomes including her damaging her soul, your soul bond, and killing you
instead of the Horcrux. She was determined to proceed anyway. I encouraged her to tell you.
I am relieved she finally did.”

Harry drops into the chair and, still not looking at Snape, mutters, “Sounds like Hermione,
alright.”

“Potter.” He looks up at Snape, and his face is not stony anymore, it’s soft, at least for Snape.
“I believe with every fibre of my being that this is going to work. If I did not, I would have
found a way to convince Miss Granger to abandon this project of hers. I admit to having my
own selfish reasons. I do want you to have every possible chance to survive this and I do not
wish Miss Granger to experience what it feels like to live for the rest of her life with a gaping
hole in her chest.”

Harry buries his face in his hands and rubs at his eyes. What is he supposed to say to that?
Sure, great. I’m gonna head and play some Quidditch while you look for something bigger
that my girlfriend can kill.

He chuckles into his hands and then glances at Snape between his fingers. The Professor is
watching him as if Harry’s finally lost it. He lowers his hands and another chuckle escapes.

“So, a spider, a rat, a fox… What’s next? A cow?” Snape raises an eyebrow.

"Actually, Miss Granger and I are done.”

“Oh.” Harry didn’t expect that answer. At least the urge to laugh is finally gone.

“Potter, would you like me to floo call Black?”

“What? Why?”

“Because you look like you are about to snap under all this pressure.” And isn’t it strange?
That now he’s got somebody to call. It’s almost like he’s got a parent. A parent who knows
nothing about what is going on and what Harry has been getting up to, and it’s better like this.
After all the years in prison, Sirius deserves to have as much peace as possible.
Harry grimaces and gets off the chair. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to have a meltdown.”

“Harry,” Snape calls just before he leaves, and Harry looks back, startled. Snape has never
used his given name before, ever. “Only a little bit longer and you are going to be free.”
Harry nods and slips out of the door. Snape is right, he is going to be free soon, one way or
another.

***

30th May, 1993

Harry and Hermione are sitting at the pier's edge, trousers rolled up, shoes and socks off. The
cool water is lapping at their feet and the sun is warming their necks.

Harry stretches and leans back on his elbows and yawns. His head feels fuzzy with all the
heat while his body is buzzing with anticipation. It could happen any day now, the attack on
Azkaban. Could Narcissa Malfoy be at Gringotts right now? What if she changes her mind?
What will they do then?

“The exam week is almost here and you haven’t said a word,” Harry tells Hermione in an
attempt to distract himself.

She draws one knee up to her chin and Harry watches the drops of water glistening on her
foot.

“It feels like summer,” Hermione says softly, turning her face towards Harry and resting her
cheek on her knee. “It’s going to happen soon.”

It seems that neither of them can stop having these thoughts so he might as well indulge in
them. Harry needs it to happen soon. Everybody’s been so grim recently, even the twins.
Even the majority of Slytherins look scared, which makes Harry wonder how many of them
are actually on Voldemort’s side. And what about their families? Are they still supportive of
their Lord’s actions or do they follow out of fear, controlled through the Dark Marks? If
somebody attacks Voldemort, will his supporters want to protect him with all that they are or
will they turn away and let it happen? Harry really hopes it’s the latter.

It’s going to be easy, Harry tells himself. They are going to destroy the cup, then Hermione is
going to cast Avada Kedavra on him and destroy the last Horcrux, and then Snape is going to
kill Lord Voldemort when he is next summoned. Quick and simple and there are going to be
no complications whatsoever. None.

“You know,” Harry says lying down, arms tucked behind his head, eyes squinting in the sun.
“I’ve decided that if I do die, I’d rather it happen by your hand than anybody else’s.” He
gives up his fight against the bright light and closes his eyes completely, and when he feels a
shove at his side, it takes him by complete surprise.

“Wha-“ he squawks, his arms and legs flailing while Hermione is pushing him towards the
edge of the pier. “What are you - doing?” Harry digs the heels of his feet into the wooden
boards for support and grabs Hermione’s arms.
“I’m-“ she huffs and attempts to break free of Harry’s hold, “trying to - push you - into the
water.” Luckily, Harry is heavier and stronger, and it doesn’t take him long to pin Hermione
down.

“Why?” He asks, bewildered.

“Because you are being annoying,” she replies, her eyes narrowed, but at least she isn’t
fighting him anymore.

“How am I annoying?”

“You. Are. Not. Going. To. Die.” The look on her face is fierce although Harry is pretty sure
Hermione is fighting a smile.

He grins and says, his voice teasing, “Then you shouldn’t try and push me into the water
because I can’t swim.”

Hermione’s eyes go wide. “I forgot.”

“Does it mean it’s safe to let you go?” Harry smirks helping Hermione up. Her hair has
escaped its bun and her tank top is all twisted - they both must look ridiculous right now. Isn’t
it strange how quickly the mood can shift from solemn to playful and back again?

Harry brushes her shoulder with the tips of his fingers. “Let’s go back in. Your shoulders are
turning pink.”

Hermione doesn’t move and he trails his fingers up her neck and into her hair while she is
looking at him expectantly, and he knows exactly what she wants to hear.

“I am going to live,” he promises with all the conviction he can master. “We are going to
live.” And Snape, and all the other Professors, and Draco, and Sirius and Remus, and their
friends, and all the annoying Slytherins, even Pansy Parkinson.

“That’s right,’ Hermione smiles approvingly and leans into his hand. “We are going to live.”
And who is he to argue with Hermione Granger?
 Chapter 39
Chapter Notes

This chapter has got a bit of Hermione's POV just because I'm the author and I felt like
it :D
Happy New Year everyone!

11th June, 1993

The last exam taken, students spill out of classrooms with relieved sighs, happy cheers and an
occasional desperate moan. Harry and Hermione follow the crowd, hands clasped. They are
carried by it as if it’s a powerful stream seeking a way out - out of stuffy classrooms, out of
constricting stone walls and towards the sunshine, fresh air and freedom. It seems that - at
least for the moment - everybody has forgotten the depressing Prophet articles and their
losses, and they are choosing to celebrate the fact that they have all successfully finished yet
another year of school. Of course, they’ve got two more weeks but, to Harry’s mind, they
don’t really count.

Harry sits with his back to the tree, and Hermione settles between his legs, her weight against
his chest comforting and so very welcome. Ron falls on the grass nearby and spreads his
arms and legs like a star while Neville sits next to him looking like he’s been hit by a bludger.

“I can’t believe I’ve passed everything. Even Potions.” The last word comes out in a whisper
as if saying it out loud might jinx everything, and Harry chuckles. Lavender and Parvati
exchange a playful look, then kneel on Neville’s either side and simultaneously kiss him on
his round cheeks, which instantaneously turn the brightest shade of red Harry has seen on a
person.

“We are so proud of you, Neville,” the girls say together and giggle.

“I honestly don’t know why you were so worried, Neville,” Hermione says. “With all the
revising we’ve done together-“

“We must do it every year,” Seamus cuts in excitedly. “Being able to compare notes and-“

“You mean being able to use my notes…” Hermione corrects with mock sternness.

Seamus laughs sheepishly. “Yeah, that.”

It was truly good though. They moved several library tables together and studied all week
leading up to the exams, and Harry felt like he belonged, like they all belonged and fit
together despite being so very different. Somebody should put it on a T-shirt - Exams
connecting people. Harry chuckles to himself quietly.
“What’s so funny?” Hermione asks, turning her head to the side. Harry is about to answer
when he feels pressure against his Occlumency shields - not aggressive but more like a
friendly prod. He looks up, his eyes searching among the sea of students in dark school robes
and an occasional Professor, until he finds Snape staring at him from the steps leading into
the castle. Snape jerks his head, then turns on his heels and stalks back into the castle. The
hairs on the back of Harry’s neck rise and his arms tighten around Hermione.

“We need to go,” he tells her with urgency in his voice. “It’s time.” He doesn’t know exactly
why he is so certain that this has to be the Cup - something about the way Snape looked at
him, about the tension in his jaw - Harry can’t imagine it being anything else.

“Hey, where are you two off to?” Ron asks, rising on his elbows when he sees them getting
up.

“Oh, Ronald, you are too young to know,” Hermione replies teasingly but Harry can see that
her smile is strained and her back is too straight. Her heart is probably thrashing in her chest
just like Harry’s doing right now.

Thankfully, Dean laughs the dirtiest laugh Harry has ever heard and all heads turn to him,
allowing Harry and Hermione to make their escape.

***

Hermione lets go of the fang and Harry follows. The second to last Horcrux, Helga
Hufflepuff’s Cup, is lying broken on Professor Snape’s coffee table, the black goo gurgling
out of the crack. They’ve done it enough times for Hermione to know exactly how the
process works yet it surprises her every time how much sickly substance, how much darkness
each object contains. Her hands shake and she wraps her arms around herself. She should be
stronger than this. She has to be. She shakes her hands out and draws her wand out of her
pocket. She knows what she needs to do next. If Narcissa Malfoy delivered the Cup, it means
that the breakout from Azkaban is going to happen any day now. After that, Professor Snape
will be summoned to attend the big happy reunion. This will be his chance to kill Voldemort
and to allow that, the last Horcrux has to be destroyed.

She looks up and says, “I’m ready,” looking at Professor Snape. His face is impassive, and a
slight tilt of his chin is the only indication he has heard. She looks at Harry, her Harry, next,
and her whole body sings with love. It rushes through her veins and thumps with her heart
and explodes all over her mind in tiny fireworks. She sees her love reflected in his eyes. God,
she loves his eyes, she loves how all she needs to do is look into them to know exactly what
he is feeling. Right now, she can see hope, worry, resolution and love, always love.

“You don’t have to do this, you know,” he says simply, as if this is not about his life, his
death, his best chance.

“Don’t be silly. Of course I have to,” she rolls her eyes at him so that he knows how
ridiculous she thinks he sounds. She does this and he is free, they are both free.

“Okay,” Harry says and lifts one shoulder up in a half-hearted shrug. “Where do you want
me?” He grins wickedly and then falls on the sofa to pose as if she is about to do his painting.
And this is just like him, isn’t it? To act all casual and confident when in reality he is afraid.
Fear is the only emotion that Hermione has never caught in his eyes but she knows all the
other signs. The way his smile gets even wider, the way he wipes his hands on his trousers
because his palms get sweaty, or the way he puts his hands in his pockets and cocks his head
to the side and looks directly at what other people would run from.

Hermione lifts her right arm and points her wand at him, directly at his lightning bolt scar,
still as puffy and red as it was straight after Voldemort’s spirit left Quirrell’s body and flew
right through Harry’s.

Harry is still posing, his grin is still in place, and he is looking seemingly fearlessly at the tip
of her wand as if it’s a camera and all Hermione wants is to take a photo. She closes her eyes
and moves all the love to the side to find the image of Voldemort in her mind’s eye. She
focuses on the fear that he elicits in people, on all the recent deaths that were caused by this
monster, on how much Harry has had to endure because of the man named Tom Riddle. The
nightmares, the abuse, the loneliness and the lack of love he had to live with. She finds her
fury, her righteous anger, she finds her hate for Voldemort and she lets it grow until it’s so big
she feels the rush of it through her whole body, until it has no choice but to come out.

She opens her eyes and allows herself to see only the scar, the ugly scar that should have
never marred Harry’s face, and she lets the hate flow - together with her magic - towards her
fingers and into her wand.

“Avada Kedavra,” she says in a raspy voice. Nothing happens. She is doing everything right,
she knows she is. It feels exactly like it did when it worked. Why isn’t it working now? She
looks at Snape, whose face is still not betraying a single emotion, and then at Harry, whose
grin is slowly falling.

She clears her throat and casts it again.

“Avada Kedavra!” Her voice is loud and clear but there is nothing, not even a spark.

“Avada Kedavra!” She shrieks this time, desperately, pleadingly, already knowing that it is
not going to work. Harry’s shape is a moving blur.

“Why, why, why…” she repeats, her eyes burn, her hands shake, her voice so wobbly and
small. Arms wrap around her and hold her tight, and she lets herself be weak and cry into
Harry’s shoulder. It was supposed to be the end. It was supposed to be the start of their
freedom. And now? What are they going to do now? No, she can’t think like this. She will
have to try again, that’s all.

“Shh,” Harry says. “It will be alright,” he repeats it again and again, this meaningless phrase,
but for some reason, it does make her feel better. She sniffs and rubs her face on his shoulder.

“Are you purposefully covering me in your snot?”

Hermione laughs. Harry always knows how to make her laugh. One of the millions of things
she loves about him.
It will be alright. She will simply have to try again.

***

29th June, 1993

She tries again. And again. And again. And Harry lets her. In the Room of Requirement, with
Harry looking right at her, and the hope in his eyes slowly vanishes to be replaced with an
apologetic sort of look mixed with concern. So she starts to try when he isn’t looking. She
points her wand at him when he is playing with his Snitch - she gathers all her hate and
mutters the spell under her breath. She does it when he is reading or completing his last bits
of homework this year. She is pointing her wand at him now, when he is lying in bed, eyes
closed, breathing evenly, peacefully asleep.

“Stop.” He makes her jump when he says it without even opening his eyes. Before she even
has had a chance to whisper the spell. Her breath hitches when he looks at her and she feels
guilty. She feels like she’s done all the other times she hid things from him. When will she
finally learn?

She feels Harry’s hand stroking up her side and down her arm, and when he takes her wand
out of her fingers, she doesn’t resist.

“You need to stop,” he tells her, putting the wand under the pillow together with his two.

She nods. She’s been driving herself insane with this. She needs to stop being stubborn and
listen.

“I’m sorry-“ she tries to apologise but he stops her with a finger pressed to her lips. She
kisses its tip making this her apology. She nuzzles his palm next and lays a kiss in the centre
of it too. Sometimes she thinks she doesn’t deserve him but she chases the thought away.
This thought belongs to the old Hermione. To the one who was bullied at school and had no
friends. Not her.

“I like it that you never give up,” Harry tells Hermione as he strokes her cheek and she leans
into his touch. “But everyone needs a break from time to time.”

“Time for a bit of living?” She asks, her eyes closed.

“Exactly.” She hears a smile in his voice

Harry pulls her in, and they do just that.

***

30th June, 1993

MASS BREAKOUT FROM AZKABAN, the article, which Harry has been anticipating,
arrives on the evening of the last day of term. After an explosion of gasps, exclamations,
whispers and curses, a mournful silence descends upon the Great Hall. Dumbledore makes a
speech that Harry is not hearing. He is watching the Headmaster’s lips move, and is it him or
is there a bluish tint to his skin? The Headmaster looks thin and frail, and Harry doesn’t think
that he could protect them from anybody even if he tried. However, the majority of faces are
still turned to Dumbledore, and Harry hates seeing faith and trust in the children’s eyes and
the eyes of the Professors too.

Hermione’s fingers dig into the flesh just above his knee and her voice shakes when she
speaks.

“I don’t know what to do now.”

Harry chances a look at Snape but he is looking straight ahead and his face is as blank as
ever.

“I’m still the Master of Death,” Harry whispers right into Hermione’s ear so that nobody else
can hear. “We can always ask Snape to-“

“No!” Hermione snaps at him, drawing a dozen of odd glances. Harry shrugs. In truth, he’d
rather take his chances with Snape casting the Killing Curse than expect Hermione to do it,
however, it’s not only his choice to make.

“Then all we can do is wait.”

The thing is, whatever they choose to do or not do right now, he’s got this gut feeling - and
his gut feeling is normally something he can trust - that things will work out in the end.

He leans over the table.

"Psst, Fred, George.”

“Yes, little brother,” they respond together, and Harry doesn’t know how they do it any better
than at the beginning of year one.

“Have you got any of your fireworks left? It’s time to boost the morale.” And despite
everything, the twins’ lips form identically wicked grins.

***

The fireworks explode over the lake exactly at midnight, and although it’s nothing as
spectacular as the Hogwarts New Year display, all of their faces are raised to the sky and
explosions of light reflect in their irises. A hand slides into his and he looks, startled, to the
left because his right hand has already got a firm grip on Hermione’s. It’s an older Ravenclaw
boy he’s seen around the castle but has never spoken to. Harry looks at him, surprised, but the
boy is gazing at the sky. Hermione pulls at his hand and whispers in awe, “Harry, look
around!” He does and he finally gets it. All the people around them are linking their hands
forming a chain consisting of different houses and Professors - when did they get here? - and
the Headmaster is among them, the tallest of them all despite his frail state. However, the
most surprising sight are the Slytherins. A Hufflepuff girl takes a shocked Millicent Bulstrode
by the hand, Blaise Zabini stands between Professor Sinistra and Lee Jordan and, suddenly,
the Ravenclaw boy’s hand is gone from Harry’s to be replaced with a smaller paler one.
“Draco?” He asks although it’s very obviously Draco Malfoy, and this is the biggest surprise
of all.

“Shut up, Potter,” Draco says but there’s a smile on his face and genuine amusement in his
voice, and when he nudges Harry with his shoulder, it’s like the months of not talking never
happened.

“You’re such a git,” Harry mutters from the corner of his mouth but it’s ruined by his massive
smile.

“I’ve missed you too.” And despite the roll of Draco’s eyes, Harry knows that the Slytherin
means it.

And right this second, right now, Harry knows for sure that everything will be alright. In the
end.
 Chapter 40
Chapter Notes

As you may have noticed, this is not the last chapter. I think there's only one more, two
max. A part of me is reluctant to finish this because I'm having lots of fun writing this
story. Another part wants to finish ASAP because I've got a couple of new ideas I am
impatient to explore.

Also, I created a playlist ages ago and I've been adding songs that have either inspired
me to write a scene or have got the right feel.
I love all the songs there so check it out:

https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6vqZGY4le2KsGYaXVl0mWb?si=w8Gv07-
OSA6d7jlkdwoK4g&pi=e-4LSQ87-5SL6f

I'm still not sure how exactly or when Voldemort will make his appearance so if you've
got any ideas/wishes, feel free to let me know.

That's it for now. I hope you're still enjoying this fic:)

1st July, 1993

Last year, Hogwarts Express was buzzing with excitement on the way back to London but
now it’s humming with uncertainty and fear.

Harry and Hermione find their regular compartment and, after making sure that Hedwig’s
cage is secure, they go down the carriage to chat with their friends and say goodbye for the
summer.

Nobody says anything about the Azkaban breakout or the recent raids but Harry suspects
everybody is thinking exactly the same thing - it might be the very last time they see each
other. What if the village where Neville lives gets attacked next? What if something happens
to one of the Weasleys? What about all the muggle-born students? What is going to happen
now that even more Death Eaters are walking the streets?

Harry wraps his fingers around Hermione’s arm and leans closer to whisper into her ear,
“Let’s go see what the Slytherins are like.”

They wave at Hermione’s dorm mates and, having made sure that the corridor is empty,
Harry takes the invisibility cloak out of his pocket and throws it over them in one fluid
practised move.
Their breathing sounds so loud as they move into the next carriage but there is nobody to
hear them anyway. The passage is uncharacteristically empty and the students are quiet,
subdued.

When they reach the carriage occupied mostly by the Slytherins, Harry peeks through the
little windows. He expected to find the students laughing gleefully and mocking everybody
whom they deem not pure enough. He expected to witness an unhealthy sort of excitement
about what is to come yet all he finds is another bunch of scared kids. Death Eater children.
He thinks about Draco and shudders. How many other Slytherins are going back to homes
swarming with Voldemort’s supporters?

A compartment door just a step away slides open with a bang and Hermione gasps. Harry’s
hand covers her mouth to muffle the noise as Marcus Flint steps out and, to Harry’s massive
relief, walks away from them and knocks on a compartment window two doors down.

“We should go,” Hermione whispers the moment Harry’s hand leaves her mouth. He nods
and they are about to turn back when Flint’s question makes Harry pause.

“Have you seen Draco?”

“Err… not since last night.” Harry recognises the voice but can’t decide whether it belongs to
Crabb or Goyle. “He never came to bed.”

“Come on.” Hermione tugs on his arm. “Before he decides to come this way.”

Harry reluctantly makes his way back, all the while worrying about what happened to Draco.
Did somebody beat him up because he was seen being friendly with Harry? Did his father
come and collect him early to take him straight to Voldemort for marking? Or maybe,
hopefully, he is somewhere far, far away from it all, somewhere safe.

***

Back at their compartment, Hermione loses herself in a book and Harry busies himself with
studying the writings on the walls to distract himself from his gloomy thoughts. His eyes land
on the heart and he cocks his head to the side. Could it be? Harry can’t believe he hasn’t
thought of it before.

“Hey, Hermione,” he says, still staring at the wall.

“Mmm?” She puts her finger on the page and looks up.

“Do you think L plus J could stand for Lily and James?”

“Oh,” she breathes. “I haven’t noticed before.” She watches Harry, bottom lip trapped
between her teeth. “Would you like it to be?”

“It would be a pretty cool coincidence,” Harry looks at her and grins. “I’ve got a brilliant
idea.”

“Up-oh, Merlin help us,” she deadpans and Harry sends her a glare.
“You’ve been spending too much time with Snape,” he accuses standing up and getting his
wand out. “I’m going to add our initials to the wall. Look, there’s a space right under my
parents’ heart.” Hermione doesn’t correct him that it might not be his parents’ heart at all and
Harry is grateful. He wants to believe that he and Hermione are sitting where his mum and
dad used to sit. Besides, it feels a lot like something his dad would do - vandalise school
property. Harry traces the L with his finger, then the plus and the J. The surface under the last
letter feels strangely rough and Harry leans forward to have a better look.

“Lumos.” He holds the glowing tip of his wand to the wall and squints.

“What are you doing?” Hermione asks from behind him and a moment later he feels her hand
between his shoulder blades as she leans closer to see. When he hears Hermione’s little intake
of breath, Harry knows that he is not imagining things. Under the J there is a faded line of the
letter S.

“It’s like a whole story in one little image,” Hermione says softly then asks, “Are you
alright?”

Harry thinks about young Lily and her Sev and wonders which one of them carved the heart
into the wall. He thinks about James spotting it and, out of jealousy, scratching the S out. Was
it before his mum and dad became a couple or after?

“I’m glad I didn’t find this earlier. I would’ve been upset, I think.” He puts the light of his
want out.

“And now?”

Harry shrugs. “And now, as you’ve said, it’s their whole story. It’s kind of fitting - Anyway,
Miss Granger, are you ready for your initial to be permanently etched into these sacred
walls?”

Hermione giggles and moulds herself against his side. “As long as my true love’s initial is
there right by my side.”

Harry kisses the top of her head and swaps his wand for the Elder one on a whim, and with a
spell, scratches H + H into the wall. When he goes to draw a heart, Hermione’s right hand
rests on his and - just like when they repaired the stone - he feels her magic pulse and merge
with his.

When they are done, Harry rests his head on top of hers and smiles, amused by a thought that
has just popped into his head.

“You know,” he voices it out loud, “our initials will be identical when we get married. Harry
James and Hermione Jean Potter.”

Hermione peels herself from his side and, hands on her hips, looks at him sternly although
Harry knows that she doesn’t mean it at all.

“When, huh? Isn’t somebody a bit overconfident here?”

“Me? Overconfident?” He takes a step closer and holds her around the waist. “Who asked me
to help her choose our future cat?” He can see that Hermione is fighting a smile. “Who wants
to move in together straight after graduation?” He rubs his nose against hers and one corner
of her mouth rises, then the other.

“Oh, fine.” She wraps her arms around his neck and rises on her toes. “But don’t assume that
this gets you out of proposing properly.”

“I wouldn’t dare,” he chuckles.

It’s not easy to kiss with their smiles so wide but they try anyway, thoughts of Death Eaters
and what this summer will hold forgotten for now.

***

Harry jumps off the train, the cage with Hedwig in hand, and his owl hoots indignantly at the
jolt. He holds a hand out to Hermione - more out of habit than anything else - and looks
around the platform looking for the Grangers only to remember that muggles can’t pass
through the barrier. They weave between clusters of people, parents and children reunited
after months apart, and slip right through the brick wall and into the muggle world.

He does spot the Grangers, however, he also spots Sirius and frowns. Sirius isn’t supposed to
be here. They agreed that Harry would spend the first two weeks with the Grangers and his
shoulders slump at the idea that his godfather might have changed his mind.

Hermione is already engulfed in her parents’s embrace while Harry is dragging his feet.

“You could’ve at least pretended that you’re happy to see me!” Sirius pats him on the
shoulder and the corners of his lips rise but his eyes don’t smile.

“Are you going to take me to Grimmauld?” Harry asks warily. It’s Mrs Granger who answers,
giving him a one-armed hug.

“My daughter would stop speaking to us if it were the case,” she says, humour in her voice,
and pats him on the head. “How is it possible that you’ve grown again?”

Harry smiles at her absentmindedly, his focus still on Sirius.

“Why then?”

Sirius throws his arms up. “Is it that impossible that I’ve simply missed you and came to say
hello?”

“You realise that you saying that makes me even more suspicious?” Harry raises his eyebrow
in an imitation of Snape and then the realisation hits him. “Wait, is it about the Daily Prophet
article?”

Sirius pulls Harry aside and leans in. “Listen.” Sirius’s voice is low but urgent. “It’s
extremely unlikely that anything major will happen anytime soon. One can’t escape from
Azkaban and then carry out a raid the very next day. They need to recover, which will take a
couple of weeks at least, and even then they are going to feel only half-normal.” Harry feels
something smooth and cold being pushed into his hand. “It’s a mirror,” Sirius explains. “I’ve
got another one. Call my name into it and I will answer. I’ve put a tracking charm on it too so
take it with you wherever you go. If anything happens, call. If nothing happens but you’ve
got a bad feeling, call. If you want to come home early, call.”

Home. Harry smiles and gives his godfather a hug so quick that Sirius doesn’t even have a
chance to lift his arms to reciprocate.

“Thanks.” Harry scratches the back of his head awkwardly then glances back at the Grangers.
“You haven’t told them anything, have you?“

“I didn’t need to. It’s in the muggle news too, only they call them terrorist attacks. They’ve
also been broadcasting the photos of the escapees in the muggle news.” Sirius rubs his eyes
tiredly. “Things are getting serious, pup. Just be careful. I don’t want to lose you too.”

Guilt settles heavily in Harry’s stomach just as he takes a step back and smiles. “I will.” He
promises wondering if Sirius has noticed how strained his smile is. If he has, his godfather
doesn’t say anything. He claps him on the shoulder, makes his goodbyes and lets them go.
Maybe Harry will tell Sirius about what’s been going on when he goes to Grimmauld - no -
he corrects himself - home. When he gets back home, he must talk to Sirius.

***

Having Harry here, in her home, feels surreal. He reminds Hermione of a skittish animal - the
way he cautiously steps over the threshold after thoroughly wiping his feet, the way he
touches the cupboard door only to snatch his hand away, the way he responds to her parents’
questions - clearly and politely and nothing like his regular self.

“I’ll show you your room,” Hermione says and drags him upstairs, not unlike what Harry did
at Grimmauld Place when she visited over Easter Holidays. “Sorry it’s so small,” she says as
she opens the door to the guest room. “We’ve only got three bedrooms.“ she doesn’t know
why she feels so uneasy, so apologetic. She’s never thought that their house was lacking in
any way until now.

“It’s fine,” Harry says stepping into the room after her. There is barely any room for the two
of them to stand - the small space is taken by a twin bed, a bedside table and a chest of
drawers. She likes this tiny space though. The walls are the colour of the sky and the curtains
are pure white and velvety, just like the soft rug on the wooden floor. Being here feels like
sitting on a cloud, light and serene, and she has no explanation for Harry’s stiff shoulders. But
then he speaks again.

“It’s just that the layout of your house is exactly like the Dursleys’. It’s odd.” Hermione’s
hand flies to her mouth and Harry quickly adds, “No, it’s alright. It’s different in every other
way.” He takes her hands in his. “It was all beige and dull there. Your house is full of colour.
At least, from what I’ve seen so far.”

She throws her arms around his neck and says, “I’m sorry,” into his shoulder. His chest
rumbles with quiet laughter and he calls her silly and tells her that there is nothing she needs
to be sorry for.

A clearing of a throat makes them jump apart, only there is not enough room to do that.
Hermione’s foot catches on the rug and she grabs for Harry to stop herself from falling just as
the backs of his legs hit the bed and he falls backwards, pulling Hermione along. She ends up
sprawled across his chest, caught between mortified and amused.

Her mum’s words are barely distinguishable as she cackles from the doorway, “And only
yesterday I told your father that he didn’t need to worry about finding you in Harry’s bed.”

Mortified, Hermione thinks, not amused. Just mortified.

***

Harry feels stupid sneaking down the stairs in the middle of the night, a pale light of Lumos
dancing on the walls illuminating giant flowers that bloom on the wallpaper and seem to
move.

It’s just a cupboard, Harry tells himself as the bottom stair squeaks feebly under his feet. It’s
just a cupboard, he repeats in his head as he lifts the latch and the door starts to open all by
itself. Just a cupboard, Harry thinks as he inserts a finger in the gap and pulls the door wide
open.

“Just a cupboard,” Harry whispers out loud and a strange little giggle escapes his lips. Winter
coats, shoes in a messy heap, some coal for the BBQ, a vacuum cleaner, light bulbs and
batteries.

No bed, no thin blanket, no broken soldiers, no boy with untidy hair.

Harry shakes his head and latches the door shut.

Sometimes a cupboard is just that. A cupboard.

 Chapter 41
Chapter Notes

This is it, guys. Here's the last chapter.

I've experienced so much joy writing this story and I've got you to thank for making this
such a positive experience. Thank you for all the kudos and comments and for sticking
with me until the very end. You are the best!

See the end of the chapter for more notes

5th July, 1993

Harry is not a fan of museums. He has been to a couple of local ones with his class while still
at primary school but his favourite part about those trips was getting school-packed lunch that
they’d eat in a park.

So after half an hour at the National Gallery, all the paintings begin to blur into one. He stops
even trying to pay attention to the works of art and watches the most fascinating thing in the
room instead - Hermione. She is wearing a floaty lilac dress and her hair, which she normally
has up in a bun, is loose and impossibly long and her curls bounce with every step that she
takes. She stops when she sees something that she loves and examines it from a distance.
After a few moments, she will start edging closer, her lips parted, and closer still until she is
close enough to touch. Right now, she is standing in front of a portrait that is only a blur of
different colours to Harry, her fingers hovering just above the surface.

Harry looks over his shoulder to make sure Hermione’s parents are not paying much attention
to them, then stands behind Hermione and moves her hair away to be able to whisper into her
ear.

“Touch it.” His lips brush her skin as he speaks and he can see goosebumps forming on her
arms.

“But you’re not allowed,” Hermione whispers back and looks left and right as if worried that
a museum worker would come and tell her off for even thinking about it.

“But you want to.” Harry wraps his fingers loosely around her wrist and moves her hand
closer to the painting. “Do it. Nobody’s looking.” Her fingers open and stretch and she
touches just the tips to the canvas. Harry notices all the cracks in the paint for the first time.
“How does it feel?” He asks.

“Surprisingly smooth. And cold.” Hermione turns in his arms. “And…” she smiles coyly, “I
am strangely turned on by this.”

Harry chokes on air and takes a step back coughing into the crook of his elbow, his face hot.
Harry tries to pay attention to the paintings after that. He fails.

***

Harry takes his school bag everywhere. In it, he’s got his two wands, the Resurrection Stone,
the Invisibility Cloak and Sirius’s mirror. Sometimes the back of his neck tingles as if there
are eyes on him, however, he never notices anything suspicious when he looks around.
Sometimes, often even, he puts his hand inside the bag making sure that his possessions are
still in place. However, he relaxes a bit as the days pass. After all, you can’t spend every
moment of your life feeling terrified and ready for a fight. Harry stops checking the bag. He
stops looking around. Maybe he relaxes a bit too much because he doesn’t check his
Occlumency barriers like he normally would every night at school. The thing is, no matter
how good he is at protecting his mind, with him and Hermione in separate beds for now, the
visions still come to him as vivid as ever. They are nothing new though, and they don’t chill
his blood like they used to. If you repeatedly watch the same horror film, it becomes
predictable enough for it not to scare you anymore.

He gets used to the Grangers’ home enough that it barely reminds him of the Dursleys.
Besides, the four of them spend most of their time out of the house. They visit different
museums, gardens and installations. They go to the cinema and eat out in restaurants where
Harry feels uncomfortable at first but becomes more at ease the more they do it. They go to a
family pub one evening that plays live music, and he and Hermione dance like they would in
the Room of Requirement. Only Harry never feels free enough to just be, to let himself touch
Hermione like he normally would because her parents are always there in the background
throwing glances at them, taking photos or sometimes openly watching and muttering to each
other. Sometimes he wants to grab her hand and say, “Let’s run!” Away from watchful eyes
and questions and all this parental attention that Harry is not used to.

***

15th July, 1993

Hermione wakes up with a start, her heart pounding violently in her chest. She checks the
time - 02:23 - and groans. She has no idea what woke her up. The house is still and quiet, and
she doesn’t remember dreaming about anything at all. She lies on her stomach, her face half-
buried in the downy pillow, and listens to the silence, but the uneasiness that she woke up
with only intensifies. She throws the duvet off and swings her legs over the side of the bed.
Before she has a chance to think about where she is going, her feet carry her to Harry’s door.
She listens to the quiet behind it and, even though there is no reason to worry, she turns the
handle and silently opens the door. She hears a whimper then and the rustling of sheets and a
choked and barely audible ‘no’.

Hermione rushes to kneel by the side of the bed. Her hands touch his cheeks and his forehead
and, at first, she thinks his face is wet with sweat or tears but it’s too slippery and it smells all
wrong. Coppery.

“Harry,” she shakes his shoulder, her voice laced with panic. “Harry!”
To her immense relief, he sits up gasping for air but it’s not enough. Hermione needs to see
his face. She searches blindly for a switch and turns the bedside lamp on with a click that
sounds so loud it makes her jump.

She gasps. There are smears of blood all over his pillow. She scrambles to sit at the foot of
the bed. She needs to see him but his face is covered with his hands, blood on his fingers. She
inhales as slowly as she can and wills herself to be calm.

“Harry,” she calls again, soft and gentle, and touches his hands with hers. “Let me see. You
are bleeding.”

“I’m fine.” He sounds far from fine. His voice is scratchy as if he’s been screaming. Has he?

“You’ve put a silencing charm up,” she admonishes and pries Harry’s hands away from his
face. She swallows another gasp at seeing the blood still seeping from his scar. Blood on his
T-shirt. Blood on his hands. Blood smeared all over his face. When he finally blinks and
looks up at her, she swears she can see a flash of red in his eyes.

“It was my own fault,” he says as she begins to clean the blood with Harry’s wand, having
left hers in her room. “I should have never ignored my Occlumency even for a day.”
Hermione focuses on her task, willing herself not to react to the words that are spilling from
Harry’s mouth.

“There was this young man - a Death Eater - I’ve never seen him before. He was kneeling,
begging, kissing the hem of Voldemort’s robes. Voldemort said that he had no use for a squib.
He kicked the man away. Bellatrix Lestrange - she looked so mad, Hermione - she took a
dagger and started cutting the Dark Mark off his arm as if he was just a piece of meat. The
way he screamed…“

***

Harry is shivering under the hot spray of the shower while Hermione is loading the washing
machine with the dirty sheets, images from his vision flashing through his mind. What Harry
didn’t tell Hermione was what exactly it was like inside Voldemort’s mind. He didn’t
describe the pleasure that he felt, the way that monster was getting off on watching a person
writhe on the floor or the way blood excited him. Voldemort was the one to drain his follower
of magic to begin with, and to torture him like that…

Neither did Harry tell Hermione that Snape was there, his face an unreadable mask, holding
the struggling Death Eater down.

Harry presses the heals of his palms into his eyes desperate to make the images go away, the
sounds… The mad cackle of Bellatrix Lestrange, the screams of agony, Voldemort’s soft hiss
of pleasure.

Harry angrily turns the useless water off and wraps himself in a ridiculously fluffy towel. He
feels so helpless. He is the one who has to stop this but he does not know how.

***
Hermione is flicking through the channels when Harry finally comes down, his wet hair
looks like licks of ink around his deathly pale face, but his clothes are fresh and there is no
sign of blood.

“I really want to hurt myself right now,” Harry tells her and Hermione’s heart begins to thrash
like a trapped bird all anew. She has no words of comfort to offer, nothing she can say to
make him feel better or to lift the weight he is carrying. She can only wrap her arms around
him and lead him to the sofa, hold him and stroke his wet hair until he falls asleep.

She does just that, and when Harry’s breathing grows deeper and his heart begins to beat
steadier under her palm, she picks her wand up and touches the tip to Harry’s temple. She
thinks of the flicker of red in his eyes and how much she hates Voldemort for doing this to
Harry.

“Avada Kedavra,” she says but nothing happens. She throws the useless wand across the
room and cries.

***

They were supposed to go to the beach today but the Grangers are adamant that Harry
doesn’t look well enough to go anywhere. On top of that, while having breakfast, Mr Granger
suggests that it will be a good idea for Sirius to pick him up a day early. And no matter how
confidently Harry promises that he feels absolutely fine or how passionately Hermione
argues that it is not fair, her parents seem determined that this course of action is the best for
everybody.

“We are leaving for Iceland tomorrow anyway, sweetheart, and I’d rather pack everything
calmly today than…” Harry stops listening and squeezes Hermione’s fingers under the table.
He suspects that their decision has nothing to do with their holiday or the fact that Harry had
a bad nightmare and was sick at night - a lie that he and Hermione have agreed on. Harry is
certain that the Grangers want to get rid of him simply because of how he and Hermione were
discovered in the morning all snuggled up on the sofa, bodies pressed together and limbs
entwined. So he goes to use the mirror to call Sirius without argument, and some thirty
minutes later he is being Appareted away, torn away from the person who matters the most.
Sometimes he hates being a child.

***

“What did Mr Granger want to talk to you about?” Harry asks the moment they appear in a
familiar dirty alley. Sirius looks at him with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

“Nothing major. We’ll talk later about that.” Harry shrugs noncommittally, walking side by
side with Sirius. Whatever it is, at this point Harry doesn’t care enough to push. He just wants
to go to his room and wallow in the sense of unfairness of it all.

“What I’d like to talk about now though is that dream of yours.” Harry groans inwardly.
“What was so horrible that it made you sick?”
Harry remembers his decision to tell Sirius more about what’s been going on but, looking at
his Godfather’s face right now, seeing the concern, he just can’t. So he lies.

“The Dursleys,” is all he says and it seems to be enough because Sirius changes the topic.

“Anyway, I’ve got a surprise for you. It should cheer you right up… I hope.”

Harry looks up at Sirius and squints. “You don’t sound very certain.”

Sirius only winks at him and speeds up, and Harry follows.

***

“So where’s that surprise of yours?” Harry asks after he greets Remus and - upon Kreacher’s
insistence - gives the elf his shrunken suitcase and Hedwig’s empty cage to be taken to his
bedroom.

“You’ve forgotten to put me in a box and decorate it with a bow,” a posh voice drawls from
upstairs and he looks up to see Draco hanging over the bannister. A smile takes over Harry’s
previously grumpy face. Maybe things are not so bad after all.

***

“I was planning to give it to you on your birthday but,” Sirius says, a dirty grin on his face,
“considering the circumstances, I reckoned it would be best for you to have it now.” Sirius
hands him a small black book that unpleasantly reminds Harry of Riddle’s diary and he turns
it in his hands, glancing at his godfather suspiciously. The cover is blank but the pages look
yellow and puffy clearly indicating that the book has been read and reread a significant
number of times.

“What’s this?” Harry gives a little wave with the book and stares at Sirius expectantly.

“This is me giving you your sex talk.” Harry flushes and Sirius’s grin grows.

“Please don’t,” Harry cringes.

“Hermione’s dad thought that somebody should talk to you, considering how physical you
and Hermione are becoming -“

“God, no.” Harry hides his face in his hands, the book on his lap.

“- This is why I, being a very responsible adult,” Harry snorts despite his embarrassment,
“am going to introduce you to all the protection spells a young man needs to know and more.
Page six if you will.”

Harry glares at Sirius but does as told. When he looks at the illustrations on the page his face
grows even hotter. Now would be a very good time for Voldemort to come and knock on their
door.

***
Draco barges into his room without even knocking a couple of hours later and Harry shuts the
book Sirius gave him and stuffs it under the pillow with the speed he didn’t think he was
capable of.

“Why are you so pink?” Draco asks strolling into his room, hands in his pockets.

“Why didn’t you knock?” Harry retorts and Draco stares at him for a moment and then two
pink blotches appear on his pale cheeks.

“Oh. Were you…” Draco pointedly glances at Harry’s crotch and this day couldn’t get any
more embarrassing. If it does, Harry might die from sheer shame, no killing curse needed.

“No,” he says, scandalised. And he wasn’t doing anything. It’s just that Harry discovered that
Sirius’s book had very interesting, detailed and moving pictures, and it was pretty hard to stop
looking at them.

“What’s that then?” Draco asks, jerking his chin at the pillow.

“Nothing,” Harry replies but Draco is already diving towards the hidden book.

They end up wrestling on the bed but Draco is all pointy knees and elbows flying in every
direction and Harry gives in before he ends up with a broken nose or a black eye.

“Aha!” Draco exclaims in triumph standing on the bed and holding the book high in the air.

Harry throws a pillow right at his head and the blonde falls with something akin to a squawk.

“I’ve still got the book,” he stretches the words teasingly.

“I’ve decided I didn’t care,” Harry replies evenly, takes another pillow and arranges it
between his back and the wall. He leans back and attempts to look as nonchalant as he can.
Draco blinks at him for a few moments.

“So I can read your secret diary and you won’t stop me?”

“Be my guest,” Harry smiles welcomingly and waits.

Draco opens the book to a random page and then shuts it just as promptly, the blotches on his
cheeks are back.

“How come you’ve got porn?”

“It’s not porn. It’s a sex ed book.”

Draco opens it again and flicks through the pages, then shuts it again. “It’s porn,” he says
confidently and throws it back to Harry, who shrugs and puts it on the bedside table.

“Sirius used it to give me a sex talk,” he air quotes the last two words and cringes, “therefore
it’s a sex ed book.”
Draco moves to lean against the headboard, clears his throat and asks while studying his
nails, “So how far have you gone with Granger?”

And this question Harry didn’t expect at all. Draco has never been interested in anything to
do with Hermione, plus the Slytherin looks suspiciously uncomfortable right now.

“It’s none of your business.”

“Come on, Potter, she must have at least let you touch her…” Draco holds his hands to his
chest and Harry’s eyebrows go up.

“Wait, did Sirius ask you to do this?” Sirius has pretty much interrogated Harry about his
relationship with Hermione and, judging by the look on his face, his godfather wasn’t happy
that Harry didn’t tell him much.

“Why would you - oh, Morgana’s tits, fine! This is too awkward.” Draco makes a face before
confessing, “He promised to give me a twenty if I found out what you got up to with your
girlfriend.”

“But you’ve got heaps of money!” Harry exclaims, bewildered.

“I’ve never seen muggle money.” Draco doesn’t sound even a smidge apologetic. “I thought I
could sneak out and have some fun. I would’ve brought you back a souvenir.”

“Ha bloody ha,” Harry deadpans but then adds. “You can tell Sirius that Hermione and I just
cuddle and kiss-“

“Is it all you do though?”

“Not your business,” Harry repeats forcefully. “And anyway, this should get you your twenty
quid.”

***

16th July, 1993

It does and they both sneak out under Harry’s invisibility cloak then spend the money on
muggle crisps and sweets and fizzy drinks. They sit on the wall and consume the lot, and
Harry laughs at how Draco says, “Disgusting!” repeatedly but he doesn’t stop eating.

The following days fly by quicker than Harry expected, and although Draco isn’t allowed to
go out because he and his mum are technically in hiding, they find plenty of things to do
indoors.

Narcissa stays mostly confined to her room and rarely joins them even at meal times.

“She’s ashamed,” Sirius explains one day. “For having made such horrible choices.” Harry
doesn’t know if Sirius is right or wrong but he doesn’t really care either way.
Somehow, Harry manages to switch off and mostly put Voldemort out of his mind. He
diligently practices Occlumency every night and he dreams only old familiar dreams - Tom’s
memories - and gets on with his days pretending that he is just a regular kid.

***

30th July, 1993

It works just fine too until Snape knocks on their door the day before Harry’s birthday.

“Dumbledore is dead,” he declares in place of a greeting and Harry feels a strange mix of
guilt and relief.

Harry walks Snape back to the door after questions are asked and answered, and Harry
gathers all his Gryffindor courage and asks, “Can’t you do it instead of Hermione?.. Just do
it, Snape.” Harry hates it that he sounds like he is begging.

“I will when the time comes if necessary. But not now.”

Snape disapparates before Harry can ask when this will be and he is left staring at the spot
where the Professor stood just seconds ago. He slams the door shut, feeling too many
emotions that he cannot name, and stomps upstairs. Draco should be in his room and
annoying him always makes Harry feel better.

***

31 July, 1993

Harry should’ve expected this, really, with Sirius as his guardian. A quiet birthday party with
a couple of his friends? Ha! Sirius has invited all the other Gryffindor kids in his year and his
Quidditch team.

“I don’t see why you haven’t invited the whole school!” Harry’s tone is joking but he is a bit
anxious underneath the I-am-the-birthday-boy mask that he is wearing right now. It feels
wrong to celebrate so openly when they all should be mourning the Headmaster. And Draco
has locked himself in his room, refusing to come out when the house is swarming with
Gryffindors. And Harry is fed up running to the door all excited only to find Dean or Parvati
or Katie or Neville but no Hermione.

For the party, Kreacher has turned their spacious back garden into something truly magical,
with coloured lights floating in the air and cushions with bright patterns scattered on the
benches and the blankets on the grass. There are a couple of hammocks tied between the trees
and semi-sheer pieces of fabric are hanging here and there to create some shade. All this
together with the blossoming flowers create a secret fairy garden sort of vibe. Harry can’t
wait to pull Hermione into one of the many secluded spots that he has become so familiar
with and snog her senseless.

She arrives last, and her hug is just as fierce and bone-crushing as ever.
“Our plane was late, I was so cross.” She squeezes him even tighter and Harry lifts her off the
floor.

“You are extremely strong for somebody so light,” he says, kissing the corner of her mouth.
He doesn’t dare do much more because Hermione’s parents are hovering behind her. He
gently lowers her back down and greets Mr and Mrs Granger a bit awkwardly. Spending time
at their house, especially the last day, made him feel strange. Like they are watching him and
waiting for him to mess up. Thankfully, Sirius appears just in time and, after a few words,
Hermione’s parents depart, leaving her here for a whole week, which in itself is the best
birthday present of all.

“You’ll love the garden.” Harry starts to lead her outside but then stops, making her bump
into his shoulder. It simply doesn’t feel right to start the party without Draco. “Do you want
to help me manhandle a certain Slytherin and drag him out of his sad little bubble?”

It takes an Alohomora, a couple of stinging hexes and some chasing before Draco gives in
and sullenly agrees to try and meet Harry’s friends.

“You can start by using my name,” Hermione suggests, her arms folded.

“I use your name all the time, Granger,” Draco drawls.

She pokes him with the tip of her wand. “My given name.”

“Hermione,” Draco enunciates every syllable.

“Good boy,” Hermione praises mockingly, Draco protests that he is not a dog and Harry
laughs. To his surprise, Hermione takes Draco by the hand.

“Let’s go,” she says and drags him out of the room, and Draco follows after sharing a
bewildered look with Harry.

When they appear on the steps leading down into the garden - Harry and Hermione on
Draco’s either side - the friendly chatter dies down and everybody stares.

“Listen everybody!” Harry starts his speech. “This-“ he puts his hand on Draco’s shoulder, “-
is my friend Draco.”

“And mine,” Hermione adds, demonstratively lifting their still joined hands.

“He’s been since our first year and he’s pretty fun when you get to know him outside of his
nasty Slytherin persona-“

“Hey!” Draco protests but Harry also sees from the corner of his eye that Draco is smiling.

“And he’s also family now, being related to my godfather and all. He is my guest and you are
going to treat him like you would a Gryffindor.”

There is a moment of silence but, to Harry’s relief, the twins break it by cheering, “Whoop!
The first Slytherin on the side of light!”
The tension dissipates after that, and soon it feels just like another Gryffindor party, only
Harry is the centre of attention this time.

The twins spike the punch, which Sirius and Remus very likely notice but choose to turn a
blind eye to. They eat and mess about and catch up and play Twister - Sirius’s idea - and
Draco ends up winning even if everybody knows that he’s cheated by tickling Alicia’s foot.

At dusk, music starts playing and it’s impossible to tell where it’s coming from. It’s like the
air is saturated with it together with his friends’ chatter and laughter. Sirius and Remus - the
only adults - are goofing around and prancing about the garden like teenagers and Harry is
holding Hermione in his arms. Life feels so gloriously good that Harry wants to freeze this
moment in time and stay in it forever.

That’s when, suddenly, Hermione goes rigid just as the hairs on the back of Harry’s neck rise.

“Do you feel that?” He asks, looking around frantically, but it seems that their friends are all
oblivious to the change in the atmosphere.

“Yes. What do you-“ The ground trembles and gasps and shrieks explode all around. The air
itself turns heavy and Harry’s head hurts.

“The wards!” Sirius shouts. “The fireplace! Go!” Remus grabs the kids frozen in place and
pushes them towards the house. The cracks of apparition reverberate in the air and dark
shapes pop into existence all around them - black robes with hoods and silver masks wearing
grotesque expressions. Hermione gets ripped away from his side and Harry’s head explodes
with more pain than he’s experienced in his life. His vision blurs and his limbs grow weak
but he refuses to let himself fall. He squints and searches for Hermione to find her struggling
in a Death Eater’s arms. In Snape’s arms. Harry recognises his gait and his lanky black hair.
Relief floods him. If she’s with Snape, she’s as safe as she can be here.

"Harry Potter,” a voice hisses from behind him and Harry turns on shaky legs and uses
Occlumency in an attempt to lock the pain away in the deepest corner of his mind. It takes the
edge off but only barely. It’s enough though. It’s enough for Harry to stand up straight and
look the monster in the eyes. They are red, the colour of clotted blood, and his skin is so pale
it possesses a bluish tint. However, it’s neither Voldemort’s eyes nor his body that shocks
Harry. It’s the slash of his lipless mouth that is too wide for a human being. His pointy teeth
and black tongue are clearly visible due to the monster’s parody of a grin. Harry swallows his
fear down and grins back.

“Tom Riddle,” he says, arrogantly lifting his chin. The sound that comes out of Voldemort’s
mouth is even less human than his face and when Voldemort points his wand at him, Harry
feels triumphant. If Snape won’t kill the Horcrux that lives in Harry, if Hermione can’t do it,
then let Tom himself destroy it without even realising that by killing Harry he will only bring
his own demise closer.

There are screams all around him, the flashes of spells illuminate the air and Hermione is
calling his name but he barely registers any of it. And when Voldemort’s mouth moves to cast
the killing curse, Harry’s grin doesn’t waver.
***

“Harry!” Hermione shouts at his back but he doesn’t turn. “Harry!” Her voice is a desperate
yell. It’s like a prayer that she knows won’t be answered. She thrashes in Snape’s arms but his
hold only goes stronger, his wiry arms like steel. And when Voldemort points his wand at
Harry, her body goes rigid with fear. This is it. Harry will either live or die and all she can do
is watch it happen. She will not look away.

A spell sizzles past her shoulder - it’s hot and angry red and it crackles like fire.

“Avada-“ The spell slashes across Voldemort’s neck before he can finish casting the killing
curse and his head rolls off his shoulders, his maw open and eyes dull brown. The body
crumbles to the floor, the neck wound blackened and smoking - there is no blood. Hermione’s
body sags in relief against Professor Snape. Voldemort is dead. They must have been wrong.
Harry is right there, and nothing is happening, so maybe he is not a Horcrux at all.

Only then the smoke coming out of Voldemort’s neck gets thicker and Hermione realises that
it’s not smoke at all. It’s exactly like it was with Quirrell. The vapour twists and takes the
shape of the monster that has just fallen to the ground. The spectre flies at Harry, her Harry.
She thrashes in Snape’s hold again. She needs to get to him.

Harry screams when the vapour hits him right in the face and the sound strikes Hermione like
a punch. Harry falls to his knees, his fingers clawing at his face, and when he turns and gets
back up, his movements are jerky. They are not like her Harry at all. And when he looks at
her, his eyes are red.

“No,” Hermione whispers in shock. “No, no, nonononono-“ Snape shakes her hard.

“Now, Granger, now!” She doesn’t understand at first. What can she do now? The boy who
used to be Harry tilts his head to the side and looks at her like a predator.

“You.” the voice that comes out isn’t Harry’s at all. “He loved you the most.”

“Hermione, now!” Snape repeats urgently, and Hermione gets it this time. Harry didn’t love
her the most. He still does. He isn’t dead. He is trapped inside his body and all that Hermione
needs to do is kill the monster.

The monster takes a jerky step forward as if he is in a body that won’t listen, and Hermione
realises that it’s her Harry still fighting, not letting Voldemort come any closer to her.

She raises her wand and the hatred, the desire to kill that she needs to cast the spell comes so
easily that the curse tears itself out of her with unprecedented ease.

“Avada Kedavra!” It works, but this time she was confident it would. It hits the monster
square in the chest and the red instantly leaves Harry’s irises. Hermione watches as the colour
of Harry’s eyes returns to the vivid green that she loves with all her heart and hope blossoms
in her chest again. Harry’s eyes roll back though and his body collapses to the ground.
Somebody behind her screams and swears until Snape lets her go and there is another flash of
light and silence. Panic creeps up her throat but she swallows it down, stomps on it and
chokes it before it has a chance to take over her body.

***

Harry’s head is on her lap, black liquid is oozing out of his scar. She keeps on cleaning it with
her wand but it just won’t stop coming. Somebody touches her shoulder but she shakes the
hand off.

“Hermione,” Snape says but his voice sounds as if it’s far away. “It’s been twenty minutes.”

Harry hasn’t taken a breath in twenty minutes. His heart hasn’t beaten in twenty minutes. It
doesn’t mean anything at all. She can feel him like she does when he enters the room. She
can -

“He is dead,” Snape says and his voice cracks.

How dare he! It’s the first time Hermione turns away from Harry’s face and looks straight
into Snape’s black eyes.

“I know what his absence feels like and this is not it!” She barks and, as if on cue, Harry sits
up with a gasp and coughs and gags and throws up what looks like a mix of black liquid and
blood.

When he is done heaving, Hermione summons a glass to fill it with water from her wand and
hands it to Harry, her hands shaking. He rinses his mouth and spits it out.

“Yuck,” Harry sticks his tongue out in disgust. “Voldemort’s essence."

Hermione laughs and throws her arms around him, nearly toppling them over.

“Woah! Careful! There’s grossness all around!” But Harry holds her back nevertheless - here,
unharmed and so very alive - and finally Hermione allows herself to fall apart.

***

Hermione’s sobs have quietened down but she is still clinging on for dear life, not like Harry
is going to complain. He looks around at all the destruction, turned over furniture, a hole in
the fence, and patches of singed grass. His presents, previously arranged in a neat heap on a
small table, are now scattered all over the place.

Harry looks at Voldemort’s body and feels absolutely nothing. He looks at the other bodies on
the ground. They are all dressed in black but there are only a few - Harry recognises Lucius
Malfoy and Bellatrix Lestrange. Where are the rest? He looks at Sirius and Remus, standing
too still, clearly Petrified, only their eyes moving. Finally, he looks at Snape, whose signature
unreadable expression is back in place but it crumbles into pieces when their eyes meet, relief
written all over his face.

“Care to explain what exactly happened here, Professor? And maybe unfreeze my family?”
***

They all end up in the dining room. Harry and Hermione huddled close together, Narcissa
Malfoy holding Draco and stroking his hair, Remus and Sirius next to each other, a mix of
confusion, anxiety and relief on their faces, and Snape standing alone, leaning against the
wall.

Kreacher serves Hot Toddy to everybody, even the children, and they spend what feels like
hours telling their story from the very beginning. Visions and Horcruxes and Harry and
Hermione’s bond. Harry learns that Sirius was the one to cast the curse that took Voldemort’s
head right off and that Snape had converted his fellow Death Eaters, making them his allies.

“It was uninspiringly easy. Everybody could see that the Dark - that Voldemort was insane.
He wanted their children. He was depleting people of their magic. It was only natural the
majority of Death Eaters wanted out and I provided a way.”

“That’s why hardly anybody fought!” Sirius smacks himself on the head as if it should’ve
been obvious. “And you two,” Sirius points at Harry and Hermione. “I should ground you
two for a year.” Harry wants to point out that he can’t ground Hermione but he is too tired
and heavy to even move his lips.

“It doesn’t matter now, Sirius,” Remus says soothingly. “Everybody’s safe. We got all the
other children out just in time…”

Harry stops listening and lays his head on his folded arms. A moment later, he feels the
weight of Hermione’s head on his back. Harry smiles and lets the buzz of voices lull him to
sleep.

***

3rd August, 1993

Having finished the latest Prophet article - THE TRUTH ABOUT YOU-KNOW-WHO’S
DEMISE- Harry tosses the paper away with a relieved sign.

“I told you there was nothing bad,” Hermione says, stretching on the blanket they laid out on
the grass. Only a couple of days ago Grimmauld Place was swarming with Aurors,
Obliviators and reporters but now the garden looks like nothing even happened here. The
black goop that came out of Harry vanished, the grass magically regrown and the fence and
furniture fixed. Now, the whole world believes that Sirius, Snape and Remus are the wizards
responsible for bringing Voldemort down with Harry only mentioned in passing.

Harry props himself up on one elbow, head resting on his hand.

“Isn’t it strange that we don’t have to think about it anymore?” He picks a buttercup and trails
the flower starting from Hermione’s fingers and up her arm. She raises her head to look and
lets it fall again, smiling.
 She agrees with a hum and then adds, “It’s like there is so much more space in my head now
and I have an urge to fill it in with something.”

Harry traces her collarbone and circles the shoulder with the yellow flower. “So deciding
which electives to choose and dealing with additional subjects, navigating our relationship
when the world isn’t about to fall apart - which will be totally new for us by the way - and
figuring out how to make your parents like me isn’t enough?”

“They like you,” Hermione squirms when he tickles behind her ear and bats the flower away.
“They just don’t like it when you touch me.”

“Well, then we’ve got a problem because I want to touch you very, very much.” He lets his
fingers stroke the line of her jaw and her neck, and Hermione lifts her chin to give him better
access.

“What they don’t know can’t harm them,” Hermione rises on her elbows and their lips meet.
They kiss lazily, slowly, skin salty with the summer heat. It’s finally beginning to sink in that
they do have all the time in the world now. That Harry gets to grow up, that he is-

He pulls away abruptly and Hermione’s eyes fall open.

“Hermione, I’m alive. We’re both alive.” Harry laughs and it seems to be contagious because
Hermione’s whole body begins to shake with laughter too, and soon they are both lying on
the blanket, foreheads pressed together, laughing all the horrors that they’ve experienced
away.

“Do you think we’ll get sick of each other one day?” Harry asks, lifting his glasses and
wiping his happy tears away. When he moves them back in place, Hermione is watching him,
her eyes the colour of honey in the sun.

“I don’t think I’ll ever get sick of you,” she answers with all seriousness and snuggles deeper
into his arms.

“I don’t think I’ll ever get sick of you either,” Harry whispers into her temple.

He reaches inside the pocket of his jeans and gets the golden Snitch that he nicked what feels
like ages ago. He holds it between his fingers and watches the wings unfurl.

In some way, living feels scarier than knowing that you will have to die. It’s scarier than the
cupboard under the stairs. It’s scarier than facing Voldemort. He has no idea what will happen
next but that’s okay because they are going to figure it out together, Hermione and him. Their
lives are only just beginning.

He opens his palm and lets the Snitch go.

Chapter End Notes

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