Chapter 11: Cookies
Chapter Text
The crackling fire in the large hearth of Potter Manor's cozy study cast flickering shadows on the walls as Hermione Granger let out an exasperated groan. She stood in the center of the room, surrounded by towering piles of ancient books, her usually composed face etched with frustration. Her hair, a wild tangle from hours of searching, looked even more frazzled as she stared at the open volumes, her brown eyes gleaming with determination that was now bordering on desperation.
"I can't believe it, still nothing!" Hermione threw her hands in the air, her voice trembling with the edge of impatience. Her eyes, usually alight with the excitement of solving a puzzle, were now clouded with exhaustion. "How can we not find a single thing about Nicholas Flamel? It's like he doesn't even exist!"
Harry, lounging on the floor by the fire, glanced up at her with a sympathetic smile, though there was a hint of frustration tugging at his own features. He hated feeling like he was missing something obvious—especially when he knew, deep down, that the name Nicholas Flamel sounded so familiar. Yet, he couldn't bring himself to ask Sirius about it. No, he wanted to figure this out on his own—prove himself before bringing it to his godfather.
"We've looked through every book I can think of," Harry muttered, running a hand through his messy hair as he lay back on the thick carpet. His green eyes stared up at the ornate ceiling, as though hoping the answer would magically appear in the cracks between the beams. "Maybe it's spelled differently? Like, Nikolas with a 'K' or something? Flamel with an extra 'e' at the end?"
Hermione, who had been pacing back and forth, stopped to give him a skeptical look. "Honestly, Harry, you think a different spelling will help us? I've checked every variation of his name, I've double-checked our sources. We're missing something, I just know it. Don't give up!"
Letting out a groan, Harry stretched his arms over his head, sinking deeper into the soft rug beneath him. "I'm not giving up, Hermione. I'm just… taking a break." He grinned mischievously and reached for her wrist, pulling her down onto the floor beside him.
Caught off guard, Hermione yelped slightly before reluctantly collapsing next to him, her arm brushing against his. For a moment, the tension in the room softened as the two lay side by side, their breath slowing as they stared at the fire. The warmth of the flames cast a golden glow over them, and despite the frustration of their fruitless search, the moment felt strangely peaceful.
"Why am I working so hard on this?" Hermione sighed, her voice softer now, almost introspective. She turned her head to look at Harry, her bushy hair spreading out on the rug like a wild halo.
"Because you're you," Harry said with a lazy smile, his voice teasing but affectionate. He shifted slightly to look at her, their faces closer now. "And you're brilliant. And curious."
Hermione rolled her eyes but couldn't help the small smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "Damn right I am," she agreed. Then, with more force, she added, "So why can't we find anything on Nicholas Flamel?"
Harry burst into laughter at her exasperation, the sound rich and full, filling the room with warmth. He had to admit, seeing Hermione so riled up over this was both endearing and entertaining. Her intensity was something he admired, but also something he loved to tease her about.
Suddenly, a voice broke the moment.
"Nicholas Flamel?" came a light, almost sing-song voice from behind them. They both jumped, rolling over quickly to see Emma Granger standing in the doorway, holding a steaming cup of tea. Her eyes twinkled with amusement as she took in the sight of the two of them sprawled out on the floor amidst the chaos of books.
Harry sat up quickly, his eyebrows shooting up in surprise. "Wait—did you just say Nicholas Flamel? Do you know who he is?" His heart was racing. No way. No way Emma Granger of all people knew what they couldn't figure out.
Hermione, too, looked shocked. "Mum, how do you know about him?" Her voice was breathless, as if she couldn't believe her mother might have the key to this mystery.
Emma raised an eyebrow, smiling as she took a sip of her tea. "Oh, I've read about him. Quite fascinating, really. Isn't this for your homework?"
Harry and Hermione exchanged incredulous looks, the absurdity of the situation hitting them all at once. Harry blinked, unable to hide his disbelief. "No freaking way."
"Way," Emma said simply, her expression far too casual for their liking. "I came across his name in one of the old volumes in the library here. It was a book on alchemy."
Hermione let out a soft gasp, her brain already working through the implications. "Mum, you've read about him? How? We couldn't find anything in Hogwarts!"
Emma's lips curled into a knowing smile. "Well, where were you looking, exactly?"
Harry looked sheepish as he began to explain, "Mostly the Hogwarts library. When that didn't work, we focused on notable wizards."
Hermione nodded, still processing what was happening. "His name wasn't in Great Wizards of the Twentieth Century, Notable Magical Names of Our Time, Important Modern Magical Discoveries..."
Emma couldn't help but laugh as she walked into the room, gesturing for the two to follow her. "Those are all modern books, Hermione. Nicholas Flamel is much older than that. He's more of a historical figure. Haven't either of you thought to look into alchemy?"
The two friends looked at each other with wide eyes. Alchemy? Why the bloody hell would they even look at that? They don't even know what he does or what he was famous for!
"Mum…" Hermione breathed, her eyes now glowing with curiosity. "Do you mean…?"
Emma grinned, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Come on, let me show you the book." She turned and began leading them down the corridor towards the Potter family library, her tea still in hand.
As they followed her, Harry turned to Hermione, a mix of frustration and excitement in his eyes. "How did we miss that? Alchemy? Of all the subjects in the world!"
Hermione groaned dramatically, pressing her hands over her face as if to shield herself from the embarrassment. "I'm never going to live this down, am I?" Her voice was half a whine, half a sigh, the weight of her perfectionist streak crashing down on her. She peeked through her fingers at Harry.
Harry laughed, nudging her with his elbow. "Not a chance. But hey, at least we've got a lead now." His grin grew wider at the sight of Hermione's annoyed scowl, though he could see the relief hidden underneath her frustration.
As they entered the towering Potter Library, Harry felt the familiar sense of awe wash over him. It was like stepping into a different world, one where history and magic mingled in the air. The grand tower of the library loomed over them, five sprawling floors of knowledge, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves stacked with thousands of volumes—many of which hadn't been touched in decades. Harry had always loved it here, and seeing it finally beginning to come together made his chest swell with pride.
The first floor, at least, had transformed from the dusty chaos it had once been. Now, thanks to Emma's diligent efforts, it looked pristine—polished floors, neat shelves, and not a single book left out of place. Even the higher floors, though still a work in progress, were beginning to look more orderly. Emma had certainly done wonders organizing the mess, and Harry couldn't help but marvel at how much more alive the library felt.
"She's really something, isn't she?" Harry murmured to Hermione, gesturing to her mum who hummed softly to herself as she ascended the spiral staircase toward the third floor.
Hermione nodded but didn't say anything, her eyes following her mother as she disappeared into the upper levels. There was something bittersweet in her expression, but she quickly masked it, refocusing on the task at hand.
A few moments later, Emma returned, holding an ancient-looking tome with thick, worn pages and a cover that was intricately embossed with swirling, golden designs. It was large enough to require both of her hands to carry. She had a triumphant look on her face.
"Here it is!" Emma beamed, carefully setting the book down on the ornate library table in front of Harry and Hermione. "This is an old text on Alchemy, written centuries ago. It has quite the collection of legends."
Intrigued, Harry leaned in as Emma flipped through the delicate pages, the scent of old parchment filling the room. She finally stopped at a passage, her finger pointing to a specific section of text.
"Look," Emma said, with an air of victory. "This should be what you're after."
Harry and Hermione crowded over the book, their heads almost touching as they read aloud in unison, "Nicholas Flamel is the only known maker of the Philosopher's Stone." Their eyes widened, hearts pounding as they continued to read. "The Philosopher's Stone is a legendary substance with astonishing powers. It will transform any metal into pure gold and produces the Elixir of Life, which grants immortality to the drinker. The only stone currently in existence belongs to Nicholas Flamel."
Harry's heart skipped a beat as the realization sank in. They had found it—the key to the mystery. He turned toward Hermione, his eyes wide with excitement. "The Philosopher's Stone!"
Emma, looking rather pleased with herself, gave them a smug smile. "Quite the alchemist, isn't he?" She crossed her arms, sipping from her cup as though revealing one of the greatest secrets of the wizarding world was just another casual conversation.
Harry closed the book gently, his fingers lingering on the rough edges of the pages. He turned to Emma, his expression one of pure admiration. "I really appreciate the help, Mrs. Granger. But I've got to ask... how did you even know about this? I mean, it's incredible! You must have read so many books to remember something like that."
Emma's grin widened as she leaned forward, clearly enjoying their astonishment. "I have an eidetic memory, Harry, dear. Once I read something, it stays with me forever."
Harry blinked, stunned. "An eidetic memory?" He looked over at Hermione, his eyes shining with newfound respect, a playful smirk tugging at his lips.
Hermione rolled her eyes but couldn't help the slight smile pulling at the corners of her mouth. "Don't even ask. That's the one thing I didn't inherit from Mum," she muttered, her voice tinged with a pout.
Harry chuckled, leaning a bit closer, his voice dropping to a teasing whisper. "Oh well... I still think you're pretty brilliant. Pretty and brilliant, actually." His smirk widened as he watched her cheeks flush.
Hermione's response was swift—a punch to Harry's arm, catching him completely off-guard. The light thud echoed through the library, and Emma gasped, her tea sloshing slightly as she looked between the two in shock.
"Hermione Jean Granger!" Emma exclaimed, her voice filled with motherly disapproval. "Why on earth did you punch Harry?"
But Harry didn't stick around to hear Hermione's explanation. He was already halfway out of the library, bolting toward the nearest exit with a grin plastered on his face. He wasn't about to get caught in the middle of a mother-daughter interrogation.
"Coward!" Hermione's voice rang out behind him, a mixture of laughter and exasperation. Harry couldn't help but chuckle as he disappeared down the corridor, the playful exchange lingering in the air behind him like a warm glow.
xxxxx
Harry lay on his bed, the velvet curtains drawn tight around the four-poster, shrouding him in darkness. His heart raced, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts that he couldn't tame, no matter how hard he tried. Excitement surged through his veins, but it was laced with something darker—anger, frustration, and a hint of fear. His fists clenched at his sides as his breathing quickened.
He knew it now. He finally knew what was hidden within the depths of Hogwarts.
The Philosopher's Stone.
Money and immortality—the ultimate combination of power. Whoever controlled the Stone would be unstoppable. It was no wonder that Albus Dumbledore, the self-proclaimed Leader of the Light, had hidden it there. But why? Why in Hogwarts, a school filled with students who didn't know any better? The question gnawed at him, the unease settling in his chest like a heavy weight.
Harry's mind raced through a thousand possibilities. The Philosopher's Stone was no ordinary object. If the legends were true, whoever possessed it could turn any metal into pure gold and create the Elixir of Life—eternal youth, endless wealth. A cold shiver ran down his spine. The thought of someone like Dumbledore having that kind of power... it was terrifying.
He rolled onto his back, his fists still clenched as he stared at the dark ceiling above him. The idea that Dumbledore might be playing some kind of twisted game, hiding the Stone in plain sight, made his blood boil. He could feel the heat of his anger rising in his chest, his pulse quickening as he thought of the audacity of it all.
Dumbledore, richer than him and Sirius? Immortal?
Harry's lips twisted into a sneer. Dumbledore was already one of the most powerful wizards in the world, but with the Philosopher's Stone, he would become untouchable. An immortal leader who could reshape the world into whatever vision he desired. And who knew what that would be? A world where Dumbledore pulled all the strings, where every decision passed through his control.
He sat up in bed, his hands gripping the duvet, knuckles white. The thought made him sick. He couldn't let that happen. He wouldn't let that happen.
But how had word gotten out that the Stone was hidden in Hogwarts? Who had let the secret slip? The troll incident was no accident—that much was clear. It had been a diversion, an attempt to sneak past the traps and get to the Stone.
But who?
Several names flashed through his mind, but none of them stuck. The only thing he knew for sure was that someone had tried to get past Fluffy, the three-headed dog guarding the trapdoor. And judging by the injuries he'd seen on a few specific people, they hadn't succeeded. Yet.
He needed more information. He needed to be sure.
But the clock was ticking, and that knowledge gnawed at him. The Stone's power was too great to be left in anyone's hands—especially Dumbledore's. If what he suspected was true, Dumbledore was not only hiding the Stone, but he was doing so to increase his own power. And if Harry didn't act fast, the headmaster would soon become the most powerful wizard to ever walk the earth.
The very thought twisted in his stomach. What kind of world would that lead to? What kind of future would they be trapped in, with Dumbledore calling the shots? Harry shuddered, his fists unclenching as he leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. The fire in his chest burned hotter, his anger fueling his resolve.
He needed to get to the Stone first.
But as much as he hated to admit it, he couldn't do it alone. He needed help, and not just any help. He needed someone who could navigate the castle's traps, someone who could think on their feet as quickly as he could.
He needed Hermione.
The thought made him hesitate for a moment. He and Hermione had grown close, sure, but dragging her into this—into something dangerous—was a different matter. But he knew she wouldn't back down. She was as determined as he was, and maybe even smarter. Together, they might stand a chance of beating Dumbledore to the Stone. And he needed her sharp wit, her mind that seemed to catch things even he missed.
Still, a part of him wanted to protect her, to keep her out of harm's way. But that wasn't Hermione. She would hate him for keeping something like this from her. She would want to be part of the fight.
Harry ran a hand through his messy black hair, sighing in frustration. His head was buzzing with too many thoughts, too many plans that weren't fully formed. Sleep wouldn't come easily tonight, not with everything racing through his mind like this.
His eyes flicked to his desk where a small bottle sat tucked into the corner, half-hidden by a pile of books. He knew what it was—a sleeping potion. He had picked it up during one of his trips to Diagon Alley, back when his mind would race too fast for him to sleep. It wasn't something he used often, but tonight... he needed it.
Standing, he padded over to the desk, the cold floor beneath his bare feet sending a shiver through him. His fingers wrapped around the small bottle, and without hesitation, he downed the contents in one gulp. The taste was bitter, but it worked quickly, a soft haze descending over his mind almost immediately.
Finally, his thoughts began to slow. His muscles relaxed as the tension drained from his body, the anger simmering down into a manageable ember. He stumbled back to his bed, collapsing onto the mattress as sleep began to pull him under.
His last thoughts before drifting off were of the Stone, Dumbledore, and the danger ahead.
And Hermione.
He needed her.
xxxxx
Harry woke up in an instant. His eyes shot open, and his heart raced with excitement.
It was Christmas!
The thrill of the day sent a surge of energy through him. Sure, Ron and Draco wouldn't be there to join the festivities, but Hermione was! And this year wasn't just going to be him and Sirius sharing a quiet meal together. No, today, the manor felt warmer, more alive with company. The house-elves had been busy preparing, and Harry could already hear the faint clattering of plates and mugs downstairs.
Throwing off the covers, Harry scrambled out of bed, pulling on his green Weasley sweater from the closet—a soft, familiar hug from Molly Weasley herself. He smiled at the thought, then dashed out of his room and down the wide, winding stairs toward the living room.
When he arrived, the fireplace crackled warmly, casting an inviting glow across the room. Presents were piled high, shimmering with holiday charm, but Harry's eyes quickly found the people gathered around them.
Sirius lounged in a cozy black turtleneck, the sleeves rolled up as he casually perused the Daily Prophet. His hair was slightly disheveled, and his casual demeanor only added to his roguish charm. Nearby, Emma Granger sat on the floor, laughing as she helped Hermione sort through her presents.
"Happy Christmas, everyone!" Harry exclaimed, nearly tripping over himself as he sprinted toward his pile of gifts, almost crashing into Hermione and Emma in his excitement.
"Careful, Harry!" Emma laughed, holding her hand out in a mock gesture of protection.
Hermione watched him, her brow raised, clearly amused by the sudden transformation of her usually cool and collected best friend. "You're acting like a little kid," she teased, though her eyes softened seeing him so carefree.
Harry, too caught up in the excitement, didn't respond. Instead, he dove into his gifts, tearing through them with wild abandon.
Ron had sent him a book on Seeker tactics from the Chudley Cannons, his favorite Quidditch team. "Typical Ron," Harry murmured, smirking as he flipped through the pages, his mind already planning how he'd use those new moves in his next practice.
Draco's gift, surprisingly thoughtful, was a sleek leather jacket. Harry held it up, admiring the smooth black leather, already imagining how cool he'd look wearing it around Hogwarts.
"Not bad, Malfoy," Harry grinned to himself, folding it over the arm of the chair.
Narcissa had sent something more elegant—a beautiful locket with the Potter crest, a wolf etched with ruby-red eyes. Harry opened it, expecting to see a photo, but there was none. He smirked, running his fingers over the smooth metal, making a mental note to add something special inside.
Professor McGonagall's gift was as practical as ever: a book on Animagus transformation with a pointed note, reminding him not to learn it in secret like his father and his friends had done. Harry chuckled, shaking his head.
Remus sent him a novel, an ongoing war between vampires and werewolves, no doubt hoping to spark his love for reading. Hagrid's gift, a rustic wooden flute, left Harry chuckling, wondering what the half-giant expected him to do with it.
Among the piles was the familiar sight of a Weasley sweater—Molly never forgot to send one—this year in deep maroon. There were chocolates from his friends in France and, last but not least, a hand-knitted scarf from Hermione.
Harry's hands paused on the scarf, his eyes widening slightly. He lifted the material slowly, feeling the soft wool between his fingers. It was a dark green, almost black, but just green enough to highlight his eyes.
"Is this… handmade?" he asked in awe, his voice dropping to a whisper. His fingers traced over the slightly messy patterns, noticing the occasional lump where the yarn had gone astray.
Hermione flushed slightly, avoiding his gaze. "It's not perfect…"
Harry looped the scarf around his neck, securing it snugly. His smirk, though hidden by the scarf, was evident in his voice. "I love it," he said softly. "Thanks, Hermione."
Hermione's cheeks burned, but she quickly covered her embarrassment with a playful shove. "Don't get too full of yourself, Potter."
Harry chuckled, missing her words as he turned to Sirius, excitement bursting from him. "Sirius! Look at this scarf Hermione made! She made it! With her own hands!"
Sirius raised a brow, his mouth full of cookies, and grinned lazily. "Oh, shut up, Harry."
Harry wasn't done, though. "Look at this, Mrs. Granger!" he said, lifting the ends of the scarf that dangled across his chest. "Hermione made it!"
Emma laughed, her hand gently resting on Hermione's arm, stopping her daughter from swatting Harry in her embarrassment. "It's lovely, Harry. But don't forget, you still have more gifts."
Harry blinked, momentarily distracted from his scarf obsession as he returned to his pile. His fingers eagerly tore through Emma's gift, revealing a broom servicing kit.
"Wow! Thanks, Mrs. Granger!" he exclaimed, his eyes shining.
Emma smiled warmly. "I told you, just call me Emma, Harry."
Harry grinned, his voice softening. "Thanks… Emma."
Finally, only one present remained. Harry reached for it, his excitement reaching its peak. Without even glancing at the attached note, he tore into the packaging, only to freeze.
"Is this… a cloak?" His voice was thick with wonder as he pulled the fabric free. It shimmered in the light, its texture like liquid silk. His breath hitched, and his eyes shot to Sirius. "S-Sirius…"
Sirius nearly dropped his mug, his chair screeching against the floor as he rushed to Harry's side. His hands reached for the cloak, eyes wide with disbelief. "Bloody Merlin…"
Hermione and Emma watched, their curiosity piqued as Sirius wrapped the cloak around Harry's body. The effect was instant—Harry vanished from view, save for his floating head that wasn't covered by the cloak.
Sirius' voice was a hushed whisper. "It's James's Invisibility Cloak. I thought it was lost during the war. Who sent you this?"
Harry, his hands trembling, fumbled for the note. "There's… there's a note."
Sirius grabbed it, his eyes scanning the words, his expression quickly darkening with anger. "Your father left this in my possession before he died. It's time it was returned to you. Use it well."
Sirius growled low in his throat, the tension palpable.
Hermione, her voice shaky, asked, "Who… who sent it, Harry?"
Harry glanced at Sirius, their voices merging in unison.
"Dumbledore."
xxxxx
Sirius left in a rush after finishing the grand Christmas feast prepared by the house-elves. The festive atmosphere they had attempted to preserve crumbled the moment the Invisibility Cloak had resurfaced. The cloak, a precious Potter heirloom, was supposed to have been Harry's all along—yet here it was, returned like some afterthought on Christmas Day. A slap in the face of what was lost.
As Sirius hastily muttered about work, Harry knew better. His godfather was headed to Hogwarts, no doubt storming into the castle to demand answers from Dumbledore. Answers about why the cloak, which could have potentially saved James and Lily, was kept hidden for so long.
After Emma and Hermione had finished the feast, they, too, prepared to leave for the mall—a tradition Hermione had mentioned earlier, where they would buy Christmas dresses, look at decorations, and enjoy the holiday bustle. Emma, ever so perceptive, had noticed Harry's dark mood. She extended the invitation for him to join them, hoping a change of scenery might lift his spirits. But Harry had refused, murmuring something about needing to rest.
Hermione had hesitated, her hand lingering on the back of Harry's chair, her eyes searching his face with concern. "Are you sure? It might be fun. We could find you something too."
Harry only shook his head. "I'll catch up later," he said quietly, not meeting her gaze.
Hermione bit her lip, her brow furrowing. She wanted to push further, maybe even drag him along, but her mother's gentle touch on her shoulder stopped her. Emma knew when someone needed space. With one last glance, Hermione followed her mother out of the house, leaving Harry alone.
The house felt unbearably quiet once they were gone.
Harry retreated to his bedroom and sank down on the floor, the weight of the Invisibility Cloak heavy in his lap. He stared at it, his fingers brushing over the fine, silvery fabric, feeling every smooth line and perfect seam. There were no tears, no signs of wear, no fading. It was flawless. Immortal, almost. Just like Sirius and Remus had described—a cloak unlike any other in the world, passed down through generations of Potters.
The best Invisibility Cloak in existence, they said.
But the only thing running through Harry's mind was why.
Why had his father given this cloak to Dumbledore in the first place? Knowing they were being hunted by Voldemort, why hadn't he kept it? And why, after all these years, had Dumbledore kept it from him, only to return it now like some casual holiday gift?
Harry's hands balled into fists, his knuckles white with the effort of holding back the swell of emotions rising in his chest. He could feel the fury bubbling beneath the surface, the injustice of it all twisting inside him like a knife. He could almost hear Sirius's voice from their many late-night talks, each time he mentioned how the cloak might have saved James and Lily. They didn't know if it would have protected them from the Killing Curse—but they didn't know if it wouldn't either.
Harry's breath hitched as the thought took root. If it could've saved them... if they had just had the cloak that night...
His parents might still be alive.
Tears stung at his eyes, but Harry furiously blinked them away. He wouldn't cry. He was beyond that now. His heart twisted painfully in his chest as he gripped the cloak tighter. His anger wasn't just directed at the Death Eaters anymore. It was Dumbledore.
Fucking Dumbledore.
He could picture it all so clearly now—Dumbledore, sitting in his grand office with that twinkle in his eye, thinking he knew best. Thinking he had the right to make decisions for Harry, for his family. Harry had trusted him once. Believed in him.
No more.
Harry's body trembled, his breathing becoming erratic as the rage built up inside him, overwhelming his senses. He couldn't hold it in any longer. His grip on the wand in his pocket tightened as his heart pounded furiously in his chest, the heat of his fury boiling his blood.
Without thinking, Harry leapt to his feet and screamed. A raw, animalistic sound that tore from his throat. His wand was in his hand before he could even register what he was doing, and the next thing he knew, he was blasting everything in sight.
Spells ripped across the room, slashing through the furniture, tearing the wallpaper, and scattering books and clothes across the floor. The walls, once adorned with elegant tapestries, now bore deep gashes where Harry's magic had lashed out. His breath came in ragged gasps, but the anger—the pain—was still there, burning through him, threatening to consume everything.
It wasn't enough.
He fired again, his wand cutting through the curtains this time, the rich fabric falling to the floor in shreds. A lamp shattered, its pieces raining down like glass snowflakes. The fireplace crackled as embers burst out of the hearth, singeing the edges of the rug.
He wanted to destroy everything. He wanted to make it all hurt like he hurt.
In that chaotic, furious moment, something deep inside him shifted. The plan he had once harbored—to merely push Dumbledore out of Hogwarts, to force him into early retirement—felt childish now. Naive.
No.
Dumbledore didn't deserve exile. He didn't deserve to fade quietly into the background. He deserved to pay.
An eye for an eye. A tooth for a tooth. A life for a life.
"Evil for evil."
Harry's jaw clenched as the thought settled into his mind like a cold stone in his gut. His heart was hammering, but his movements slowed. His wand arm lowered, though his eyes were still blazing with fury.
Dumbledore needs to die.
By his hand.
For what he did to his parents. For keeping this from Harry. For all the lies.
He stood in the center of the wreckage of his room, his chest heaving, his head spinning with the weight of the revelation. Everything around him was in ruins, but the chaos matched the storm brewing inside him. His hand, still gripping his wand, trembled.
It has to be him.
He swallowed hard, the rage still simmering beneath his skin, but with a new purpose now. A dark, terrible purpose. One that he could not—and would not—deny any longer.
Dumbledore's time was coming.
And when it did, Harry would be ready.
xxxxx
The Grangers returned to Potter Manor, expecting Harry to still be down in the dumps after the somber mood they had left him in earlier. To their surprise, the smell of warm sugar and chocolate greeted them. As they stepped into the kitchen, they found Harry standing by the counter, his sleeves rolled up, grinning widely with flour dusting his cheeks and hair. Dobby and Kreacher hovered around him, both muttering to themselves as they tried to assist him, though it was clear that Harry was more interested in doing the work himself.
"Well, well, look at this," Emma said, raising an eyebrow at the scene in front of her. "Didn't expect to find you here, Harry."
Harry looked up, a cheeky grin spreading across his face. "Hey, Hermione, Emma! What did you get from the mall?"
Hermione crossed her arms, giving him a suspicious look. "What's going on here, Harry? When we left, it looked like the world was ending, and now... you're baking cookies? By yourself?"
Harry's grin widened. "What? Am I not allowed to bake now? Can't a guy change his mood?"
Hermione's frown deepened as she stepped closer, noticing the mess on his face. There was flour sticking to his forehead and chocolate smeared on the corner of his lips. His green eyes sparkled with amusement, the same scarf she had knitted for him wrapped snugly around his neck—though he'd clearly tucked it behind his back to avoid getting it dirty. He looked far too relaxed considering the way he had been sulking earlier.
"You missed a spot," Hermione said, pointing to his face, trying to suppress a smile.
Harry wiped his face with the back of his hand, but the chocolate smear only seemed to spread, making Hermione giggle despite her earlier concern. "Better?" he asked, with a mischievous glint in his eye.
"Not even close," Hermione replied, stepping forward to help. But before she could reach him, Emma chimed in.
"We just bought a few things, saw some nice clothes that would look great on you and Sirius," Emma said, placing her shopping bags down on the kitchen counter. "Speaking of Sirius, is he back yet?"
Harry shook his head, wiping his hands on a towel. "Nope, probably busy with 'work.'" He emphasized the word, clearly not convinced by Sirius' vague excuses. "He'll come around in the morning, I bet. We can go ahead with dinner, though. I'll finish these up, and we'll have fresh cookies for dessert."
The house-elves exchanged annoyed glances, clearly not fond of Harry's insistence on doing the work himself. Kreacher let out a grumble under his breath about how it wasn't fitting for young masters to be doing housework, but Harry waved him off.
"I told you, I want to bake these myself," Harry said, giving the elves a playful glare. "Go on, take a break if you like."
Emma, taking in the mess of flour, sugar, and butter splattered across the kitchen, chuckled softly. She knew Harry wasn't bad at baking; in fact, he was quite good. But it looked like today, his playful mood was leading to a bit of chaos. "Hermione, why don't you help Harry out?"
"Wha—me?!" Hermione blurted, turning to her mother with wide eyes. "I've never baked anything in my life!"
Emma gave her daughter a knowing smile as she reached for a bottle of wine Sirius had gifted her. "Good luck," she mouthed to Hermione with a grin before walking off with her glass, leaving the two alone in the kitchen.
Harry, not giving Hermione a chance to protest further, grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her toward the counter. "Come on, Hermione. I'll teach you. It's not that hard. Just follow my lead."
Hermione huffed, still flustered from her mother's unexpected suggestion. Dobby floated over with an apron, neatly tying it around her waist before stepping back. "This is absurd," she muttered, but a small part of her couldn't help but feel intrigued.
"Don't worry. We're only making cookies, not a feast," Harry teased, his smirk widening as he leaned against the counter, watching her.
Hermione shot him a glare but couldn't resist the tug at the corners of her mouth. "Fine. What do I need to do?"
"Simple," Harry said, rolling up his sleeves further. "The ingredients are all measured out. You just have to mix, whisk, and beat a few things. Think you can handle that?"
"Of course I can," she said, raising her chin a little higher. "I'm not hopeless."
Harry chuckled. "We'll see about that."
He pointed toward a bowl with softened butter, white sugar, and brown sugar. "While I preheat the oven, start with that. Beat it all together until it's smooth."
Hermione picked up the whisk and began mixing. It wasn't long before her arms began to tire, and in her frustration, she splashed some of the mixture out of the bowl, splattering Kreacher in the process.
Kreacher shot Harry a dark look, but with a snap of his fingers, he vanished the mess from his face and retreated to the far corner of the kitchen.
"Sorry!" Hermione said, biting her lip.
Harry grinned wider, watching her struggle a bit more than necessary. "Need help, Hermione?"
"I've got this," she replied stubbornly, trying not to let him see her falter.
After another hour of mixing, whisking, and Harry offering teasing comments at every turn—none of which Hermione found helpful—the cookies were finally ready to be baked. As the smell of the dough filled the kitchen, Hermione slumped into a chair at the table, exhausted but secretly proud of her work.
Harry dropped into the seat beside her, handing her a small spoon with a dollop of raw cookie dough still clinging to it. "Try it."
She eyed it suspiciously. "Harry, you know it's not safe to eat raw cookie dough."
He rolled his eyes. "Hermione, we're witches and wizards. If we get sick, a potion will fix us up in no time. Go on, try it."
Despite her protests, the sweet smell of vanilla and chocolate was too tempting to resist. She took a nibble and was surprised at how delicious it was.
"Told you," Harry smirked, taking a bite from his own spoon. "Moony taught me this recipe. Said my mum used to make it for them every Christmas when they were students. I added some chocolate to it. Thought you'd like that."
Hermione smiled at the story, nibbling more on the spoon. She couldn't help but glance at Harry, flour still sticking to his messy hair, his smile softening when he talked about his mother. It was easy to forget, in moments like these, how much Harry had lost.
As they finished the cookie dough, Hermione couldn't hold back her concern any longer. She turned to Harry, her voice soft. "Are you alright, Harry? Really?"
He sighed, leaning back in his chair, the playful look in his eyes dimming just a little. "I am... I am now." He glanced down at the table, tracing patterns in the flour dusted across it. "It's just... hard. Holidays without my parents, you know?"
Hermione nodded, the weight of the shared pain heavy between them. "I know. It's hard for me too."
Harry looked at her, something unspoken passing between them. Then, his smile returned, a little more forced but still present. "Next Christmas, Hermione... let's spend it together. Here. At Potter Manor."
She blinked, caught off guard by his serious tone. "What? Are you teasing me again?"
He shook his head. "No. I mean it. You, me, Sirius, your mum... next year. Let's make it a tradition."
Hermione's heart fluttered at his words, a warmth settling in her chest. "Of course, Harry," she said, smiling softly. "Next Christmas."
Chapter 12: Weasley's Wonderland & Potter's Pals
Chapter Text
Draco Malfoy strutted into the Great Hall, the corners of his mouth curling with smug satisfaction. The gleam of his new cloak, finely tailored and embroidered with the Malfoy family crest, caught the light as he moved. He had spent his entire winter break abroad, a luxury few could claim, and he was more than ready to flaunt it. His mind raced with stories of lavish feasts, foreign magic shops, and rare wizarding treasures he had seen overseas. Oh, how he was going to make sure everyone heard about it—especially his friends.
As he walked in, he barely noticed the red-headed figure approaching until—thump—Ron Weasley, beaming with his usual wide grin, bumped into him.
"Welcome back, Malfoy!" Ron greeted him with a laugh that echoed through the hall. His red hair was messy, his face slightly freckled, and as always, he was wearing yet another hand-knit Weasley sweater—this one a bold red with a large 'R' emblazoned on the front.
Draco raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching into a half-smile, half-smirk. "Hey, Ron," he replied coolly, eyeing the sweater with mild amusement. "I see the Weasley wardrobe hasn't changed much."
Ron rolled his eyes, brushing off the comment. "Still warm though."
Draco grinned. "Where's Harry and Hermione? I heard they've been snooping around, something about Nicholas Flamel?"
"They did!" Ron exclaimed, his excitement bubbling over. He grabbed Draco by the arm and began pulling him toward the stairs, practically dragging him along.
"Wait, what are you—" Draco tried to protest, but Ron was relentless, his grip tight and his feet moving fast. Draco stumbled forward, barely managing to keep his footing, the weight of his fine cloak dragging behind him as they ascended the winding staircase toward the seventh floor.
By the time they reached their destination, Ron was practically bouncing on the balls of his feet, his face lit with a giddy expression that Draco found, frankly, unnerving.
Draco raised an eyebrow, folding his arms over his chest. "Alright, Weasley," he huffed, still catching his breath, "you've dragged me all the way up here. What else did you lot find?"
A mischievous glint appeared in Ron's eyes, and without a word, he began pacing back and forth in front of a tapestry depicting Barnabas the Barmy trying—and failing miserably—to teach trolls ballet.
Draco blinked, confusion slowly giving way to impatience. "You're mad, aren't you?" he said, deadpan.
But just as Draco was about to voice his complaints more loudly, something remarkable happened. The wall opposite the tapestry shifted, revealing a door that hadn't been there moments ago. Draco's eyes widened, and for a second, he stood there, mouth slightly open.
Ron turned to him, his grin growing impossibly wider. "Welcome to the Come and Go Room, Malfoy," he said proudly, gesturing to the door with a flourish. "Or as we like to call it—the Room of Requirement. Or the Marauders' Lair. Or—"
"I get it!" Draco cut him off, but despite himself, he couldn't help the grin that spread across his own face. This was more like it.
They stepped inside, and Draco's eyes were immediately drawn to the large, cozy room before them. The warmth from the crackling fireplace enveloped him instantly, casting a golden glow over the space. A plush couch and several armchairs were arranged in front of the fire, the cushions soft and inviting. In the center of the room was a sturdy wooden table, laden with snacks—pumpkin pasties, cauldron cakes, and an assortment of Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans scattered in bowls.
Off to the side, a row of practice dummies stood against the wall, their blank faces eerily staring ahead, waiting to be attacked. One had scorch marks from previous spell practice, and another had what looked suspiciously like bite marks on its arm. Bite marks?
Draco's gaze swept over the room, and there, in front of the fireplace, sat Harry and Hermione, both with books open in their laps. Harry looked relaxed, his glasses perched low on his nose as he flipped through the pages of a thick tome, while Hermione was intently focused, her brow furrowed in concentration as she scribbled notes on a long piece of parchment. They barely glanced up as Ron and Draco entered.
"Well, look who finally decided to join us," Harry remarked without looking up, his voice casual but amused. He shut his book with a soft thud and leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms above his head.
"Nice of you to grace us with your presence, Draco," Hermione added, her tone teasing as she adjusted her quill. There was a glint of playful challenge in her eyes, though she kept her focus on her notes.
Draco smirked, letting his cloak fall dramatically as he stepped further into the room. "I was dragged here by Weasley, mind you. Though I suppose I should have expected this. You two, buried in books, as usual."
"We're working on something important," Hermione said with a hint of pride in her voice.
"Of course you are," Draco responded dryly, though he couldn't help but feel intrigued. He moved closer to them, glancing at the books in their hands. "So… Flamel? You actually found something?"
Harry exchanged a glance with Hermione, then leaned forward slightly. "Maybe," he said cryptically. "But there's more to it than just that."
Ron plopped down on the couch, grabbing a handful of Bertie Bott's beans. "We're onto something big, Malfoy. "
Draco stood in the middle of the cozy, warm room, eyeing his friends with a mix of curiosity and suspicion. The flickering light from the fireplace danced across his pale face as he crossed his arms over his chest, clearly trying to piece together the puzzle of what he'd missed. It was rare that something happened at Hogwarts without him knowing about it, and it irked him to think his friends had been up to something significant while he was away.
With a slight tilt of his head, Draco fixed his gaze on Harry, Ron, and Hermione, his tone casual but laced with a hint of demand. "Alright, let's start with this room," Draco began, his eyes scanning the place once more. "What the bloody hell is this, and how did you find it?"
Harry chuckled softly, exchanging a quick glance with Ron before leaning back in his chair, looking amused. "Ron found it," he said, shrugging as though it were no big deal. But the proud smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth betrayed his enjoyment of the situation.
Ron, puffing up his chest like a proud rooster, practically glowed with satisfaction. "That's right, I did!" he announced, a triumphant gleam in his eyes. "During the holidays, my brothers spent a lot of time raiding the kitchens with the house-elves. We'd snack on all sorts of things. Of course, I couldn't just sit back, so I joined them."
Draco, unimpressed, raised a delicate eyebrow and muttered under his breath, "Fatass." The insult was quiet, but Hermione, seated beside him, caught it and stifled a giggle behind her hand.
Ron ignored the comment—or perhaps didn't hear it—and carried on, determined to finish his tale. "So, one day, I got to talking to one of the house-elves," he continued, his voice taking on a conspiratorial edge, as though he were revealing some grand secret. "I asked them if there were any secret rooms in Hogwarts—since the kitchens are hidden behind that painting, and their quarters are hidden too. Seemed logical, right?"
Draco's impatience began to show as he rolled his eyes again, though there was no stopping Ron now. His storytelling was in full swing. Ron leaned forward, grinning at the memory. "And then, the house-elf tells me about this place—calls it the Come and Go Room. Apparently, if you walk back and forth in front of that weird tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy three times, thinking about what you need, the room will appear."
Draco frowned thoughtfully, glancing at the wall where the door had magically appeared for them earlier. He couldn't help but feel a mixture of skepticism and fascination. "So… anyone can just waltz in here whenever they please?" he asked. "Because this doesn't feel much like a 'secret' room if it's that easy."
Hermione, who had been silently observing up until now, was the first to speak up. Her eyes brightened at the chance to explain. "We've done a few experiments with it."
Draco snorted, his lips curving into a smirk. "Of course you did," he said, though there was no real malice in his voice—just the usual Draco sarcasm.
Hermione ignored his tone and pushed on, her excitement mounting. "The room responds to the person's intent," she explained. "If someone wants to enter while it's unoccupied, they can. But if someone's already inside, the room will only appear if the new person's intent matches the purpose of the room that's already in use."
Harry, who had been lounging comfortably on the couch, leaned forward and added, "Exactly. Like earlier, when Ron brought you here—he summoned the room with the intent to show you the Marauder's Lair. Since Hermione and I were already here with that same purpose, it worked."
Draco's eyebrows shot up. "Marauder's Lair? Really?" he asked, a mixture of amusement and disdain flickering in his gray eyes.
Hermione immediately rolled her eyes, her expression bordering on exasperation. "I know, right? It sounds so… childish," she said, her voice carrying a hint of a sigh. "I've been telling them we need to come up with a better name."
Draco chuckled, clearly agreeing. "It's ridiculous. I expected something more clever from you two."
Harry, however, wasn't having it. He waved a hand dismissively, a mock glare on his face. "Oh, shut up, both of you. It's a work in progress," he retorted, though there was a playful glint in his eyes. "Besides, Ron found the room—he gets to name it if he wants to."
Ron, beaming with pride again, leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. "Weasley's Wonderland," he said with an exaggerated flair, as though presenting the grandest of titles.
The reaction was instant. Harry, Hermione, and Draco all groaned in unison, wrinkling their noses in disgust.
"Yuck," they chorused, the harmony of their voices making Ron's face fall in mock offense.
"Oi!" Ron looked genuinely appalled, his expression morphing into one of betrayal. "It was just a joke!"
Harry shook his head, laughing softly. "Maybe leave the naming to someone else, Ron. We'll work on it."
Hermione and Harry took turns explaining, their voices overlapping as they described the wonders of the Room of Requirement. The light flickered off the enchanted candles along the walls, casting warm shadows over their faces as they detailed how it was the perfect secret hideout for their little group. Harry, animated as ever, gestured around the room, emphasizing its ability to change based on what they needed, while Hermione's eyes gleamed with a certain intellectual pride, explaining how the room's magic was unlike anything she had read about so far.
"At first, I didn't believe it," Hermione said, her voice just above a whisper as though she were still in awe of the room's power. "But then we tried it—summoning the space by pacing back and forth three times, thinking of what we needed... and here we are."
Draco, sitting cross-legged on the plush floor, took it all in, his silver eyes darting from Harry to Hermione. The room had impressed him, though he'd never admit it so easily. It had the perfect ambiance for plotting, the dim lighting giving it a conspiratorial vibe, almost like it was designed for mischief. He ran his fingers over the fabric of the couch beneath him, thinking. There was no denying it—this room was perfect for their needs.
"Well?" Harry asked with a grin, nudging Draco with his elbow. "What do you think?"
Draco paused, his face set in mock contemplation before nodding, his expression shifting to one of grudging approval. "It's... adequate." He waved his hand lazily, though his smirk gave him away. "Alright, fine. It's bloody brilliant."
Ron let out a loud whoop, punching the air in victory. "Told you this was a good find!" He beamed, puffing his chest out. "We'll have this place to ourselves. No Slytherins, no annoying Prefects, just us."
Draco's smirk faltered for a second, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his face. He was tired—tired of sneaking around, of having to hide from his fellow Slytherins when he wanted to spend time with Harry, Ron, and Hermione. Sure, everyone knew about the alliance between the Malfoys and the Potters, and being a Black on his mother's side had its privileges, but the rivalry between Slytherin and Gryffindor was fierce. It was in their blood, ingrained by generations of house pride and prejudice.
And Hermione? A Muggle-born who somehow managed to beat most pure-bloods in class, including Draco himself at times—she was a magnet for the snakes' disdain.
He glanced at Hermione, who was sitting beside Ron, her face glowing in the low light as she continued to explain the more complicated aspects of the Room's magic. The usual spark of admiration for her intelligence flickered in his chest, though he kept his face neutral. It didn't help that she was constantly proving them all wrong in class. The Slytherins loathed her success—one more reason Draco had to be careful around his housemates. But here, in this room, they were equals. It was their sanctuary.
After the discussion about the room died down, Hermione's voice took on a more serious tone as she brought up another subject. "There's something else we need to talk about... Nicholas Flamel."
Draco's attention snapped back to her, intrigued. "Finally, well?"
Hermione leaned forward, her eyes darting between them. "He's the creator of the Philosopher's Stone—the artifact that can grant immortality and unlimited riches. That's the thing that's being guarded here at Hogwarts."
Draco's eyes widened. "Immortality and unlimited riches?! That's brilliant!" His excitement was palpable, his voice rising slightly in pitch as the implications settled in. He was practically bouncing where he sat.
"I know, right?!" Ron echoed Draco's enthusiasm, his eyes alight with visions of endless gold and never having to worry about money again. The mere thought of it seemed to thrill him.
But Harry shook his head, grinning at their excitement. "We can't have it, Draco."
"Why not?" Draco asked, crossing his arms, looking genuinely put out by the idea that something so powerful was out of reach.
"We need to protect it," Harry explained, his expression growing more serious. "Whoever let that troll into the castle is after it. And who knows what they'll do next to get it?"
Draco frowned. "Protect it? I'm pretty sure Dumbledore's already got that covered."
"Maybe," Harry admitted. "But we need to be ready, just in case. If something suspicious happens again, we need to be prepared. Imagine the chaos if the Stone fell into the wrong hands. Another Dark Lord, but this time with unlimited money and life…"
His words sent a chill through the room. Draco visibly shuddered at the thought, his mind racing. He knew about the war, even though he was just a baby when it ended. The terror Voldemort had unleashed on the world had been imprinted on his family's history. The Malfoys had barely escaped ruin. If it weren't for Sirius Black taking them in... He could still hear the whispers from older Slytherins about the days of darkness, the power, the fear.
Ron shifted uneasily beside him. "It'd be awful... worse than before."
Hermione, who had been listening intently, bit her lip. She, too, had read about the war, the horrors that Voldemort and his followers had inflicted. It was hard to grasp that Harry—her best friend—had faced down such a monster as a baby. And now here they were, talking about another potential threat.
"The idea of it... it's terrifying," Hermione said softly, her voice tinged with concern. "If someone like that got their hands on the Philosopher's Stone…"
"We'll make sure that doesn't happen," Harry said firmly, his green eyes flashing with determination. "We'll keep an eye on things."
Draco and Ron both nodded, though they still looked slightly uneasy. The weight of the conversation had settled over the group, thick and tangible.
"Well," Ron said after a long pause, trying to lighten the mood. "At least we've got this room to hide in if anything goes wrong."
Draco shot him a sideways glance, the tension still lingering in his expression. "Yeah, let's hope we won't need to use it as a place to hide into when another war happens."
The group fell into a brief silence, each lost in their thoughts. The flickering light from the enchanted candles made their shadows dance across the walls, adding to the atmosphere of mystery and tension. It was as though the room itself was holding its breath, waiting for what was to come.
Finally, Harry broke the silence, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Alright, enough of the gloom and doom. We've got a lair now. And no matter what, it's ours."
Draco smirked, the tension easing from his shoulders. "Fine, Potter. But if we're going to use this place, we need a better name than... whatever that was," he said, waving a hand dismissively.
They spent the rest of the day, sharing stories, treats, and ideas for names.
xxxxx
Harry and his friends spent the next couple of weeks buried in the hustle of their classes, each one determined in their own way to get a strong start for the new term. The air in the castle had shifted; there was a kind of electric buzz in the corridors, a blend of nervousness and excitement as the fresh term began. Ron, predictably, had taken full advantage of their newfound discovery of the Room of Requirement. Any spare moment he had outside of classes was spent experimenting with the room's magical capabilities, delighting in how it transformed with his every whim. He had quickly learned that if he focused hard enough, the room would reflect his desires—grand banners of Gryffindor, endless stacks of books, and even an oversized chessboard that almost resembled a battlefield.
"Look at this!" Ron exclaimed one evening, practically bouncing as he led Harry, Draco, and Hermione inside. The room had transformed into a luxurious Gryffindor-themed hideaway, complete with comfortable red-and-gold armchairs, a roaring fire, and an enormous banner that read 'Weasley's Warriors' in bold, flashing letters.
Harry smirked, trying not to laugh. "Weasley's Warriors? Really?"
Ron shrugged, unbothered by the teasing. "Well, it's better than your suggestion, Potter's Pals." He grinned cheekily. "Besides, it's just for fun."
Draco, standing off to the side, rolled his eyes but didn't say much. He found the Room of Requirement fascinating, though he wasn't as vocal about it as Ron was. He appreciated its versatility, and when they needed to be serious, the room was the perfect place for planning.
Harry, on the other hand, was focused on something else entirely. His mind had been occupied with Quidditch—specifically, the upcoming match against Hufflepuff. Normally, Harry was always competitive when it came to Quidditch, but something about this match was different. It wasn't just about winning the game this time. No, it had become personal.
He had been focused on training even more than usual, running drills and practicing with an intensity that had caught the attention of his teammates. Oliver Wood, the Gryffindor captain, had praised him multiple times for his dedication, but Harry's mind was elsewhere. He had overheard Hermione talking one afternoon—talking about Cedric Diggory.
"He's... weirdly handsome, isn't he?" Hermione had said, her tone casual but filled with the kind of admiration that made Harry's stomach twist uncomfortably.
Weirdly handsome? Harry had scoffed inwardly. What kind of nonsense was that? Cedric Diggory—sure, he was Hufflepuff's Seeker and had a reputation for being a nice bloke, but handsome? What did Hermione see in him?
The thought irritated Harry more than it should have. He had gone into full competitive mode after that. The idea of losing to Diggory made his blood boil, especially now that Hermione had mentioned him. It wasn't just about Quidditch anymore; it was about proving something, even if Harry couldn't quite put his finger on what that something was.
As the match against Hufflepuff approached, Harry threw himself into helping his team, determined to give them every possible advantage. His relentless energy paid off—Gryffindor was dominating, leading by a solid 200 points. The crowd roared with excitement as goal after goal was scored, and Harry, flying high above the pitch, kept a sharp eye out for the Snitch.
Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw it—the golden glint, hovering near the far end of the field. And to make things worse, Diggory had spotted it too. Cedric shot towards the Snitch with impressive speed, his broom cutting through the air like a dart.
But Harry was faster. He leaned forward, urging his broom to move faster, his focus razor-sharp. He felt the wind whip against his face as he narrowed the gap between him and Cedric. Diggory glanced over his shoulder, and for a split second, their eyes met. There was a flicker of mutual respect, but Harry wasn't about to back down.
With a final burst of speed, Harry surged ahead, his fingers closing around the Snitch just inches before Cedric could reach it. The crowd erupted in cheers, and Harry couldn't suppress the triumphant grin that spread across his face. He raised the Snitch high in the air, the golden wings fluttering weakly in his grip.
But instead of celebrating with his teammates, Harry's eyes immediately sought out Hermione in the stands. She was clapping along with the rest of the crowd, but there was a curious look on her face, like she was trying to figure something out. She knew how much Harry loved flying and Quidditch, but something was off—he was too happy about this win. It wasn't like him to be this competitive, especially against Hufflepuff. She raised an eyebrow, meeting his gaze, and Harry felt a strange satisfaction as he waved the Snitch in her direction, as if to say, 'See? Beat that, Diggory.'
Hermione continued clapping, but she looked slightly bewildered. There was no mistaking that Harry had pushed himself harder in this match than he had in any other. The way he had focused on Cedric like a hawk tracking its prey was almost unsettling. She knew Harry had a competitive streak, but this was different. Was it because of what she had said about Cedric? She hadn't meant anything by it; Cedric was just... well, objectively good-looking, wasn't he? That didn't mean she thought any less of Harry.
But still, she couldn't shake the feeling that there was something more going on. Harry's eyes hadn't left hers, even as the team celebrated around him, and for a brief moment, it was like the rest of the world had faded away, leaving just the two of them standing on opposite sides of the pitch.
Draco, who had been watching from the stands, noticed the exchange and leaned over to Ron with a smirk. "Looks like Potter's trying to impress someone."
Ron snorted. "You think?"
"Definitely," Draco drawled, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "Hermione, of all people."
Ron blinked, then burst out laughing. "Oh, Merlin, you might be right."
But Harry didn't hear them. His mind was still on Hermione's words, 'weirdly handsome.' What a load of rubbish.
xxxxx
One particular afternoon, Hermione Granger pushed open the door to her dorm room, her mind still buzzing from the mountain of notes she had been organizing in the library. To her surprise, a chorus of giggles floated toward her, immediately making her stop in her tracks. Lavender Brown, Parvati Patil, Isla Bennett, and Fiona Hughes were all huddled together on Lavender's bed, whispering and laughing, clearly absorbed in some shared secret.
Hermione hesitated for a moment, her grip tightening on her books. She had never been particularly close to the girls in her dormitory, only exchanging the occasional polite greeting or participating in class discussions. They seemed to occupy a different world than her—one filled with gossip and frivolity, while hers was centered around knowledge and studying. In truth, she didn't mind. Harry, Ron, and Draco were more than enough company, and she often felt she didn't need anyone else.
Sighing inwardly, Hermione made her way toward her bed, intending to ignore them as usual. But as she began to set down her stack of books, Parvati Patil's voice called out to her.
"Hermione, come look at this!" Parvati's excited tone beckoned her.
Hermione briefly considered brushing it off, but curiosity tugged at her. She put her books down, turning toward the group with a small, polite smile. As she approached, she caught sight of Lavender, Isla, and Fiona, all giggling at something in their hands. The girls returned her smile, though it felt forced, almost like a shared secret lay beneath their innocent expressions.
Lavender patted the bed, urging Hermione closer. "Come on, you have to see this!"
Suppressing an eye roll, Hermione finally stepped closer, though her interest waned when she saw what they were looking at—Witch Weekly, a glossy, pink magazine filled with all sorts of fluff she had no time for. Her face twitched. She'd rather read The Quibbler any day than this nonsense. Still, she forced herself to remain polite.
"Look at this," Lavender said, pointing excitedly at an article. Fiona, sitting beside her, was practically bursting with anticipation as if they were about to share the juiciest secret in the wizarding world.
Hermione leaned in slightly, glancing at the page. Her eyes quickly widened, and she recoiled just as fast. The article was titled, The Most Eligible Bachelors of the Wizarding World, and the sight of the familiar names hit her like a punch to the gut. At the top of the list, in bold, glimmering print, was Harry Potter. Right below him, second place, Draco Malfoy. And third... Sirius Black.
Her stomach lurched.
"You've got to be kidding me," Hermione muttered, her voice filled with disgust. She couldn't believe what she was seeing—Harry, Draco, and Sirius, treated like some sort of… prizes for witches to fawn over. "They're just eleven-year-old boys!"
Lavender and Fiona erupted into laughter, which grated on Hermione's nerves. "Don't be so uptight, Hermione!" Lavender chided, playfully nudging her. "It's important to know who the most eligible bachelors are, especially when people are already sending betrothal offers!"
That stopped Hermione in her tracks. "Betrothal offers?" She blinked, completely baffled. "What on earth are you talking about?"
Parvati giggled, her eyes gleaming with mischief. "Oh, Hermione, you really don't know, do you?" She exchanged knowing glances with the other girls, as if they were in on some big secret. "That explains so much."
"What?" Hermione demanded, growing frustrated. "What explains so much?"
Fiona was the one to answer this time, giggling behind her hand in a way that made Hermione want to hex her. "There are rumors that you're betrothed to Harry and Draco. Or maybe even Ron, since you're always hanging around with them."
Hermione's face paled instantly. Her jaw dropped as a mixture of emotions surged through her—disgust, fear, and confusion. "I'm not!" she protested, her voice louder than she intended. "That's ridiculous!"
Lavender, clearly enjoying this, laughed and shook her head. "Well, now we know! But can you imagine? The last of the Potters, marrying a Muggle-born? I mean, he's not just a future Lord, Hermione. He's the Heir to the House of Black too!"
Hermione's frown deepened. "Is it so bad that I'm a Muggle-born?" she snapped, her irritation growing. The way they spoke about it—as though her blood status somehow made her less—stirred something hot and angry inside her.
Fiona immediately backtracked, her voice softening. "Oh no, not at all! We didn't mean it that way. It's just that, well… in terms of power and wealth, Harry could marry another pureblood and... strengthen his family."
Hermione couldn't believe what she was hearing. The casual way they spoke about Harry's future as if it was a political game to be played… it made her stomach turn. But before she could respond, Lavender jumped in again.
"It's not just that," Lavender added, twirling a strand of hair between her fingers. "He needs to. My Mum says that Harry will have to have at least two or four kids—two to carry on the Potter name and two more for the Black family, if Sirius doesn't have any future kids."
Hermione's mind reeled. "I don't understand. Harry's mother was Muggle-born and she married James Potter, right? He was the lord of the House of Potter at the time. Why can't Harry do the same?" she asked, feeling herself grow red in the face. "Not that I plan on marrying Harry or anything—just… curious."
The girls smirked knowingly, and Hermione flushed even deeper. "Don't be silly, Hermione. It's fine," Isla said with a grin. "We all fantasize about living the life of a princess, marrying the Boy-Who-Lived."
Lavender and Parvati swooned dramatically, their dreamy sighs almost making Hermione gag.
Fiona, ever the practical one, leaned in. "It's just the way our world works, Hermione. For families like ours, we can marry who we want. But for someone like Harry—well, with two Noble and Most Ancient Houses under his belt, he's got to make sure his legacy continues. The war changed things for his parents, but now that he's the only one left, he has to do what's best for his family."
Parvati nodded enthusiastically. "Exactly. Harry needs a powerful witch by his side, someone who can give him powerful heirs. That's just how it is."
Hermione sat there, stunned, as the weight of everything they had just said settled on her. She had known that the wizarding world was different from the Muggle world in many ways, but she never imagined it was this archaic, this… transactional. Marriages arranged to strengthen bloodlines? Betrothal contracts? Heirs to ancient houses? It was like something out of a medieval novel.
Her heart sank as she thought about Harry. Did he know about all this? Did Draco, Ron, and Sirius? Of course they did. They had probably grown up hearing about it their whole lives, while she… she was just a Muggle-born. The odd one out.
Anger bubbled up inside her. Why hadn't anyone told her? Why had they kept her in the dark? It was just another reminder that no matter how close she felt to Harry and the others, she would always be different in their world.
As the girls continued to chatter and theorize which pureblood house had their eyes on Harry, Hermione's mind raced. She needed to talk to Harry about this. But she wasn't sure she wanted to hear his answer.
xxxxx
Hermione found her way to the Room of Requirement. Ron hadn't yet settled on anything, and whatever he suggested was immediately vetoed by both Harry and Draco. For now, they simply referred to it as "the Room of Requirement"—their secret hideout where they could escape the pressures of school and responsibilities, just the four of them.
As she entered, Hermione noticed the massive Wizard's Chess set taking up the middle of the room. Ron stood before it, hands on his hips, a smug grin plastered across his face as he admired the pieces—each intricately designed, life-sized, and clearly capable of smashing each other to bits.
"Hey, Hermione!" Ron called, barely glancing her way as he continued to marvel at the chess set. "Awesome, isn't it? I wanted to play, but it looks like it's going to get dangerous once the pieces start moving."
Hermione didn't answer immediately. She walked past him and collapsed onto the old, oversized couch, her mind swirling with thoughts that made her head spin. The room's warmth, usually so comforting, felt oppressive today.
"Hermione?" Ron's voice snapped her out of her daze as he wandered over to her, frowning in concern. "You okay?"
"Yeah… sorry, Ron. Just thinking about stuff," she mumbled, her voice lacking its usual sharpness.
"Anything I can help with?" Ron's cheerful tone had softened as he sat down next to her, concern etched in his expression. He smiled, that familiar freckled grin meant to reassure her, though he didn't have the slightest idea what was bothering her.
Hermione glanced at him, taking a deep breath. Maybe Ron could actually help this time. She had spent the entire day replaying the conversation from earlier in her head, the cruel giggles of the other girls, their ridiculous notions about betrothal contracts still haunting her.
"Don't sigh like that," Ron said, breaking the silence as he stretched his legs out onto the coffee table in front of them. "I might not be as smart as you three, but I can still help. Go on, try me!"
A small laugh escaped Hermione's lips, despite the knot twisting in her stomach. "It's not about that, Ron. It's just... this whole thing is difficult to wrap my head around."
Ron raised an eyebrow. "What thing?"
She hesitated for a moment, the weight of the topic still making her cringe. But she knew she needed to talk to someone, and Ron was as good a choice as any.
"Okay… for starters," Hermione began, feeling the words tumble out, "what do you know about betrothal contracts?"
Ron froze, his face contorting in disgust. "You've seen the Witch Weekly magazine, haven't you?"
Hermione blinked, taken aback. "You've read it?"
"Well, yeah," Ron grumbled, rolling his eyes. "My mum subscribes to it. Bloody thing's always around the house. I've seen some people passing it around the common room, too. Surprised you're only seeing it now."
Ron leaned back, stretching his arms over the couch, though his earlier enthusiasm for the chess set had vanished. Hermione watched as he let out a long sigh.
"Well, I can't tell you much—Harry and Draco don't exactly chat about it openly—but yeah, they do get offers. My mum even tried to send one to Harry once," he said, chuckling darkly. "She wanted to match him with my sister, Ginny."
Hermione's eyes widened in horror. "What?!"
Ron burst out laughing at her reaction. "Don't worry, it didn't get far. Sirius burned it the second it arrived. He threatened to cut all ties if they even thought about sending another one. Mum was furious, but she dropped it after that."
Hermione couldn't help but laugh at the image of Sirius burning the letter in a fit of rage. At least someone was protecting Harry from these ridiculous expectations.
"Although," Ron continued, his laughter dying down, "that was years ago. Things are probably different now. Once Harry comes of age, well, he'll become Lord Potter and all that… so yeah, he'll probably need to marry someone soon."
The thought made Hermione's heart sink. "But he's just a kid, Ron. We're all just kids! Marriage? Really?" Her voice had risen in disbelief, a mix of anger and confusion bubbling inside her.
Ron shrugged helplessly. "Hey, don't yell at me! It's just the way things work. I think it's crazy too. Believe me, the idea of Harry marrying my sister was enough to make me gag."
Hermione sat back, staring at the ceiling. "It's wrong. Imagine having your entire future decided for you, without any choice. Harry doesn't even get the chance to meet someone he genuinely likes, to fall in love, go on dates, get a house… with cats... or whatever he wants before getting engaged. He deserves that."
Ron nodded, his expression softening. "I get it. I really do. But Harry's got these responsibilities, Hermione. Being born into a powerful family isn't exactly a walk in the park. He's got expectations weighing him down."
"So, what?" Hermione muttered, her anger simmering beneath the surface. "Harry and Sirius just pick a girl, and that's it? Game over?"
"Kind of," Ron admitted, scratching his head. "He's been meeting girls for that reason. Me and Draco met one of them once—a Slytherin girl named Daphne Greengrass. Bit of an ice queen, if you ask me, but she's pretty. Blonde hair, blue eyes. Definitely has that 'pureblood' look going on."
Hermione's heart thudded in her chest. "So, does that mean he's going to marry her?"
Ron shook his head, looking confused. "I don't think he's decided yet. He just… well, he's got a list of 'potential' girls, or whatever that means. Daphne's on it, sure, but Harry's not exactly jumping for joy about any of this. You know Harry—he's not the type to just pick someone and say, 'Oh, she'll do.' There's more to it than that."
Hermione's temper flared. "So he just meets a girl, likes her looks, and that's it? Decides to marry her? It's so barbaric!"
"I-I don't know!" Ron stammered, holding up his hands defensively. "Look, Hermione, it's not just about how she looks. There's a political side to it. The Greengrasses for example are a neutral family—big on modernizing the wizarding world, apparently. And they're loaded. It's not all about love, you know. Some families marry to unite houses, build power… that sort of thing."
Hermione stomped her foot, her frustration bursting to the surface. The sound echoed through the room, causing Ron to flinch. For a brief moment, silence filled the air, the tension between them palpable.
"I-If," Hermione whispered, her voice trembling, "I-If Harry wanted to marry… say… a Muggle-born, like his father did... what would happen?"
Ron's eyes widened, his grin slowly spreading as realization dawned on him. "Merlin's beard, Hermione… you—you fancy Harry, don't you?"
"I-I'm not!" Hermione shouted, drawing her wand and flicking it at him in frustration. A tiny jinx shot past Ron's head, causing him to duck and burst into a fit of laughter.
"You totally fancy him!" Ron howled, still dodging as Hermione aimed another half-hearted spell his way. "Blimey, this is brilliant! You and Harry—"
"Shut it, Ron!" Hermione snapped, her face burning red as she grabbed her book bag and stormed toward the door.
She paused at the exit, glaring at Ron, who was still struggling to contain his laughter. "Not a word about this to anyone," she warned.
"My lips are sealed, Ms. Granger," Ron teased, giving her a mock salute before bursting into another fit of laughter.
Hermione scowled and stormed out of the room, her heart racing, her thoughts in complete turmoil.