Chapter 17: Daphne Greengrass
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Despite being just eleven years old, Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, and Draco Malfoy were far from ordinary kids. Their close association with the Boy Who Lived had exposed them to dangers that no other children their age could comprehend—dark wizards and witches, potential kidnappings, and deadly curses cast in shadowed corners. Danger seemed to follow them, lurking in the periphery of every corridor, every corner of their lives. It wasn't just an abstract fear; it was a reality, tangible and terrifying.
Sirius Black had taken it upon himself to make sure they could defend themselves. It wasn't just about teaching them spells—it was about survival. He'd drilled into them the necessity of being ready for anything. Whether it was being cornered, attacked, or even kidnapped, they had to be able to fight back and protect one another. Harry, Ron, and Draco had formed a bond through these lessons, a brotherhood of sorts. They had developed a seamless understanding of each other's strengths and weaknesses, an unspoken trust that allowed them to move in sync when danger struck.
Under Sirius's watchful eye, the boys had created their own strategies, blending offense with defense. They didn't need to call out for help. They had learned to anticipate each other's moves, to trust that their backs would always be covered. But all of that training had been done in the safety of Sirius's protection, in an environment where they could afford mistakes.
Now, they were far from safe.
The final chamber, where the Philosopher's Stone was hidden, had become a battlefield. What should have been a carefully planned defense against potential intruders had devolved into chaos, as they found themselves locked in a fight to the death with someone they should have been able to trust—their Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, Proudfoot. Once a respected Auror, Proudfoot now raged, his voice hoarse and wild as he bellowed for the Stone, the madness in his eyes clear. Something had happened to him—a potion or curse, perhaps—twisting his mind into a violent, obsessed frenzy.
Chunks of rubble littered the chamber floor from the spells he'd unleashed, some of the stones still hot from the magical energy that had torn them from the walls. The air was thick with dust and the acrid smell of scorched rock. Harry, Ron, Draco, and Hermione were caught in the middle of it all, and for the first time in a long while, none of their training seemed enough.
Proudfoot had nearly hit Ron and Draco with a curse that would have shattered their bones, leaving them scrambling for cover behind a thick wall of rubble. It had been too close—far too close. Hermione's scream had drawn Proudfoot's attention away at the last moment, but now she and Harry were the ones in immediate danger.
"What do we do?!" Ron's voice was high-pitched, barely contained panic as he peeked over the edge of the stone pile. His face was pale, his hands trembling as he gripped his wand. Proudfoot's insane fury was unlike anything they had faced in Sirius's training.
Draco was equally pale, but his eyes were calculating, scanning the battlefield like a general surveying the damage. His head ducked down quickly as another flash of light burst across the room, narrowly missing Harry and Hermione as Proudfoot sent spell after spell chasing them through the chamber.
"We need to get Proudfoot's attention off Harry," Draco muttered under his breath, more to himself than to Ron. His heart hammered in his chest, but he forced himself to think clearly. Harry wouldn't go on the offensive, not while he was trying to protect Hermione. That left them to do the dirty work.
He glanced at Ron, a plan already forming in his mind. "I'll jump to the other side of the room," Draco said, his voice tense but steady. "When I give the signal, you cast Diffindo. If Proudfoot dodges, I'll cast next. If he evades me, you go again."
"That's it?!" Ron looked at him, baffled. His face was slick with sweat, his breath coming in shallow gasps. His wand felt too small in his hand, too fragile for what they were facing.
"That's it," Draco snapped. "At some point, Proudfoot's going to send a curse back at one of us. We'll use the walls as shields. We just need to hold him off long enough for Harry to do something."
In theory, it was simple. In reality, the risk was enormous. But what choice did they have?
Ron stared at Draco for a moment, his fear evident. Then, with a resigned sigh, he nodded. "Fine. But this is insane, Malfoy."
Draco smirked, though the humor didn't reach his eyes. "I know."
Ron's gaze shifted, scanning the room. "Wear the Cloak," he suggested, his voice lowering to a near whisper. "The wall you're going for is thinner than this one. You'll need all the cover you can get."
Draco nodded, pulling Harry's invisibility cloak from his pocket. It shimmered in the dim light of the chamber. He draped it over himself, feeling the familiar sensation of cool fabric as it concealed him from sight.
"Remind me to kill Harry when this is over," Draco muttered darkly as he adjusted the cloak, feeling the tension tighten in his chest.
"Fall in line, Malfoy." Ron actually managed a shaky grin, despite the terror in his eyes. "I've been waiting for my turn."
There was no time for more banter. Draco's heart was pounding in his chest as he crouched, preparing to dash to the other side of the chamber. He glanced at Ron one last time, giving a brief nod, before slipping into the shadows, silent and invisible under the Cloak.
He moved quickly, his steps barely making a sound on the cold stone floor, every muscle in his body tensed with adrenaline. The room seemed to stretch out before him, every moment dragging into what felt like hours. He could hear Hermione's ragged breathing in the distance, could see the flashes of Proudfoot's wild spells reflected off the chamber walls. The air crackled with magic, heavy and oppressive.
Proudfoot's shouts grew louder as Draco neared the far side of the room. "Where is it?!" he bellowed, his voice frenzied and hoarse. "The Stone! Give it to me!" His wand flicked violently, sending sparks and flashes in every direction, tearing into the stone walls and floor, his desperation becoming more dangerous with every second.
Draco reached the far wall, pressing himself against the cold stone as he peeked out from under the Cloak. He took a deep breath, his hand tightening around his wand. This was it.
He gave the signal.
Ron's spell shot across the room like a bolt of lightning—Diffindo, aimed with deadly precision. Proudfoot dodged just in time, his reflexes unnervingly sharp despite his madness. Draco was ready. He sprang into action, casting his own spell in a rapid burst of energy, but Proudfoot was already moving, evading again with a savage grin twisting his features.
Just as they predicted, Proudfoot retaliated. His wand slashed through the air, and Draco barely had time to dive behind the wall as a curse exploded where he had been standing. Dust and stone flew through the air, the ground trembling under the force of the impact.
Sweat dripped down Draco's face as he pressed himself harder against the stone, his heart racing. They had to hold on just a little longer.
xxxxx
The tension in the chamber was suffocating, thick and dark like the shadows that clung to the walls, illuminated only by the occasional flash of spellfire. Harry's eyes flickered across the dimly lit space, his heart racing as he tried to track Draco's movements. Just moments ago, he'd caught a glimpse of Draco's blonde hair vanishing under the Cloak of Invisibility, leaving only the faintest ripple in the air. The weight of the situation pressed heavily on him.
Harry's breaths came in shallow, uneven gasps as he turned his focus back to Hermione. She was trembling beside him, her fear palpable in the way her hand tightened painfully around his. It wasn't just the fear of Proudfoot, their Defense Against the Dark Arts professor-turned-attacker, but the overwhelming panic that came from realizing just how out of control everything had become. Proudfoot, under some kind of dark influence, was no longer their teacher but a dangerous threat—an Auror skilled in combat and now unhinged.
"Listen to me," Harry whispered, his voice low but firm, as if he was fighting to keep control himself. He could feel Hermione's pulse thudding beneath his grip, her fingers cold and damp with sweat. He gripped her hand tighter, drawing her attention, forcing her to focus on him rather than the chaos unfolding around them. "From now on, just cast Protego on yourself. Nothing else."
Hermione opened her mouth to argue, her eyes wide with defiance, but Harry squeezed her hand harder, cutting her off. "Please, just listen to me," he continued, his green eyes intense as he met hers. "You're too weak to injure Proudfoot right now, but I can't protect you if you're trying to attack him. Ron and Draco are going for their best spells, but they've only got enough magic to last maybe 10 to 15 minutes, tops."
A surge of anger flared in Hermione's chest, her hands trembling not just from fear but frustration. Weak. The word stung like a fresh wound, but she couldn't deny it. Her magic was faltering under the crushing weight of her panic. Her legs felt as if they'd turned to stone, and her hand trembled so violently around her wand that she feared she might drop it. She hated feeling like this—helpless, scared, and out of control.
But Harry was right.
"Okay," she managed to whisper, her voice shaky, barely audible. Her heart pounded in her chest, her anger at him bubbling beneath the surface, but it was drowned out by the sheer terror coursing through her veins. She knew she couldn't fight Proudfoot, not like this.
Harry's lips curved into a small, knowing smirk, aware of the fury simmering behind her eyes. He reached up, his hand gentle against her cheek as he kissed her forehead—a brief, fleeting gesture that felt oddly out of place in the midst of the chaos. "Calm down," he murmured softly. "Once we're out of here, I'll ask Sirius to train you too this summer. So be prepared."
Hermione's eyes narrowed, glaring at him through her fear. She felt her face flush with a mix of embarrassment and anger—how dare he sneak a kiss in the middle of this madness? But before she could retort, a sharp crack echoed through the chamber, causing them both to flinch.
Ron's voice cut through the air as he cast Diffindo, the slicing spell hitting the ground just a few feet away from them, missing Proudfoot by inches as the deranged Auror dodged with a snarl. Proudfoot's face twisted into something feral, his wand already aimed at where Ron's voice had come from, preparing to strike back.
Before he could retaliate, another Diffindo slashed through the darkness, this time from Draco's direction, the spell narrowly missing Proudfoot's side. The Auror spun around, eyes wild and unfocused, as he struggled to keep up with the rapid assault.
"They're starting," Harry muttered, his grip tightening on his wand as he watched the unfolding battle. "Focus on the shield spell."
Hermione's heart was pounding in her throat as she nodded, still glaring at him despite everything. Her hands trembled less now, though the fear hadn't subsided. She forced herself to focus, summoning every bit of courage she could.
"I'll kill you if you die, Potter," she growled, her voice laced with venom despite the quiver beneath it.
Harry glanced at her, a smirk playing on his lips despite the danger swirling around them. "Fall in line, Granger," he shot back, a teasing edge to his voice, though his eyes remained sharp and alert.
The chamber fell into a deadly rhythm of spells and counterspells. Draco and Ron moved like shadows in the darkness, their attacks coming in quick succession, forcing Proudfoot to stay on the defensive. Yet every time it seemed like they had him cornered, Proudfoot would twist away, his wand flashing as he deflected their spells with a practiced ease that reminded them all why he was an Auror. His movements were erratic, his magic wild and unstable, but his skill was undeniable, even in his deranged state.
Harry kept close to Hermione, his wand raised and ready to defend her at a moment's notice. Every muscle in his body was tense, coiled, waiting for the right moment to strike. He could feel the magic in the air, crackling like static against his skin, thick with danger and uncertainty. Proudfoot's crazed mutterings echoed through the chamber, words half-spoken in a frenzy, his eyes darting wildly as if searching for something just beyond reach.
Harry knew they didn't have much time. Ron and Draco's magic would only hold for so long, and Proudfoot was too skilled, too dangerous to let this drag on. He needed to find a way to stop him—before someone got seriously hurt.
The air felt colder now, as if the chamber itself was closing in on them, the weight of the situation pressing down like an invisible force. Every second that passed felt like an eternity, the fear creeping in like a suffocating fog.
And then, amidst the chaos, Harry's mind began to calculate, searching for that one critical moment when the balance would shift—when they could finally turn the tide of this terrifying battle.
xxxxx
Draco could feel it—his vision blurring, the pounding in his head growing unbearable. His legs wobbled beneath him as he struggled to stay upright, every breath labored. He was close, so close to collapsing. Judging by the sluggish rhythm of Ron's spells from the opposite side of the room, Ron was likely nearing his limit too. They couldn't hold out much longer. The pressure was immense, like a weight pressing down on Draco's chest, forcing every ounce of energy out of him drop by drop.
"Flipendo!" Harry's voice rang out suddenly, cutting through the haze of Draco's fatigue like a lifeline. The spell slammed toward Proudfoot, the force of it knocking him back a step. Draco felt an overwhelming sense of relief surge through him, almost enough to make him cry. Harry was still in this fight. There was finally a third person attacking Proudfoot.
Proudfoot let out a guttural yell of rage, his eyes wild with fury as he staggered under the onslaught. The continuous barrage from three sides was slowly overwhelming him, pushing him back inch by inch. Despite his growing exhaustion, the madness in his gaze was terrifyingly sharp, fueled by raw determination. The Auror refused to retreat, even as the edges of the spells he was dodging left angry burns and slashes on his body. Proudfoot retaliated with a vicious ferocity, but they could all see the small tremors of wear creeping into his limbs, the fatigue finally catching up to him.
"Impedimenta!" "Diffindo!" "Levicorpus!" "Diffindo!"
Ron and Draco continued their relentless assault, the force of their spells slicing through the air, their only focus being to force Proudfoot back, to push him into a corner. Every incantation felt heavier than the last, their magic scraping the bottom of their reserves, but they pressed on. The longer they could keep this up, the better their chance of survival. Proudfoot wouldn't hold out much longer—they had to believe that.
Harry, however, kept his focus elsewhere, his eyes darting between Proudfoot and his friends, trying to anticipate the Auror's next move. He knew Ron and Draco were close to their limits. They couldn't keep this up forever. Harry shifted his tactics, switching to disarming spells, binding charms, and tripping hexes, trying to force Proudfoot off balance and buy them precious seconds.
Half an hour passed. The air in the room had turned stifling with tension, the only sound the crackling of spells and the occasional grunt of pain. Harry and Draco were the only ones still standing, their chests heaving with exhaustion. The look on Draco's face—pale and drenched in sweat—told Harry that he was done for. Draco's spells were slow, sluggish, barely grazing Proudfoot now. It wouldn't be long before Draco collapsed.
Proudfoot seemed to realize it too, his keen eyes noticing the weakening attacks. His lips curled into a sneer as he shifted his focus. He knew their pattern now, and as another weak Diffindo came from Draco's direction, Proudfoot didn't bother to dodge. Instead, he turned toward Harry, his wand already raised.
"Sectumsempra!"
The curse flew from Harry's wand with deadly precision. Proudfoot was stunned at the curse hurled towards him, colliding with Draco's second Diffindo. They hit Proudfoot at the same moment. The combined force was catastrophic.
Draco watched in a dazed sense of disbelief as the two spells connected with Proudfoot. There was a sickening sound as they sliced into him—deep gashes tearing through the Auror's robes and flesh, his fingers sliced clean, sending his wand clattering to the floor. Proudfoot's agonized scream ripped through the room, echoing in the walls as he staggered back, blood pouring from his wounds.
Hermione, who had been standing in the corner with her Shield Charm raised, saw her moment. Summoning every last bit of strength she had left, she cast, "Petrificus Totalus!"
The spell hit its mark, freezing Proudfoot mid-fall. His body seized up, his eyes wide with terror as he toppled to the ground like a felled tree. His wand lay useless a few feet away, and his body—paralyzed—twitched in faint spasms.
Draco, seeing their enemy immobilized, finally allowed himself to collapse. His limbs gave out beneath him, and he fell to the floor in a heap, the Invisibility Cloak slipping from his grip. But before he hit the ground, he managed to cast a final Stunning Spell on Proudfoot, ensuring the Auror stayed down before his consciousness faded completely.
Hermione slid down the wall, her breathing shallow and erratic. She'd been keeping the Shield Charm up for what felt like an eternity, and the magical exhaustion was creeping into every fiber of her body. She'd used the last of her energy with that Petrificus Totalus, and her vision was starting to blur. But she knew—she knew—that Harry would keep them alive. He would figure it out.
She had to believe that.
Even though her body was trembling with fatigue, she forced herself to remain conscious, watching through half-lidded eyes as Harry swiftly went to work. He approached Proudfoot's limp body, his movements sharp and methodical despite the tremor of exhaustion in his hands. He pocketed the Auror's wand and, with a grim expression, began binding Proudfoot's arms and legs with spell after spell.
For a fleeting moment, Hermione saw something dark flicker in Harry's eyes as he grabbed Proudfoot's arm. It was a look she hadn't seen before—something far more dangerous than she was used to from him. His grip tightened, his knuckles white as if he were on the verge of breaking Proudfoot's arm entirely. But then, just as quickly, the look vanished, replaced by his usual determination. Harry shook off whatever impulse had gripped him and continued his work.
Hermione, legs trembling, pushed herself to her feet and started toward Ron and Draco, wanting to check on them. Her mind was a blur of exhaustion and pain, but she couldn't rest yet. She wasn't sure if they were safe yet.
"I—I think we're good," Harry panted, his voice hoarse and shaky. He let out a long, weary sigh, wiping the sweat from his forehead. "Bloody hell, how are we going to get out of this place?"
No response. Just the eerie quiet of the room.
"Hermione?" he called out, his heart suddenly racing. He dusted off his robes and turned to see what was keeping her.
The sight froze him in place. Hermione had wandered toward the mirror—the cursed one—and was standing directly in front of it. Her eyes were glazed over, her face slack with an unnatural calm. She was staring into the mirror, entranced by whatever magic had snared her.
"No!" Harry's voice cracked with panic as he lunged forward, tackling her to the ground just as her fingers were about to brush the surface of the glass. The impact knocked the wind out of them both, but Harry didn't waste a second. "Finestra!" he shouted, and the mirror shattered instantly, exploding into a cascade of glittering shards.
Harry didn't have time to cast Protego, so he threw himself over Hermione, shielding her from the sharp debris. His body jerked as the glass rained down on them, tiny cuts stinging his neck and ears.
When the dust finally settled, Harry groaned in pain, shifting his weight to check on Hermione. She had fainted, whether from his forceful tackle or the exhaustion, he couldn't tell.
His body screamed for rest, but he couldn't stop. He sat up slowly, dragging himself to his feet and pulling out his wand.
"Expecto Patronum," he tried, but nothing happened.
"Stupid spell," he muttered under his breath. His hand fumbled through his pockets until he found what he was looking for—the mirror.
"Sirius Black," he said into it, his voice weak but steady. The mirror shimmered, and after a moment, Sirius's familiar face appeared.
"Hey, kid, what's up?" Sirius said, his tone casual and light.
Harry let out a bitter laugh, his voice dripping with exhaustion and disbelief. "What's up is your damn Auror just tried to kill us all."
xxxxx
Two days later, Hermione woke up with a groan, blinking against the morning light filtering through the windows of the hospital wing. The unmistakable scent of potions and healing balms filled her senses, confirming where she was. The sharp, sterile smell should have been unpleasant, but instead, it brought her a sense of relief. She wasn't dead. Her body felt weak, drained of magic, but she was alive.
Sitting up slowly, Hermione scanned the room. Draco was sitting on his own bed, his platinum hair slightly disheveled, chatting animatedly with Ron, whose red hair looked just as unruly as ever. Both of them seemed tired, their faces pale but far better than they had been during the fight with Proudfoot. It was clear they had spent time here too, recovering from the fight. She was about to call out to them when a dreadful thought crossed her mind.
Where was Harry?
Her heart sank. A knot of panic twisted in her chest as her gaze swept over the room again, more frantic this time. She hadn't seen him yet. He wasn't in his usual spot near her, watching over them like he always did.
"Where's Harry?" she asked, her voice weak but laced with concern, as she swung her legs off the bed, ignoring the aching protest of her muscles.
Both Ron and Draco turned, startled to see her awake. They exchanged a glance before Ron, with his ever-warm smile, rushed over to her. "Hermione! You're awake!" He pulled her into a quick, reassuring hug before guiding her toward a chair next to Draco's bed. His hands were gentle, as if he knew just how exhausted she still was.
Hermione sighed as she sank into the chair, feeling the weight of her own body dragging her down, though her mind raced with a million questions. "Where's Harry?" she repeated, her voice firmer now, desperate for answers.
Draco shot her a smirk, patting her arm as though to calm her. "Harry's fine, Granger. Didn't even faint. Just a few scratches here and there, nothing too deep. He managed to get Sirius in time, and we were all saved."
Hermione's brow furrowed, relief flooding her but also confusion. "Proudfoot?" she pressed, still trying to piece together the aftermath.
Ron, looking a little smug, leaned back against the pillows. "He's on his way to Azkaban. Claimed he was under the Imperius curse, but Sirius wasn't having any of it. Safer for him there, apparently."
"Safer in Azkaban?" Hermione echoed, trying to wrap her head around that statement.
Draco gave a snort, clearly entertained by the memory. "Well, yeah. Safer than facing our mothers. Your mum too, by the way."
Hermione's eyes widened in horror. "M-My mum?" she stammered, her face heating up at the thought of her mother storming through Hogwarts, demanding answers.
"Oh, everyone knows," Draco said with a laugh. "It was quite the sight, actually. That was the first time I've seen a Muggle scare a room full of wizards."
Hermione groaned, her hands coming up to cover her face. Her mother must have caused a scene. The mortification of it all was enough to make her wish she could disappear under a Disillusionment Charm right then and there. Not that she knows how to.
As she pulled her hands away, Hermione's eyes drifted across the room again, landing on a bed surrounded by curtains. Her breath caught. She hadn't noticed it before, but now it was painfully obvious that someone was behind those curtains. Without another word, she stood, her legs shaky but determined, intending to check on Harry herself.
Before she could take more than a few steps, both Ron and Draco shot to their feet, blocking her path. "It's probably best if you sit down for now," Draco said, though his smirk lacked the usual arrogance. There was a flicker of something else—was it guilt?
Hermione narrowed her eyes. "Why? What's going on? Is Harry okay? Why can't I see him?"
"Oh, for Merlin's sake, calm down!" Ron exclaimed, clearly uncomfortable under the weight of her questioning. "He's fine. He's just… got visitors."
Visitors? She didn't wait for further explanation. With a firm shove, she pushed past Draco's arm and moved Ron aside, ignoring their protests as she stormed towards the closed curtains. Her heart was hammering in her chest, each step filled with rising irritation before she yanked the curtains open.
"Harry!" she called, her voice a mix of concern and frustration.
But the sight that greeted her was not at all what she had expected.
Sitting beside Harry's bed was a pretty blonde girl, her icy blue eyes glancing up at Hermione without much surprise, as if she had been expecting this interruption. The girl had been holding Harry's hand, and there was a spoon in her other hand, poised to feed him. Hermione's brain connected the dots in a split second—the blonde witch was feeding Harry.
Harry looked up from his copy of the Daily Prophet, clearly startled. "Oh, Hermione, you're awake!" he exclaimed, his face lighting up as he practically leapt out of bed to wrap her in a tight hug. "You took too long to wake up! Your mum was ready to set the whole school on fire!"
Hermione blushed, her cheeks growing warm under his hug, but her eyes kept darting back to the girl. She didn't know what to feel—was she more embarrassed by the fact that Harry was hugging her right in front of this incredibly beautiful witch, or that her mother had apparently gone ballistic?
Before she could gather her thoughts, Harry pulled away, still grinning. "Are you okay? How are you feeling?"
Hermione opened her mouth to answer, but the words that came out were not the ones she had planned. "Who's this?"
Harry blinked, momentarily confused, before glancing back at the blonde witch. "Oh, this is one of my friends," he said casually, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "Hermione, meet Daphne Greengrass. She's a Slytherin."
Daphne stood up gracefully, her pale blonde hair cascading over her shoulders as she gave a small, elegant curtsy. "A pleasure," she said, her voice cool and polite.
Hermione didn't return the gesture. Instead, she simply nodded, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly. "A pleasure," she echoed, though her tone held none of the warmth.
Harry, oblivious to the tension in the air, sat back on the bed, unaware of the subtle glares being exchanged between the two girls. Daphne, with an almost imperceptible smirk playing on her lips, seemed to enjoy Hermione's discomfort. Hermione, on the other hand, stood stiffly, her annoyance bubbling just beneath the surface.
Her best friend, Harry, didn't seem to notice at all.
Hermione, instead of sitting on the chair next to the other side of Harry's bed, decisively perched on the edge of the bed itself, crossing her legs near his feet. The small creak of the mattress was the only noise filling the tension-filled air as her brown eyes flicked over to Harry's plate, now balanced delicately in Daphne's hands.
"Are your arms not working? Why is she feeding you?" Hermione asked, her voice light, but with a sharp edge that couldn't quite be hidden behind the forced laugh. She tried to sound casual, but the question sliced through the quiet space between them.
Daphne raised a perfectly arched eyebrow, not missing the hostility underneath Hermione's words. "What's it to you?" she replied, her voice laced with subtle amusement.
Hermione clenched her jaw, her irritation bubbling under the surface. Why are her eyes so blue? They were annoyingly bright, like the sky on a crisp spring morning, almost unnatural. Hermione hated how pretty they were.
"Just saying," she replied with a shrug, trying to feign nonchalance, though her tone betrayed her.
Harry groaned softly, rolling his eyes before giving Hermione a sheepish smile. "I broke my arm," he explained, lifting it slightly as if to show proof. "Well, it's all healed now, but Daph thought it would be best if she helped me with my food. Not that I mind, honestly. Feels kind of nice to be spoiled for once." His lips twitched into a grin, and he let out a bark of laughter that echoed a bit too much like Sirius's.
Hermione felt a sudden twinge of jealousy. 'Spoiled? He's never said anything like that about me.' Her mind raced as she processed Daphne's presence, but that name, Greengrass, sparked something faintly familiar in her mind. She had heard it before, but couldn't quite place it.
Before Hermione could dwell on it any further, Harry groaned again, rubbing his face in frustration. "How long until we get out of the hospital wing anyway?" he asked, though his question was directed toward Daphne.
"Madam Pomfrey said it would be best if your friends stayed for a week," Daphne responded smoothly, "since they emptied their magical reserves. You, on the other hand, can leave tomorrow. You just need to focus on resting—some of your wounds are still open, and you're physically exhausted."
Harry slumped dramatically against the pillows, letting out an exaggerated groan. "Lucky me," he muttered under his breath just as Ron and Draco strolled over from the other side of the room.
"Hello," they both greeted in unison, each wearing identical smirks.
"Heir Malfoy, Weasley," Daphne greeted them both, her tone clipped and formal, though there was a flicker of something playful in her gaze.
"Hey, Daphne," Ron sighed, looking exasperated already.
"Heiress Greengrass," Draco acknowledged her with a respectful nod, though his lips twitched with suppressed amusement.
"She's an heiress?" Hermione blurted out, glancing between Daphne and the others, her confusion evident.
Daphne's sharp blue eyes darted toward Hermione, her expression tightening as if the question insulted her. "Why does that seem to surprise you?" she asked, her tone cold and challenging.
Hermione shrugged, trying to play it off, though the question had clearly annoyed Daphne. "Just asking," she said innocently, even adding a slight smirk.
Daphne's lips thinned. "Well, I am," she said, her chin lifting slightly as if to reinforce her status. "And I'll have you know that besides being an heiress, I am also Harry's betrothed."
The words dropped like a weight between them, instantly altering the atmosphere. The room fell into a tense silence, and Hermione's stomach twisted painfully. Betrothed? Her heart sank as she realized where she had heard the name before—Ron had mentioned it once in passing, some list of potential betrothals for Harry, but she hadn't realized there was already an agreement. A faint frown crept onto her face, though she quickly tried to mask it. They were supposed to be husband and wife in the future?
Her mind was reeling. 'My Harry?'
"Bloody hell, Daphne," Ron hissed, his ears turning red. "You're not betrothed yet. There haven't been any signatures." His tone was sharp, clearly irritated by her declaration.
Draco remained quiet, though his raised eyebrow suggested he agreed with Ron.
Daphne, unfazed by Ron's irritation, simply smirked. "Well, seeing that Lord Black hasn't burned the contract offer, I'd say I'm in the running to be Harry's betrothed." Her smirk deepened as she ignored Ron's protests, clearly enjoying her little victory.
Harry, however, wasn't having it. He shook his head, raising a hand in a dismissive gesture. "Can we not?" he snapped, his voice edged with frustration. "Enough of this discussion." He turned to Daphne, his expression darkening. "And stop spreading that I'm your betrothed. It's not Sirius's decision, anyway. I'll choose who I marry in the future, and I'm certainly not making that decision now, especially not in the hospital wing, and especially not at eleven years old."
Hermione's heart soared at his words, a flicker of relief coursing through her. She couldn't stop the small smile tugging at her lips. That's right, he'll choose.
Suddenly, she snapped her fingers, her face lighting up with a grin as something clicked in her mind. "Daphne Greengrass!" she exclaimed, her voice filled with amusement. "I remember you! You're number nine!"
Daphne blinked in surprise, confusion flickering in her eyes. "Excuse me?" she asked, her voice cold.
"Number nine," Hermione repeated cheerfully. "On the top students of the year list. I remember it—Ron was twelfth, you're ninth, Draco's third, Harry's second, and I'm first." She couldn't help but grin as she rattled off the rankings, enjoying the tension that now hung thick between her and Daphne.
Ron and Draco struggled to hide their amusement, both of them exchanging glances and trying not to laugh outright. Even Harry seemed surprised, though a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as he glanced at Hermione.
Daphne, however, was clearly not amused. Her lips pressed into a thin line, and her fingers tightened around the edge of her robe. "I wasn't aware you recognized people by their intellectual capabilities... Granger," she spat, her tone dripping with disdain as she uttered Hermione's name like a curse.
Hermione's smile only widened, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Well, you should," she replied sweetly. "After all, what better way to gauge people than by knowing they're smart enough to hold a conversation?"
Daphne's glare could've melted stone, but Hermione didn't falter. She leaned in slightly, her voice low and teasing. "You should try to do better in school, Daphne," she added, her tone light but biting. "After all, if you want to be Harry's betrothed, he definitely deserves someone smart enough to keep him in check."
Daphne's mouth opened as if she were about to respond, but Hermione cut her off with a delighted clap of her hands. "Oh! I know!" she exclaimed, her grin growing wider. "Why not join us for a study session? I can help you with your studies. Just send an owl if you want to." She paused for dramatic effect, then added with a smug smile, "Or, you know, ask Harry. He's always with me anyway."
Daphne was speechless, her face flushed with irritation as she stared at Hermione. Hermione could practically see the gears turning in the Slytherin's head, but no sharp retort came.
Harry, watching from the bed, looked utterly bewildered yet amused by the entire exchange. He had known Daphne for years, always seen her as a confident, proud girl—maybe a bit icy, but never lost for words. But now, here she was, struggling to keep up with Hermione's relentless teasing.
Whatever it was that was unfolding between them, Harry found himself strangely entertained. He wasn't sure if he should step in to stop it, or just lean back and enjoy the show.
Either way, this was turning out to be quite the entertaining morning.
Chapter 18: End of School Year
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Hermione Granger couldn't sleep. She lay there, wide awake, tangled in her sheets as her mind spun. After everything that had happened with the Stone, it was impossible to reset her internal clock. Every time she closed her eyes, she relived those tense moments—danger around every corner, threats lurking in the shadows. And now, even though Harry had been discharged and Ron and Draco were due to leave tomorrow, she was still confined to the hospital wing for one more restless day.
The silence of the night pressed down on her, making her feel trapped in a cage of stillness. She sighed, sitting up in bed. Madam Pomfrey had given her a small vial of sleeping potion, but the thought of it made her nose wrinkle. It tasted awful, and the last thing she wanted was to become dependent on potions. No, she'd tough this out, she decided, no matter how exhausted she felt.
She reached for a book, her hands brushing the cool cover as she opened it, attempting to distract herself from the gnawing unease that twisted inside her. But even that felt hollow without magic. She couldn't cast a single spell to light up her surroundings. The darkness closed in around her, swallowing her whole.
The hospital wing was eerily quiet, and the faintest sounds—the rustling of bedclothes, the creak of a door—seemed magnified. Hermione leaned back against her pillows, trying to squint at the words in her book, but the dim light was useless.
Suddenly, there was a soft click, followed by a burst of light.
"Lumos."
Hermione yelped, startled, dropping the book as a bright glow illuminated the room. Her eyes darted to the source, only to see Harry standing by her bed, his invisibility cloak slipping from his shoulders. His grin was wide, mischievous, as he took in her shocked expression.
"Good evening, Hermione," he said with a low chuckle. He tossed the cloak aside and sat down on the edge of her bed, looking entirely too pleased with himself. "Can't sleep?"
She rolled her eyes, letting out a deep breath as her pulse slowed. "You're late."
"I got held up," Harry laughed, shifting closer. He stretched out beside her, his body warm against the cool sheets. Hermione hesitated for a moment before moving aside, patting the spot next to her, and without hesitation, Harry scooted up beside her. As if it were the most natural thing in the world, she laid down, resting her head in his lap. The closeness of him, his familiar warmth, immediately soothed her frayed nerves.
For the past few nights, this had been their routine. Every time Hermione woke up from another nightmare or struggled with sleep, Harry would sneak back into the hospital wing, wrapping himself in his invisibility cloak to avoid detection. He'd sit with her, just like this, and calm her racing thoughts. It had started the night after she'd woken up—Harry, so quiet, slipping in with a kind of ease that made her feel like she wasn't alone.
She didn't need to tell him about her nightmares. He already knew. The same way he knew how to comfort her, talking softly, his hands running through her hair in a way that made all the fear seem so far away.
"You're getting better at sneaking in," she murmured, feeling her eyelids grow heavy as the steady rhythm of Harry's fingers combing through her hair lulled her.
He smirked, his green eyes glittering in the dim light. "I learned from the best. Sirius would be proud."
Hermione felt her lips twitch upward into a small smile. It was hard to stay tense when Harry was like this, so calm, so steady. He didn't push her to talk about the Stone or the terrifying moments they had faced together. He didn't bring up the fear or the danger. Instead, he filled the space with stories—light-hearted ones, memories of his childhood with Ron, Draco, and Sirius, or grand tales of the Marauders' adventures. He spoke of their plans to become Animagi, of creating their own Marauder's Map, of everything they'd do once they figured out how.
Hermione loved listening to him, his voice quiet and soothing, as if they had all the time in the world. She closed her eyes, her hand resting gently on his knee, and let the tension melt away as Harry's voice filled the quiet.
"You know," he began, his tone teasing now, "you're going to get spoiled this summer. Practically living at Potter Manor—it's going to be like living in a library with how many books are in there."
Hermione smiled, biting her lip. The thought of spending her summer at Potter Manor had become her most anticipated prospect, especially since her mother still wasn't finished with the massive task of sorting through the Potter Library. She could practically picture it now—the towering shelves, the ancient tomes, the hours of uninterrupted reading. But more than that, it meant more time with Harry.
"You'll probably never want to leave once you get a look at all those books," he said with a grin, his hand still moving through her curls. "Not to mention, with Sirius around, there's no telling what sort of trouble we'll get into."
Hermione's smile widened as a soft laugh escaped her. The thought of causing mischief with Harry over the summer was almost too tempting to resist. "I'm more excited about you cooking for me," she teased lightly, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Yeah?" Harry's eyes softened as he gazed down at her. There was something in his expression—something unspoken that made Hermione's heart skip a beat. She felt a flicker of warmth bloom in her chest, a strange mix of comfort and something else she didn't quite understand.
They fell into a comfortable silence, the kind that spoke of friendship deeper than words. She felt safe like this, lying on his lap, his hands gently running through her hair as he told her stories of a future filled with adventure. It was easy to forget, just for a moment, that the year had been anything but simple.
Her mind wandered back to the hospital wing, the battles they had faced together, and Daphne. A pang of something sharp twisted in her chest, but she pushed it aside, focusing instead on the steady rhythm of Harry's voice. Whatever lay ahead—next year, next summer—it didn't matter right now. Right now, she was here, with Harry, and for once, everything felt like it was going to be okay.
It had been a whirlwind of a year, but with Harry by her side, she was ready to face whatever came next.
And as her breathing evened out and sleep finally began to tug her under, Hermione couldn't help but smile. After all, this summer was bound to be unforgettable—more time with Harry, more adventures, and more secrets to uncover.
xxxxx
"What Stone?" Harry asked, his frustration clear as he sat stiffly in the oversized chair across from Dumbledore's imposing desk. His voice was sharp, filled with confusion and irritation as he turned to look at the others, trying to find some sense in the conversation.
Once Hermione was finally discharged from the hospital wing, the four of them had been summoned to the Headmaster's office. The ancient room was dimly lit, the flickering glow of candlelight casting strange shadows over the walls lined with shelves filled with odd trinkets and dusty books. The air smelled faintly of old parchment and lemon drops. Fawkes, Dumbledore's phoenix, sat on his perch in the corner, quietly observing the tension in the room.
Dumbledore, perched behind his grand desk, seemed unusually eager, his eyes glittering behind his half-moon spectacles as he leaned forward slightly. His long fingers brushed thoughtfully along his silver beard, his usual air of calm and control slipping just slightly.
"The Philosopher's Stone, Harry," Dumbledore repeated, his voice steady but laced with a hint of urgency. "You all have done remarkably well in protecting it from Professor Proudfoot, but I believe it is time I retrieve it from you so that I may return it to the Flamels."
Ron and Draco exchanged uneasy glances, both looking rather disgruntled. Ron crossed his arms, leaning back in his chair with a scowl. "There was no stone in the final chamber, Professor," Ron said firmly. "Only a mirror."
Dumbledore's expression didn't change, though there was a momentary flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. "I know, Mr. Weasley," he said, nodding slowly, "but that is where the Stone lies – inside the mirror."
The four children looked utterly baffled. The thought of the Stone being hidden in plain sight like that, yet somehow completely unreachable, made no sense to them.
"Inside the mirror?" Hermione echoed, her brow furrowing in confusion. Her sharp mind raced to catch up, but the concept seemed absurd even to her.
"Yes, Ms. Granger," Dumbledore replied patiently, though there was a slight edge to his voice now. "The hiding place of the Philosopher's Stone was within the Mirror of Erised. The only way for someone to obtain the Stone was to look into the mirror with the desire to find it but without any intention of using it."
Harry's eyes narrowed, the words settling over him like a cold weight. His jaw tightened as he looked at the Headmaster with open skepticism. "That sounds dumb," he said bluntly, his frustration bubbling over. "I only saw... my parents." His voice dropped, a hint of something darker and more vulnerable seeping into his tone.
Draco, who had been listening in silence, looked up at that, his pale brows lifting in surprise. "Your parents?" he asked, his voice softer than usual, almost hesitant.
Harry's green eyes flicked to Draco before returning to Dumbledore. "Yeah," he muttered, the corners of his mouth twitching in irritation. "They were smiling and waving at me like they were alive." His hands clenched into fists at his sides. "I looked away immediately, I thought it was some sort of curse."
Dumbledore looked surprised for the first time, his eyes widening slightly. Harry's glare was intense, and for a moment, the room seemed to grow quieter, the air thick with unspoken tension.
"Did no one else look into the mirror?" Dumbledore asked, his tone suddenly sharper, more insistent.
Ron and Draco both shook their heads, their expressions uneasy. Hermione, however, shifted uncomfortably in her chair. She hadn't spoken much since entering the office, but now her gaze turned to the floor as if recalling something unpleasant.
"I did, Professor…" she began hesitantly, her voice barely above a whisper. "But… I only saw my father." Her breath hitched slightly, the painful memory flashing across her face. Her fingers clenched the edge of her robes.
Harry noticed immediately and reached out, his hand moving to her back. His touch was gentle, reassuring, and without saying a word, he began rubbing slow circles to comfort her. Hermione leaned into the touch slightly, her body relaxing under his care, but her eyes remained fixed on the floor.
"Well," Harry said, his voice low but firm, his gaze returning to Dumbledore with renewed determination. "It's a good thing that mirror was destroyed by Proudfoot, then. Whatever kind of magic that was, it was cruel. No one should have to see that."
Dumbledore's face drained of color. His fingers twitched on his desk, and he sat back, suddenly looking much older. The Philosopher's Stone had not been retrieved from the mirror before it was destroyed... which meant it was gone forever. He had caused an irreversible tragedy for his dear friends, the Flamels. The weight of that realization was palpable, the silence between them growing heavier.
"Are you certain, Ms. Granger?" Dumbledore asked again, his voice now tinged with an undeniable sense of desperation. "Are you absolutely sure you only saw your father?"
Before Hermione could respond, Harry rose from his seat in a fluid motion, stepping directly in front of her, blocking her from Dumbledore's piercing gaze. His posture was protective, his emerald eyes blazing with defiance as he squared off with the Headmaster.
"Are you calling Hermione a liar, Professor?" Harry asked, his voice cold and sharp, like a blade cutting through the tension in the room.
Dumbledore's expression faltered. His calm demeanor slipped for just a second, and a flash of irritation crossed his features. Ron and Draco exchanged nervous looks. They had heard rumors about Dumbledore's weird penchant toward certain students, particularly when it came to Muggle-borns like Hermione. The way Dumbledore was pressing her now felt unfair, and it stoked a slow-burning anger in all of them.
"I'm not, Mr. Potter," Dumbledore sighed, trying to regain his composure as he straightened in his chair, though his eyes remained darkened with frustration.
Harry's lip curled slightly, the tension between them almost palpable. "If that's all, then we're done here," he said coolly. "Come on, you lot."
Without waiting for permission, Harry turned and took Hermione's hand, leading her out of the Headmaster's office without another glance back. His grip was firm but gentle, and Hermione followed without a word, though she cast one last fleeting glance at Dumbledore, her heart pounding.
Ron and Draco hesitated only a second longer, their expressions dark and confused, before trailing after them, leaving Dumbledore alone in his office.
As the heavy door closed behind them, Dumbledore let out a deep, weary sigh. He slumped back into his chair, his hand reaching for the small bowl of lemon drops on his desk. He popped several into his mouth as Fawkes let out a soft, mournful trill from his perch, the song filling the room with an eerie sense of calm that did little to soothe the Headmaster's growing regret.
xxxxx
Whatever happened to Professor Proudfoot remained a mystery to most of the students at Hogwarts. Whispers and half-formed theories circulated through the corridors like ghosts haunting the castle. All anyone knew for sure was that Proudfoot had attacked several students while under the influence of the Imperius Curse, and that he had been quickly subdued by a squad of Aurors led by none other than Sirius Black.
The details were kept frustratingly vague, especially to the curious masses who thrived on gossip. The faculty had made certain that the hospital wing was sealed off from prying eyes while Harry, Hermione, Ron, and Draco recovered. Only Madam Pomfrey bustled through the silence with her potions and whispered reassurances. It left the student body speculating wildly. Hermione's sudden disappearance for nearly a week, the quiet but watchful looks the four friends exchanged—it all added fuel to the fire of rumor.
Some said Hermione had been one of the students attacked. Some insisted Harry had been there too, alongside Ron and Draco. The stories grew more elaborate with each retelling, painting wild pictures of duels in dark corridors, cursed spells flying, and shadowy plots reaching deep into the heart of Hogwarts.
But Harry, Ron, Draco, and Hermione remained tight-lipped. Ron, ever quick to embellish, toyed with the rumors, making up outlandish tales for the amusement of the gullible students. Harry and Draco, however, dismissed the gossip with stoic indifference, hardly acknowledging the buzzing rumors that swirled around them. Hermione, on the other hand, had the sharpest response—she simply lied.
"I had to go home," she had told her housemates with a well-practiced sigh. "There was a family emergency. I haven't the slightest idea what you're all going on about."
She had grown skilled at brushing off the inquiries, her voice steady and detached as she shut down any further prying. It wasn't hard for her; she'd never been overly fond of the students who hounded her for details, and the lie slipped effortlessly from her lips. It was easier this way—clean, simple, and most of all, safe.
Days turned into weeks, and eventually, the mystery surrounding Professor Proudfoot began to fade into the background as Hogwarts prepared for the end of the school year. The heavy air of exams lifted, and a lighthearted sense of freedom buzzed through the castle halls. The Great Hall was awash with noise and celebration on the final day—an eruption of joy and relief as the students gathered for the end-of-year feast.
Dumbledore stood at the head of the room, his twinkling eyes surveying the assembly of young witches and wizards. His robes glistened in the torchlight, and the familiar, gentle smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he addressed the school. His voice echoed warmly throughout the hall as he praised the students for another successful year. Hermione listened to him, but only half-heartedly, her chin resting on her hand as her eyes drifted across the grand feast set before her. Platters of roasted meats, trays of pies, and bowls of fresh fruit adorned the tables, but her appetite had long since faded.
Her eyes glazed slightly as she watched Dumbledore present the Quidditch Cup to a grinning Oliver Wood, who raised the gleaming trophy high above his head. The hall erupted into thunderous applause, but the cheers and chants from her housemates felt distant to her. It was strange—she should have been swept up in the excitement of the moment, just as Ron was, laughing boisterously and slamming his goblet down onto the table in a victory roar. But she couldn't shake the weariness that clung to her.
As the cheers for the Quidditch victory began to die down, Dumbledore's voice cut through the hall again, this time announcing Gryffindor's win of the House Cup. The Gryffindor table exploded in even louder cheers, filling the hall with a wave of red and gold as students leapt to their feet, hugging and clapping one another on the back.
Hermione managed a smile, joining in on the applause with the rest of her housemates, but her claps were softer, slower. She caught sight of Draco from across the hall. He sat at the Slytherin table, his expression unimpressed as he watched the Gryffindors celebrate their triumph. When their eyes met for the briefest second, he made a face at her—one of exaggerated disgust—and she felt a small bubble of amusement stir within her.
Still, it wasn't enough to lift the lingering weight in her chest. The school year had come to an end, and she knew she ought to feel something—joy, relief, excitement for the summer ahead. She was, after all, top of her class. She had her whole summer to look forward to, and she was alive, wasn't she?
But that nagging unease remained, a dark cloud hanging over her thoughts, shadowing every attempt at feeling anything more than this strange, hollow tiredness.
The noise in the hall swirled around her—cheers, laughter, voices echoing with end-of-term excitement. But her mind drifted, lost in the tangled web of memories and unanswered questions that lingered from their encounter with Proudfoot. The vivid images of that final night, the mirror, the fleeting glimpses of her father—those moments haunted her in ways she hadn't yet figured out how to deal with.
For now, though, she allowed herself to exist in this moment. She let herself clap along with the others, raising her goblet when the Gryffindor Quidditch team paraded the Cup down the center of the hall. She pretended, for just a little while, that things were normal—that they hadn't come so close to disaster.
For now, she could rest in the warm, loud joy of her house's victory, allowing herself to be swept up in the noise even if her heart wasn't truly in it.
The year had ended, and soon summer would begin. Whatever dark thoughts lurked in her mind could wait until then.
xxxxx
The rhythmic clatter of the Hogwarts Express echoed faintly in the background, a steady hum that usually brought a sense of peace. But for Hermione, it felt distant, like the world was moving around her while she stood still. She had barely spoken since they left Hogwarts, her mind weighed down by everything that had happened over the past few weeks. As the train continued its journey through the countryside, the reality of what they had been through lingered in the air, heavy and unspoken.
She could feel her friends watching her, their concern almost palpable, but she wasn't ready to talk about it—not yet. Instead, she slumped down beside Harry, her head resting comfortably on his lap. The motion felt natural, her body giving in to the exhaustion she had been battling since the incident at the Stone's chamber. Without a word, her eyes fluttered shut, and she drifted off into sleep.
Harry didn't argue or even seem surprised. His hand absentmindedly brushed over her hair, a comforting gesture, but his expression remained thoughtful, as though his mind was far away. Across from them, Ron and Draco exchanged a glance, neither one making a joke or a comment. They understood. After all, as much as the end of the school year should have been a time for celebration, there was a dark shadow looming over them all—one they couldn't simply shake off.
The events in the chamber had been terrifying. No one could have anticipated the sheer force of danger they'd face, let alone the bone-deep exhaustion that followed. Even now, days later, the memory of it clung to them, reminding them of how close they had come to losing everything. For all their bravado and cleverness, the reality had struck hard—they had been powerless against a single Auror under a curse. The weight of that realization hung over them like a storm cloud, promising a reckoning.
Harry's thoughts mirrored their own, his fingers pausing in Hermione's hair as he stared out the window. They needed to be stronger, faster, better prepared. The magical exhaustion they'd experienced had been overwhelming, leaving them vulnerable in ways they hadn't anticipated. How could they hope to protect themselves—let alone their friends—if they couldn't even stand up to one Auror? And what must Hermione have felt, being a Muggle-born and thrust into the chaos of the wizarding world for the very first time?
Ron, ever the one to break the silence, spoke up. "We should include her in our plans." His voice was low but firm, breaking through the heavy atmosphere of the compartment. Harry and Draco, who had been quietly engaged in a half-hearted game of wizard's chess, both looked up, surprised. They followed Ron's gaze to Hermione, who was still softly snoring, her chest rising and falling in steady rhythm.
"What plans?" Harry asked, raising an eyebrow.
"The Animagus thing," Ron replied, his tone thoughtful. "I've been reading the notes from McGonagall, but I can't make heads or tails of most of it. If anyone can figure it out, it's Hermione. Besides, Sirius keeps telling us we need to start working on it sooner rather than later. He says we'll need all the time we can get to get it right."
Harry leaned back in his seat, considering Ron's words. Ron was right, as usual when it came to their more reckless endeavors. Over the course of the school year, they all had discussed the possibility of becoming Animagi. They had read every book they could find on the subject, even digging into the more obscure texts in the Restricted Section. From what they'd gathered, it wasn't entirely unheard of for young witches and wizards to achieve the transformation—though it was extremely rare. Some instances of accidental magic had even resulted in children becoming Animagi at an early age.
But the process was far from simple, and the risks were substantial. One wrong move, one poorly executed spell, and they could end up with permanent animal features. Harry remembered reading about a man who had botched his transformation and was now cursed with a pig's tail that regrew no matter how many times it was removed. The thought was enough to make anyone think twice before attempting the transformation.
"I don't mind," Draco chimed in, shrugging. "She's a Marauder after all. If it helps us pull it off before second year, then count me in."
Ron grinned, clearly pleased with the consensus forming. "Exactly. And if we can get her to help, maybe we can avoid ending up with something ridiculous like extra animal parts we can't get rid of."
Draco leaned back, stretching his legs across the seat. "We're all in agreement, then. She's in."
A moment of quiet followed, broken only by the steady clacking of the train's wheels against the tracks. But Harry's mind was still racing, a million ideas bouncing around in his head. He turned to Ron, his curiosity piqued. "When you said plans, does that include the Map?"
Ron nodded, his expression growing more serious. "Yeah. I talked with Hermione about it a while back. I've been trying to draw up a map of Hogwarts based on the Marauder's Map, but she said it's not just magic that makes it work."
Harry frowned. "What do you mean?"
"She thinks the wards of Hogwarts play a big part in it," Ron explained, his voice lowering as if discussing some forbidden secret. "She said that Sirius and his friends probably didn't just use simple spells or charms to create the map. It's more likely that they tapped into the ancient wards that protect the school—wards that can sense when people come and go."
Draco's eyebrows shot up. "The wards? That's way more advanced than I thought."
"Yeah," Ron sighed. "She started talking about magical theory and wards and all this complicated stuff, and honestly, I zoned out halfway through because it was way over my head."
Harry and Draco burst into laughter, the tension finally breaking as they imagined Ron trying to follow Hermione's intricate explanations. The thought of Ron getting lost in her endless stream of academic brilliance was something they could all relate to.
"Well," Harry smirked, glancing down at Hermione. "Looks like she's got the brains of the group all wrapped up. I think that responsibility's hers now."
"Agreed," Draco nodded, still grinning.
For a few moments, the laughter faded into a comfortable silence. The weight of their earlier conversation still hung in the air, but now it seemed a little lighter, a little more manageable. There was still so much to figure out—Animagus transformations, secret maps, and whatever other mischief they might dream up over the summer—but for now, they had each other, and that was enough.
"Maybe we should come up with something original too," Harry suggested, his eyes bright with mischief. "Something that defines us—something new, not just carrying on the legacy of the Marauders."
Ron's face lit up with excitement. "Runes?" he suggested, though his tone was uncertain.
"Runes?" Draco repeated, intrigued. "What about them?"
"I don't know," Ron shrugged. "It seems like a cool subject to learn, and maybe we could figure out something useful with them. They've got to be good for more than just drawing fancy symbols on parchment."
Harry chuckled, shaking his head. "That's a third-year subject, Ron. We've still got some time before we get into that."
But there was a glint in Harry's eyes—a spark of adventure that couldn't be easily dismissed. He smirked as he leaned back, crossing his arms behind his head. "We'll figure something out. After all, we've got the whole summer ahead of us."
xxxxx
Fortunately, Hermione's mood seemed to lighten up as soon as they arrived at the station. The platform buzzed with the usual excitement of students returning from Hogwarts, yet amidst the crowd, their small group of friends felt more intimate than ever. The sight of familiar faces waiting for them brought a warmth that melted away the tension of the past year.
Sirius stood tall, his mischievous grin unmistakable, while Emma Granger waved enthusiastically, practically bouncing on her toes. As soon as Harry stepped off the train, Sirius enveloped him in a firm hug, ruffling his already untamed hair. Emma, not one to be left out, reached for Hermione and pulled her into a twirl, much to Hermione's surprise. She had just seen her mother a few weeks ago when she was in the hospital wing, but Emma's joy seemed boundless.
"You look so grown up!" Emma beamed, holding Hermione at arm's length, then glancing at Harry, who stood a few feet away. "And you too, Harry! My goodness, Hermione, you're almost the same height as him!"
Harry frowned at that, glancing at Hermione, who stood beside him. Immediately, Hermione stretched up on her toes, lifting her chin and trying to make herself seem taller. The gleam in her eyes was playful, a rare moment of teasing aimed directly at Harry.
"Cut it out!" Harry groaned, pushing her shoulder lightly, though his expression softened as Hermione's laughter bubbled up in response. It had been a long time since he'd heard that sound from her, and it felt like the first ray of sunshine after a storm.
Just as Harry opened his mouth to retort, a hand gripped his shoulder gently but firmly. He turned around, half expecting it to be Sirius, only to come face to face with Narcissa Malfoy. The regal figure of Draco's mother stood before him, her black eyes locking onto his with an intensity that made his breath hitch.
"Hello, Harry," Narcissa said, her voice smooth and soft, yet carrying that familiar edge of authority.
"Oh... hello, Aunt Cissy," Harry stammered, forcing a smile. Despite his best efforts, he couldn't stop himself from shrinking back under her piercing gaze. Narcissa always managed to rattle him just a bit. Unlike her more relaxed and friendly sister, Andromeda Tonks, Narcissa was intimidating—her elegance and formality often made Harry feel out of place, like he was being carefully scrutinized.
Without missing a beat, Narcissa reached up and began patting down Harry's messy hair, a frown forming on her lips when the rebellious strands refused to lie flat. "You've grown," she remarked, her eyes softening slightly as she surveyed him. "But your hair—honestly, we really must put you on a proper hair regimen, something like Draco's."
From behind them, Hermione burst into a fit of laughter. The image of Harry using hair potions like Draco was too much for her to contain, but she immediately clapped a hand over her mouth when Narcissa turned her gaze toward her, raising a single, perfectly arched eyebrow.
Harry, seizing the opportunity, turned the attention away from himself. "Oh, Aunt Cissy, this is Hermione Granger, my best friend," he said, quickly gesturing toward Hermione.
Hermione straightened up at once, unsure of how to act in front of such a commanding presence. Her mind flashed back to her interaction with Daphne Greengrass, and before she could stop herself, she dipped into an awkward curtsy—a gesture she'd only seen in books and from observing pureblood customs at Hogwarts.
"Hello, Mrs. Malfoy. A pleasure to meet you," Hermione said in a small voice, hoping she hadn't just made an utter fool of herself.
Narcissa's expression softened. "None of that, Hermione," she said with a rare warmth, stepping closer. "If you're Draco and Harry's best friend, then I consider you my own." Before Hermione could process the statement, Narcissa was gently running her fingers through Hermione's hair, examining it as if she were appraising a priceless artifact.
And then, to Hermione's utter surprise, Narcissa leaned in and gave her a warm hug. It was brief but sincere, the kind of gesture that felt both foreign and comforting. Narcissa whispered softly, her words so quiet that Hermione almost thought she imagined them, "Call me Aunt Cissy. I've always wanted a daughter."
Hermione froze in place, her eyes wide as saucers. She wasn't the only one who had heard, though, because out of the corner of her eye, she saw Harry biting down on his knuckles, desperately trying to keep himself from bursting into laughter.
"Well, we'd better get going," Sirius announced, stepping in at just the right moment and pulling his cousin back from her sudden display of affection. "I'll see you soon, Cissy."
"Take care of them, Sirius," Narcissa replied smoothly, her usual cool composure slipping back into place. She cast a final glance at Emma, who smiled warmly in return, before turning her attention to Draco, who was engaged in an animated conversation with Ron and the other Weasleys.
As soon as Narcissa was out of earshot, Hermione turned to Harry, her face still tinged with disbelief. "That was... weird," she muttered, her voice low, as if speaking it too loudly might summon Narcissa back.
"Hermione!" Emma gasped, scandalized. "That's rude!"
But Harry couldn't contain it anymore. His laughter spilled out, and even Hermione's cheeks flushed as the awkward tension of the moment dissolved into something lighter, something that felt like a true beginning of summer. It was a strange reunion, but somehow, it felt right—chaotic, unexpected, and full of promise. And as they all stood there on the platform, under the watchful gaze of parents and guardians, there was a shared understanding between them: this summer would be far from ordinary.
And that realization made it all the more exciting.
xxxxx
The feast Kreacher and Dobby had prepared was nothing short of extravagant—lavish dishes stacked high on the table, rich aromas filling the manor, and desserts that seemed to stretch into infinity. The celebration had left Hermione utterly exhausted. Now, with the evening drawing to a close, she could barely drag herself to her room. Every muscle in her body protested as she stumbled down the hallway, weighed down by the overwhelming amount of food she had eaten.
Her room in Potter Manor felt surreal—massive, elegant, and almost too grand for a girl who was still adjusting to the idea that this sprawling estate belonged to her best friend. The ceiling seemed higher than she'd ever imagined, with beams of moonlight filtering through the large windows, casting an ethereal glow on the carefully arranged furniture. Yet, despite its size, the space felt oddly comforting. Knowing her mother was just a door away helped chase away any lingering unease.
As she entered, she smiled at the sight of her open trunk. Her clothes were neatly arranged, books lined up on the dresser, and her favorite quills stacked next to the bed. Dobby must've taken it upon himself to make sure her room felt just right. She kicked off her shoes and slowly peeled off her robes, eager to slip into something more comfortable. Her body ached from the day's excitement, and the thought of sinking into the plush bed filled her with relief.
Just as she was halfway through changing, the door swung open.
"Hey, Herm—" Harry's voice cut off as he froze, his eyes widening. He stood there, staring at her in a mix of shock and embarrassment, before he slammed the door shut with a sharp bang.
A few awkward minutes passed, during which Hermione, now dressed in her pajamas, could only chuckle at the situation. She had just settled onto her bed when the door creaked open again, much more hesitantly this time. Harry entered, eyes glued firmly to the floor, a light flush still evident on his cheeks.
"Hey, Hermione," he mumbled, as if nothing had just happened.
Hermione raised an eyebrow, giving him a mock glare. "Not even going to acknowledge that you just barged in on me changing, huh?"
Harry scratched the back of his head, the faintest of grins tugging at the corner of his lips. "Yeah, about that—forgot to mention the doors in the manor open for me, even if they're locked." He tried to play it off, but the lingering blush betrayed his embarrassment.
"What is it, Harry?" Hermione asked, her tone softening as she sat on her bed, legs folded under her. She couldn't stay mad at him for long, not when he looked so bashful.
"I just... I wanted to check on you," Harry admitted, finally glancing up at her. His emerald eyes softened with concern. "You've been really quiet since we got back. I didn't want you to feel alone, or sad, or... you know."
A small smile tugged at Hermione's lips. She appreciated his efforts to cheer her up. Hogwarts had been an adventure, to say the least, but now that she was back in the safety of Potter Manor, she realized how much the events of the past months weighed on her. Her view of Hogwarts had shifted—sure, it was an incredible place full of magic and wonder, but it was also dangerous, with secrets lurking around every corner. And then there was the ever-present shadow of Albus Dumbledore, someone Hermione couldn't fully trust, despite his reputation.
Her fingers absentmindedly played with the Potter heir ring on her hand, twisting it as the memories of Hogwarts lingered. Harry had insisted she keep it with her throughout their time at school, even when she'd tried to return it. The cool metal against her skin was a constant reminder of his unwavering loyalty.
"I'm fine, Harry," Hermione said, offering him a genuine smile. "Thank you for checking on me. And if I do have trouble sleeping, I could always sneak into your room." She smirked playfully. "No prefects around to catch us this time, right?"
Harry chuckled, his whole demeanor relaxing. "Yeah, but we've got Sirius and Emma, and they're scarier than any prefect."
Hermione laughed softly, the sound breaking the quiet tension that had settled between them. She glanced at Harry, noticing the way he seemed to hover near the door, unsure of whether he should stay or go.
"Come sit with me," she said, patting the space beside her on the bed.
He hesitated for a moment before nodding, walking almost stiffly to her side. As he sat, Hermione leaned against him, resting her head on his shoulder. His warmth was comforting, grounding her in a way she hadn't realized she needed.
"Harry," she murmured suddenly, her voice carrying a weight that made him tense for a moment. "I have something to confess."
He turned to look at her, his face a mix of curiosity and concern. "What is it?" he asked cautiously, bracing himself for whatever she might say.
Hermione bit her lip, as if wrestling with how much to reveal. "You see, when I looked into the mirror..." she began, her voice soft, "I didn't actually see my father."
Harry's eyes widened in surprise. "You didn't?" He leaned in closer, hanging onto her words. "What did you see?"
For a brief moment, Hermione's cheeks flushed a light pink, but she quickly brushed it off. "I won't say the details, but..." She stood up abruptly, walking over to her trunk as if to distract herself from the growing tension in the room.
She rummaged through her belongings, pulling out her school robes. "When we were here for Christmas, Sirius put an extension charm on my pockets." Hermione reached into one of the pockets, her entire arm disappearing as she searched for something. When she finally pulled it out, a large ruby-red stone emerged, glowing faintly in the dim light.
Harry blinked in confusion, tilting his head. "Well... what is it?"
Hermione hesitated, her voice dropping to a whisper as she held the stone out for him to see. "I... I think it's the Philosopher's Stone, Harry."
Harry's jaw dropped, eyes widening in shock as he stared at the shimmering gem in her hand.
Notes:
This is the end of Year 1. While preparing for the second book, I want to know your thoughts if I should end the story here and continue with another story and keep this as a series or if I should just continue posting chapters.
So far, it's a tie based on the previous comments so it would really help a lot. I would love it if you've read up to this point and gave me your thoughts.
Thanks for sticking until the end of Harry's first year.