Downtrodden by Tic-Tac

Rating: PG13
Genres: Romance, Action & Adventure
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 5
Published: 13/12/2003
Last Updated: 22/06/2004
Status: In Progress

It all started with boredom; an innocent journey up to the Dursleys' dusty old attic; a
strange package. As Harry's sixth year progresses, he soon comes to discover that he has
finally bitten off more than he can chew...




1. Chapter one
--------------



Downtrodden

**Disclaimer**: I own absolutely nothing. I am just using the plot of Harry Potter (owned by
JK Rowling), to use for my own amusement. Nothing here is mine, with the exception of some
characters, which I will describe later... Basically, anything you recognize is NOT, in any way or
form, MINE.

*Hello everyone! Just a few words before I start…*

*This is my first HP story - and probably my longest. I actually thought of the plot a few
months ago, but was too much of a wimp to post it before… I didn't bother to write it… And
then, I found Portkey, and voila! My muses began working, my mind exploded, and I went insane. But
in a good way, of course… ^^*

*Also, go easy on me if I mess up with one of the facts from OotP. I read it once, and that
was two months ago. I mean, I know it basically, but… I'm a little rusty. But if I do horribly
butcher something, PLEASE tell me! Thanks!*

*I'm terribly sorry if I don't update as quickly as the other authors. I'm going
to try to do long chapters, but if most of you would prefer shorter ones, then just say so. Also, I
have the everlasting homework issue -> don't worry though! Holiday break in exactly a week!
Yay! Two weeks off!*

*I really, really appreciate constructive feedback! I'll try to mention everyone who does
review in the next chapter! ^_^*

*Cheers ~*

*-Lauren*

It was another terribly dreary day at Number Four, Privet Drive. The only sign of life was in
fact, not life at all - just the constant drumming of rain on the roof and gutters. The sound was
all too familiar to sixteen-year-old Harry Potter, who had spent the last fortnight in his bedroom,
reading (or perhaps re-reading) his books and finishing schoolwork. The gale of rain and wind had
come unexpectedly at the end of the fifth year term, and many disappointed Muggles had sadly put
away their suntan lotion and lawn chairs, secretly crossing their fingers for another just as
unexpected heat wave. But Harry didn't care. The storm suited his mood perfectly, and he was
glad to see everyone miserable; the weatherman on the public weather station baffled and confused.
Downtrodden

For once in his young life, Harry was glad he was alone and unwanted during the summer holidays
- forced to live with the people he despised most (though not, perhaps, as much as the Malfoys). It
meant he wouldn't have to have an intelligent conversation, and face the pity he knew everyone
would lavish onto him. He wouldn't have to watch their faces; anxious and antsy as if they were
waiting for him to erupt into tears at any given moment…

He didn't even try to tell the Dursleys. The very idea was ridiculous. Why would they care
about whom *he* cared about? They never did before, and they never would.

Harry laughed at himself. They never wasted a second thought on Harry's dead parents. Their
pity was practically a sliver of oblivion, and if they cared at all, it didn't show. Everything
Harry said about the Magical World was shushed hurriedly, and then shoved back down his throat. So
it was pointless, it seemed, to explain his newly aching loss to Harry's curt aunt and
uncle.

And Dudley? Harry picked up a crumb from his smuggled biscuit and smashed it between his fingers
angrily. Dudley had been nothing but a nuisance and bully towards Harry. He was better off talking
to drywall.

Harry sighed, and for a fleeting instant, wondered what Ron and Hermione were doing. But this
thought was shoved aside as a pang of hunger bit into the lining of Harry's stomach. He groaned
and sat upright, finally stretched his skinny frame. The biscuit had not been very filling.

Harry walked towards the door, flung it open carelessly, and proceeded downstairs, rubbing his
sore eyes free of any grit.

He was alone in the house again. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia had long since forgotten their
fear of leaving him alone and coming back to a smoldering house, and now, with Uncle Vernon's
drill company making twice as much profit than before, they were constantly being invited (or
deviously inviting themselves) to parties or friendly get-togethers. Dudley, unlike most boys of
his age, was still living at home, but was currently staying with his Aunt Marge somewhere in the
United States. Harry found this quite a relief; there was nothing worse than watching his cousin
get anything he wanted with a snap of his pudgy fingers, amid his mother's coos and loving
nicknames.

Harry scrambled around the kitchen, looking for food. Finally, he came across an apple, and he
chomped down hungrily. Glancing at the clock, Harry sighed thankfully. The Dursleys wouldn't be
home for another two hours.

*Well, at least I can watch TV now…* he thought, staring at the blank screen. But Harry had
watched so much television lately that even the very thought bored him. He thought of his Firebolt,
about how he wished to fly it, and he smiled wistfully…

He jumped up. That was it! At least his broomstick would keep him busy. Harry was meaning to
polish the handle anyway… He would just take it out and look at it. Maybe then his mind could do
the fantasizing for him.

Throwing the apple core into the wastebasket by the kitchen sink, Harry sprinted up the stairs
and into one of the closets in the hallway. As soon as he came home from school, Harry had stored
his Firebolt safely upstairs in the attic. Though he was sure Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia were
quite content to leave his things alone, Harry wagered that if they saw his most treasured
possession out and about, they wouldn't pass up the chance to make him miserable. Besides, no
one ever went into the attic; Aunt Petunia had seen to that.

Before Hogwarts, Harry had often climbed up the ladder and into the attic when he felt
threatened by Dudley and his dim-witted gang. It was almost a sanctuary. And now, it was a perfect
place to keep his belongings out of harm's way.

Harry climbed the ladder, and pushed up on the heavy trapdoor, groaning with the effort. He
certainly didn't remember anything being this heavy when he put his Firebolt up there just a
few weeks ago…

He pushed one last time. He heard a sliding noise and a deafening *clunk* as the door swung
inwards and hit the attic floor.

Harry heaved himself up and stood up, coughing. He waved his hands in front of his face, warding
away the dust that had swirled up around him, and grabbed a hanging chain. He pulled, and a
drowsy-looking light flickered on.

It was extremely musty in the attic, and everything around him looked at least one hundred
years, due to the collection of dust and dirt. Boxes, labeled with various names, were stacked in
neat columns, and broken toys and game consoles lay, forgotten, in pieces around the surprisingly
large room. Harry could have sworn he even saw the remains of Dudley's long lost turtle.

The only thing that was visibly untouched by age and debris was Harry's Firebolt. It was
still glossy and polished, and only a few hairs on the end were twisted and bent. The clearly
engraved name - *Firebolt* - was as beautiful as ever, catching the rays from the hanging
light and reflecting them against the ceiling. The wooden body still looked as smooth as when he
last polished it. Harry's heart spun a three-sixty inside his chest and surged with pride.

“There you are,” he said softly, taking it from where it had been leaning and peering closely at
it. “No harm done, either.” He looked around at the scattered rubbish. “Mixed in with this lot,
I'm surprised you're in one piece.”

He slung it over his shoulder. But as he turned to leave, his eyes landed on a rather small
parcel stuffed carelessly into a corner of the attic. It was huddled between two stacks of boxes
(all labeled “Dudley's baby pictures”), and, in fact, if he hadn't been standing exactly
where he was, he wouldn't have seen it. Dust was covering most of the papery outside layer, but
most of what had been wrapped around it, however, was browning and dilapidated.

Harry moved closer, suddenly curious. Then carefully, with both hands, he lifted it off of the
floor.

Suddenly, he heard footsteps, and Uncle Vernon talking loudly. Harry looked wildly around,
quickly propped his Firebolt against one of the stacks of boxes, and flew down the ladder and into
the closet. With a small groan, he pulled the trapdoor back down.

Then he realized he was still holding the package. He hurriedly hid it behind his back… pushed
the closet door open and slipped through…

He was about to turn on his heel and run to his room when he found himself face to face with
Uncle Vernon. His eyes were more bloodshot than usual, and he looked slightly drunk. His dark
moustache was twitching as he looked Harry up and down.

With one hand, Harry tried to brush some of the dust from his untidy hair.

Uncle Vernon narrowed his eyes. “What are you up to, boy?” Aunt Petunia's beady eyes glanced
suspiciously towards his hands, which were still hidden behind his back. Harry shifted away from
her gaze.

“Nothing. I came down for something to eat.”

They both stared at him. Aunt Petunia was still clinging onto Uncle Vernon's arm tightly,
her nails digging into his skin. The tension was so thick it could have been cut with a knife.

Harry could see Uncle Vernon's teeth grinding together behind his angrily pursed lips (as
well as he could hear them) and his nostrils were flaring like a winded horse. But the more
frustrated he got, the harder Aunt Petunia grabbed onto him.

“Well, that's nice,” Aunt Petunia managed to sputter. Harry got the impression that she was
holding back a raging bull. And he knew it was not out of kindness. After Mad-Eye Moody's
threat at the end of fifth year, Aunt Petunia had constantly acted as a barrier between Harry and
Uncle Vernon. Usually this wasn't a problem, because they hardly ever even acknowledged each
other, but every once in a while, Uncle Vernon would resort to his old habits and bark threats at
Harry, who would respond with an icy glare.

But in truth, Harry felt like he had enough on his plate already to really care what Uncle
Vernon did. Sirius's death was draining, and it exhausted him. And whenever he came back to the
painful subject, he could feel the tears forming in his eyes, the heaviness in his chest… He always
blamed himself. He had fallen for Voldemort's plan, and his godfather was dead because of it.
He set himself up for failure, he always did… He was the one who led everyone into terror. Everyone
he knew and loved was in danger - even more than before. Harry shut his eyes painfully. First his
parents, then Sirius. Who was next?

Harry looked at his aunt and uncle, who were eyeing him with apprehension, and suddenly
understood. Everything fit; the terrible, bias lifestyle he had grown up knowing, his aunt and
uncle's refusal to tell him what he rightly should have known - that he was a wizard… They knew
his history. They hated him because they were afraid.

Harry was shaking; breathing through his nose in short, ragged breaths…

They were afraid of him, of the looming dread he brought upon everyone he was close to. If he
cared about someone, they were bound to die. Of course, it was just a matter of time before
everyone he knew was nothing more than ashes beneath the earth…

He could feel his heart pounding, his blood pulsing through his veins…

Harry clenched his fists. He wanted to shout himself hoarse, he wanted to kick and scream. Why
was everything piled onto his shoulders, anyway? There was nothing special about him… Why was he
suddenly the *one* who had to destroy Voldemort?

*It's ironic, really,* thought Harry coldly, *at first I was a nobody. Then,
suddenly, I'm the single most important person in the Wizarding* and *Muggle worlds…
I'm the one in charge of defeating the greatest dark wizard of all time…*

Harry felt the parcel weighing down his arms, jerking him back to reality. Aunt Petunia was
staring at him strangely.

It was then that he realized he couldn't stay here, watching Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia
give him angry and resentful looks whenever they thought he wasn't looking; hearing them speak
in hushed whispers when he passed them by; feeling the tension envelope them every time he entered
a room… it just wasn't worth it anymore. All of this pretending was in vain, and Harry knew
that if he didn't leave, he would drive himself crazy.

“Did you finish any schoolwork while we were away?” Aunt Petunia was talking, trying desperately
to make a conversation out of the choked silence. Harry shook his head, looking out of the corner
of his eye at Uncle Vernon. His face was a dramatic purple color, and it looked like he was
struggling to remain calm, but was failing miserably.

“No, too tired,” Harry told her shortly. Uncle Vernon grunted his acknowledgement.

Aunt Petunia stared nervously at him for a second more, then pulled her husband into the
kitchen. Harry turned around sharply and stormed up the stairs, glad to be rid of their awkward
company.

As soon as Harry reached his room, he slammed his door shut and flung himself onto his bed. The
parcel flopped pathetically out of his hands, settling a foot away. His snowy owl, Hedwig, awoke
with a loud shriek, beating her large wings against the side of her cage. She gave him a very
annoyed look, which Harry ignored.

It felt hopeless. Dumbledore was looking after him, making sure that he didn't go anywhere,
do anything stupid… The whole Order was keeping a close eye on his well-being, and even old Mrs.
Figg was doing her humble duties.

It was always the same. Protect Harry; help Harry; feel sorry for Harry… He was fed up with
everyone's extra attention, the wandering eyes, the whispers following him down the halls of
Hogwarts…

Harry turned his eyes to Hedwig, who had apparently settled down, and was now contently preening
her feathers. For a second she held his gaze, her inquisitive eyes wide, as if she were asking him
something. But then she looked away and dipped her beak into her water bowl.

Harry got off his stomach and sat, leaning against the headboard of his bed. His mind
whirled.

He could seek a home at The Burrow for the rest of the summer holidays… But where would that
lead him? Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, who always had his best interests at heart, would whisk him back to
Privet Drive before he could say “Fizzing Whizbees”. Both were avid members of the Order of the
Phoenix, and would certainly know about Dumbledore's concerns and wishes. No… it was too
risky.

Old Grimmauld Place? He wasn't that thick… That would send him right back to where he
began…

Stoatshead Hill?

Hogsmeade?

Harry racked his brain, desperate.

The Shrieking Shack?

King's Cross Station?

Harry grabbed a handful of his soot-black hair and massaged his fingernails into his scalp.
*No, no, no…* he thought mournfully. Everything felt wrong.

Hedwig stared at him, and Harry said to her, feeling discouraged, “I guess I could always tag
along with Stan on the Knight Bus…” He pushed himself off his bed and went over to her cage to
stroke her. Instead of letting him, she snapped her beak and screeched loudly. Harry stumbled
backwards, taken aback.

Then suddenly it hit him. It was so obvious, so amazingly obvious… Harry was astounded he
didn't think of it before…

“Hermione,” he whispered.

Harry thumbed through the phonebook impatiently, pressing his tongue against the roof of his
mouth. His eyes scanned the pages and pages of addresses, peering through his glasses in hope of
finding what he wanted. He had been looking for an hour, and had gone through almost all of the
Dursley's old phonebooks, except for the few that lay in a scattered mess on the table in front
of him.

Harry's entire luggage collection was piled by the leg of the table, with the exception of
Hedwig, whose cage was resting atop the hardwood table. Harry, who never really believed in animal
communication by speaking, gave up his ideas for that one night and pathetically resorted to
pleading Hedwig to be quiet, lest she wake up the Dursleys. The rest of the nights, he promised,
she could hunt and screech as long and as loud as she pleased.

He ran his finger down the Gs he had managed to find, mumbling names under his breath.

“Granare… Granetta… Granger…” Harry muttered. His eyes opened excitedly and his heart skipped a
beat. With much more enthusiasm, he jotted down the address written in the book, checked once more
to see if there were any more Granger's listed (there weren't), and slipped his jacket
around his shoulders.

With a thankful sigh, Harry pocketed Hermione's address and grasped his luggage. Carefully
and quietly, he switched off the kitchen light and slipped out of Privet Drive and onto the front
porch.

Though Harry was no stranger to late-night ventures and daring escapades, he concluded that this
was by far the worst felony he had committed. Deliberately going against Dumbledore's gentle
reasoning was the worst Harry had ever done; even the other experiences were nothing compared to
what he was doing now. A pang of guilt rushed through him as he realized he was pulling Hermione
into this as well…

But Harry balled his hands into fists and ignored his musings. *It was better this way,* he
told himself firmly*, even if it does mean challenging Dumbledore's logic.*

It was perhaps the rainiest, most horrible night of the entire summer. The wind was howling
through the streets as Harry walked along; gusts tangled and weaved through his hair, and his black
bangs found their way into his stinging eyes more often than not. Most of the wind, however, swept
around him and whistled as it brushed past the houses, rattling the windows and gutters. And it
didn't soothe the situation that the gale was blowing against him, resulting in the raindrops
pounding into his face: he could have sworn each made a small dent where it collided.

Harry had long since given up on trying to quiet Hedwig, and finally, with much unease, let her
out of her cage. She had taken off into the sky, looking ruffled and very much windswept, but very
relieved. Harry had been relieved also, for Hedwig's well-aimed beak was attacking a new target
(if she had continued nipping him any longer, his fingers would have reduced to mincemeat). She had
taken to diving out of sight and returning with what Harry presumed was a shrew (though it was hard
to tell in the weather).

It didn't take more than ten minutes for Harry to become utterly and completely soaked, but
with each step he took, he felt more elated.

Seeing Hermione was more than enough to relieve all of Harry's pain and discomfort. It was
this idea alone that kept him going, kept him strong. In fact, he needed to see her so badly,
*not* seeing her was agony. He had to confide in her. She would listen.

Painstakingly, Harry continued, until finally, he found himself lifting his head to look at the
residence in front of him. Still staring at it, he pulled out Hermione's address and glanced
down quickly. He lifted his eyes heavenward in gratitude.

It was a very cozy-looking house, painted a warm tan color. Its door was a darker brown, but
still very friendly, with shutters to match. Compared to the Dursley's spacious lot, it was
rather small, but Harry wouldn't have cared even if Hermione had lived in the smallest house in
England. He found himself drawn to the house like a magnet, liking the feel it generated
immediately. And even the Dursley's couldn't outdo that.

Suddenly, he couldn't take it any longer, and sprinted up the driveway and onto the front
porch. He raised his hand and knocked on the door desperately.

The sound echoed through the house, and for a split second, Harry felt insecure. What if he did
do the wrong thing? What if he was he being moronic, leaving the Dursleys? What if -

Footsteps pitter-pattered down the hallway of the house, until…

The door flung open, revealing a harassed-looking Hermione, who was fumbling with the buttons on
her nightshirt, clearly not seeing Harry. “Mum, Dad, I didn't expect you to be home so early…”
She stopped in mid-sentence. Looked up. Blinked.

Mouth agape, she gasped, “Harry!”

He managed a weak smile, but he was at a loss for words. His teeth chattered.

Her eyes traveled from his soggy hair to his waterlogged clothes, and back up to his exhausted
face. “Oh, Harry…” She also looked speechless, which was not like her at all. The two of them
stared at each other, lapsing into silence. Hermione tried to wring her wet hair dry.

Harry spoke first. “Can I -?”

Hermione jumped out of her reverie instantly. “Yes! Yes, Harry, come… come in!” She leapt
forward and grabbed his suitcase in her hand, waving him in with another.

Harry stepped into the house, feeling more than aware of the growing puddle of water surrounding
him where he stood. He felt a shiver pass through him as Hermione closed the door with her leg. She
turned to face him.

“Hermione,” he managed to choke out (his voice felt oddly out-of-practice).

She had returned to her old self; the shock of seeing Harry at her front door had worn off just
a bit. “You're chilled to the bone, Harry,” she noted, biting her lower lip, “You need some
warm clothes.” Her hands went to his suitcase, and still watching him carefully, she handed him his
luggage. “This will still be dry. Go ahead and put them on. I'll make some cocoa.”

“Right,” said Harry, “Er… where is your bathroom?”

“Upstairs, first door on your right.”

As soon as he arrived in the bathroom, he stripped himself of his wet clothing, and dressed
himself in his semi-dry clothes. He attempted to slick down his now drying hair, but he only
managed to dishevel it even more. He sighed.

“Never mind then,” he muttered to his reflection.

When they met downstairs for the second time, Hermione had made some steaming mugs of cocoa, and
had the fireplace blazing. It was extremely pleasant.

Hermione asked him once more if he needed anything, he shook his head, and she sat down on the
flowery couch, wrapping a wool blanket around herself. She was absently rubbing her index finger
with her thumb, looking torn.

“Harry…” she started cautiously, with care; “I need an explanation before I can help you.
Because that's what you want, right?”

He felt like an idiot. All of a sudden, nothing made sense. He had traveled miles and miles to
visit her, for what purpose? Did he really want to burden her with his worries?

“No,” he lied quickly, “no. I just wanted to visit you.”

Her eyes burned right through him. She said bluntly, “ I don't believe you.”

Harry stared determinedly at his mug.

“Harry, just tell me. Please. I know you, and I know how you're feeling.” He raised his head
to look at her. “Don't feel guilty, okay? I'm not fragile. I can help you.”

His eyes were stinging. “I left the Dursleys.”

Hermione looked confused. “Yes, I know…”

“I can't go back,” Harry continued, breathing in deeply. “I can't face them.”

He turned to look at her, and his usually bright eyes were shadowed with hurt.

“Hermione.” His voice cracked. “Are you afraid of me?”

She was shocked, taken aback. “Of course not, Harry.”

“Are you sure?” Before he could stop himself, he was raising his voice, “Are you sure you're
not afraid of me?”

“Harry -,”

“Everyone else is, aren't they? Why aren't you any different? Even Ron is afraid of me!”
Harry's fingernails dug into his palm and his chest heaved. “I don't know how, but somehow
he's jealous and scared at the same time.” Hermione's mouth opened in protest, but Harry
said quickly, “Don't try and defend him. We both know what he's like.”

He sighed. “It's stupid really, but I'm jealous of *him*. Mother and father… a
family…”

Their eyes met, and Harry looked away.

“It's not your fault,” Hermione said softly.

At this there was resolute silence, which Harry used to stare absentmindedly into the crackling
fire.

Hermione had pinpointed it. Precautions had been taken to hide it from everyone, even his
friends, and she had laid his feelings out, simple as one mere sentence. It was then Harry realized
why he had come to Hermione. She could make sense out of feelings so shattered, so distorted, even
Harry himself didn't understand what they were about anymore…

Harry reached shakily for his cup of hot cocoa and grasped it between his hands.

Hermione's eyes were fixed on his when he looked back up at her. She drew her breath in
quickly.

“Harry, I know that everything seems to be happening to you. I know that you've been living
with the most ghastly relatives imaginable, and I know that…” she trailed off.

“… Everyone I care about is in mortal danger,” he finished her sentence lamely.

Hermione opened her mouth to speak, and Harry expected a harsh contradiction, but instead, she
just laid her hand over his in a comforting way and said, “Oh, Harry, don't you see? That
doesn't matter to me at all. In the end, we're all in danger. And I'd rather be by your
side as a friend, then trail behind as an onlooker.”

Yet a question still nagged at the back of Harry's throat.

“Don't you ever regret it, though?” he blurted out, unable to contain himself.

Hermione's face was firm and decided. “No. Never.”

There was long silence, in which there was an irritated *tap, tap,* at the window. Both
friends jerked around, but it was Harry who jumped up and opened the window to let Hedwig inside.
She tumbled through, hooting indignantly, and landed on an arm of the couch. Hermione stroked her
absently.

“What're you going to do, then?” she asked suddenly.

Harry just stared down at his swirling mug of chocolate and melted marshmallow. He hadn't
had much, and it was now lukewarm.

“I mean,” she pressed quietly, gliding her hand along Hedwig's downy neck, “I'm sure
Dumbledore didn't exactly allow this. Won't he know that you've been here?”

“I don't care,” Harry said firmly.

“But…”

“Nobody else knows but you and me,” he finished quickly. He noticed her questioning look and
said, “Not even Ron.”

She didn't question him further. Harry was relieved. He didn't know what he would have
said if she asked him why he didn't confide in Ron about all of his troubles. It wasn't
like he couldn't - he couldn't have gone to The Burrow, for sure, but he could have owled
Ron. It was true, over the years, Harry had begun to resent some of Ron's behavior, but he
dismissed this quickly. They had been friends for over five years, and it was common for
friendships to have their snarls and knots…

Harry didn't know how long they sat there in a silent mutual agreement, but soon, the flames
of the fire died, his cocoa turned cold, and Hedwig was asleep on the couch, her head buried deep
into her soft, snowy feathers. Hermione was still awake, but barely. He could see her head bobbing
slightly, her eyelids drooping.

“Hermione…” Harry whispered, getting off the chair and standing beside her, “Where should I
sleep for the night?”

“Guest room,” she murmured, looking at him through dazed eyes. Up close, Harry noticed for the
first time the dark rings beneath them. “I'll explain to Mum and Dad.”

“Listen, Hermione…” Harry started, feeling a burst of gratitude toward Hermione's ability to
welcome his unexpected arrival so graciously. He tried to form the right words to describe his
appreciation, but nothing felt right. “Listen… er… thanks.”

It felt so lame, so pathetic, compared to how he grateful he was. But Hermione just smiled.
“You're welcome, Harry.”

Harry lay awake in the dark guestroom, his hands behind his head, staring blankly up at the
ceiling.

He had decided not to awaken Hedwig, who would have just been angered if he did. Now, surrounded
in darkness, Harry felt particularly lonesome and melancholy. He was tired, but he couldn't
sleep. Restless thoughts raced across his mind.

Instinctively, he reached for his suitcase. He pulled it up onto the bed, into his lap, and sat
up. He was in such a hurry to get out early that evening he didn't even remember if he had
brought everything he needed. And since he had nothing else to do…

Harry sighed.

That evening. It felt like forever.

Zipping open his suitcase, Harry felt something tumble out and land softly atop his bedspread.
He picked it up and squinted. His hands groped for his glasses, and he pulled them on.

He stared at it for a second before it came to him.

It was the small parcel from the attic.

Harry turned it over in his hands, looking for some kind of description of what it was, but he
didn't find anything. The only peculiar quality was the way it was wrapped; so haphazardly, as
if someone was in a hurry…

He dismissed this thought quickly. It was in Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia's attic - it
could be anything that they wanted to get rid of.

Still, his curiosity overcame him, and he hastily unwrapped the package eagerly...

But nothing could have prepared him for the shock that followed.



2. Chapter two
--------------

**PLEASE READ THE A/N:** Oh my, sorry about the horribly long wait. I’ve been SO busy (you
can’t even imagine – well, maybe you can, lol), and I’ve been sick for the past couple of days with
the stomach flu. I have NO idea how the O.W.L. scores are supposed to be graded, but I tried my
best (that’s *always* a bad sign). For the sake of my sanity, PLEASE DON’T LECTURE ME ON O.W.L
scores and such. **This plotline isn’t based on the scores, so don’t get picky**! If I were JK I
would know what I’m doing.

I have this strange, annoying habit of writing painfully short chapters. In this story, I’m
going to try and write LONG chapters. Ah! I have the plot in my head, guys, I just have to write it
out! *sigh*

Thanks for everything. Enjoy!

{I had to edit this for some *cough cough* minor errors, but other than that … thank you of
those who helped me figure out what I missed, but PLEASE, other reviewers, try to focus on the
plot, NOT the O.W.L. scores. Thank you.}

* * *

He stared in stagnant amazement at the ancient-looking stone basin, lying so innocently atop the
covers. He knew exactly what it was, of course; Dumbledore had his, and Harry had seen it just last
year, studying Occlumency with Snape. He had seen into their thoughts, into the things that they
longed to forget…

A Pensieve.

It was almost surreal, sitting comfortable and warm in Hermione’s hospitable home, staring
wide-eyed down at the last thing he expected to find in the Dursley’s dark, dusty attic. Yet,
though it was obviously a Pensieve, it was different from the two he had seen in his last few
years. It seemed to have lost all of its watery, translucent fluid, and instead, was bare and dry.
Harry touched the bottom, and flinched, lest it was invisible, but nothing happened. He frowned,
grabbed the paper it had been wrapped in, and looked under it; but there was absolutely no trace of
the substance - or where it had gone.

His heart, which had been near to bursting with excitement, deflated. Question after question
flashed across his mind. Whose was it? Why was it in the Dursley’s attic? Did Aunt Petunia have
contact with more wizards than Harry already suspected?

He grabbed the Pensieve with both hands, and at the same time, a searing pain shot across his
scar. He gave an “ouch!” of surprise, immediately dropping the basin back onto the bed. Rubbing his
forehead, he glanced at it warily.

There was nothing else to do. Harry cautiously picked it up and stuffed it back into his
suitcase, settling back onto his bed with his hands clasped over his stomach. He’d have a look at
it tomorrow… he was just too tired now…

Harry closed his eyes, drifting off to sleep, just as a woman’s shriek erupted from
downstairs.

* * *

“… An owl too! We’ve always trusted your judgment in the past… but this… this is…”

“I couldn’t just send him home!” said an irritated voice. “It was raining!”

“Well, he *could* have had the courtesy to phone us first…” Another voice broke through the
babble, calmer than the rest.

“His aunt and uncle hate him! He can’t even *use* the telephone!”

“He’s not the one with the red hair, is he?”

“No,” said the angry voice. “He’s Harry. Harry Potter. Remember?”

The calm voice said soothingly, “Dear, he’s the famous one.”

“I don’t care *who* he is! He should have done *something* to tell you he was
coming!”

“*I* should’ve called you and Mum last night!” the other retaliated angrily, “It’s not his
fault! He’s usually very tactful!”

There was a pause.

Harry sat bolt upright in his bed, at the same moment an awful mewling sound reaching his ears.
Crookshanks, flung to the floor by Harry’s abrupt movements, hissed and scurried away into the next
room. Harry watched him leave in sleepy bemusement, when all of his nagging thoughts rushed back to
him. He had heard enough of the bickering to understand what it was about, for sure…

Feeling not only tired, but slightly ill, Harry tugged on some clothes, straightened his
glasses, and walked toward the door. Maybe Mr. and Mrs. Granger would understand… maybe they would
listen to Hermione…

He remembered last night and the Pensieve, but there was no time for that. He had to explain to
Hermione’s parents – there was a little jolt of nervousness at the thought – why he, a
sixteen-year-old wizard, had sought refuge at their house at one o’clock in the morning.

Harry tried to flatten his hair, failed miserably, and opened the door ajar, just in time to see
Hermione, slightly red-faced, jump back in surprise.

“Oh! Harry, you’re awake!”

She smiled at him, saying quickly, “Come downstairs, we have so much to do today, and Mum just
made breakfast – you *know* that’s the most important meal of the day…”

Grabbing his shirtsleeve, she pulled him across the landing and down the stairs. “Mum and Dad
can’t *wait* to meet you Harry, they know all about you from me, of course, but you knew that
already -,” She noticed his hesitation. “Don’t worry, they’ll love you!”

She stopped right before the entrance to the kitchen and impulsively tried to smooth down his
hair.

“Hermione,” Harry said, ducking away, “I heard you fighting -,”

Ignoring him, she walked into the kitchen, Harry following close behind.

At once, Harry was led to believe that Hermione had not been arguing with her parents all along,
and he had been still dreaming when he heard the noises from downstairs - for Mr. and Mrs. Granger
were perhaps the most cheerful-looking couple he had ever seen. He had seen them briefly before of
course, but now, standing in their kitchen, it was like taking a whole new perspective. Mrs.
Granger smiled at him as Hermione pushed him into a chair at the table.

Mrs. Granger dumped an omelet onto Harry’s plate and beamed when he thanked her. She gave her
husband a quick annoyed look when he buried his face in the paper (which Harry recognized as the
*Daily Prophet*), and forked his sausage almost savagely. Hermione smiled warmly at Harry from
across the table.

“There we go!” Mrs. Granger announced cheerfully, tucking in her apron as she sat down. “Now,
Harry…” She looked at Hermione quickly as if to confirm her thought, “Tell us. What brought you by
our house so late last night?”

There was something about the way she said it that made him uncomfortable. “Well, er…” Harry
started hesitantly. Three pairs of eyes peered at him. He cleared his throat. “Er -,”

“Mum, please…” Hermione hissed angrily, under her breath.

The muscles in Mrs. Granger’s face relaxed a bit. “Yes, yes… Never you mind, Harry. You’re
welcome at our house at any time. We were just a bit … startled, that’s all.”

Mr. Granger’s eyes were still glued to the newspaper. Hermione looked anxiously between her two
parents, biting her bottom lip.

“Go on, young man, have a bit of that egg,” Mrs. Granger prompted, smiling.

Harry sure didn’t feel like eating anything at the moment, but he grabbed his fork and ate away
at it anyway. The longer the subdued silence lasted, the more Harry felt sure he was supposed to
say something, anything…

After a long bout of silence, Hermione said, “Well, Harry, you look about done!” She pushed in
her own chair, and smiled pointedly at him. “I was going to show you my room, remember?”

Harry too pushed in his chair, standing up. He made a move to gather up his plate and utensils,
but they were already being whisked away by Mrs. Granger, amid a hearty smile. “Go on, dear, enjoy
your stay with Hermione…”

Mr. Granger nodded at him, and Hermione quickly ushered Harry up the stairs.

* * *

“I’m sorry,” Hermione apologized, leading Harry into her bedroom moments later, “Mum and Dad…
they’re very protective of me… They both like you already, from my letters and such, but they show
emotions in different ways. Mum is very outgoing… Dad is very introverted.” She sighed. “I guess it
went as well as it could have, considering the circumstances…”

She turned to him suddenly, eyes bright and shining. “Oh, Harry, it’s so good to see you. We
haven’t properly met again, have we? I was just so surprised last night, I didn’t expect anyone,
you know, it was very startling…”

She flung herself against him suddenly in a tight embrace, catching him by surprise.

“You don’t know how much we were worried about you, Harry. After… what happened.” She released
him, trailing off uncertainly. Silence enveloped them both, and Harry once again had the impression
he was supposed to say some sort of powerful speech.

“We got our O.W.L. scores this morning,” said Hermione swiftly, sounding slightly breathless, “I
haven’t opened the letters yet … I thought that we might … well, open them together…”

Harry looked into her face, fully aware that this must have cost her much anxiety, and nodded.
She beamed, spun around, and began fishing in one of her dresser drawers, muttering to herself.

Briefly, Harry wondered what he would possibly do if he did horribly on his exams, and began to
fret himself, imagining the dismayed look on Hermione’s face.

He only shook himself out of his reverie when Hermione shoved a fairly thick envelope into his
hands, and turned to her own letter, nearly hyperventilating. With a free hand, she wiped a layer
of sweat from her forehead, and carefully, trembling slightly, slit open the top and reached
shakily inside. Hermione held the letter to her chest and peered at Harry expectantly.

Due to the fact that Hermione was watching him with an unusually shrewd expression, Harry was
shaking a bit himself. He tore open his envelope and pulled out a letter, emblazoned richly with
the Hogwarts crest.

*Dear Mr. Potter,*

*Enclosed are your theoretical and practical Ordinary Wizarding Levels for the selected
classes: Astronomy, Divination, Care of Magical Creatures, Defense Against the Dark Arts, History
of Magic, Herbology, Potions, Charms, and Transfiguration.*

*Wishing you best,*

*Griselda Marchbanks*

Harry fished another letter from the envelope and started reading:

**Harry J. Potter**

**O***rdinary **W**izarding **L**evels*

*Astronomy*

*Theory: Exceeds Expectations*

*Practical: Poor*

*Overall achievement: PASS*

*O.W.L. score: 1*

*Care of Magical Creatures*

*Theory: Outstanding*

*Practical: Exceeds Expectations*

*Overall achievement: PASS*

*O.W.L. score: 1*

*Charms*

*Theory: Exceeds Expectations*

*Practical: Outstanding*

*Overall achievement: PASS*

*O.W.L. score: 1*

*Defense Against the Dark Arts*

*Theory: Outstanding*

*Practical: Outstanding*

*Overall achievement: PASS*

*O.W.L. score: 1*

*Divination*

*Theory: Poor*

*Practical: Dreadful*

*Overall achievement: FAIL*

*O.W.L. score: 0*

*Herbology:*

*Theory: Exceeds Expectations*

*Practical: Exceeds Expectations*

*Overall achievement: PASS*

*O.W.L. score: 1*

*History of Magic*

*Theory: Poor*

*Practical: Poor*

*Overall achievement: FAIL*

*O.W.L. score: 0*

*Potions*

*Theory: Poor*

*Practical: Acceptable*

*Overall achievement: FAIL*

*O.W.L. score: 0*

*Transfiguration*

*Theory: Exceeds Expectations*

*Practical: Exceeds Expectations*

*Overall achievement: PASS*

*O.W.L. score: 1*

*Extra Curricular (Quidditch)*

*This extra curricular activity is accountable for **one** O.W.L.*

*Congratulations, Mr. Potter, for receiving **7** out of **12** O.W.L.s.*

*Most sincerely,*

*Griselda Marchbanks*

Harry, who didn’t even realize he was holding his breath, exhaled slowly.

“Oh my goodness,” Hermione breathed.

She handed him her letter, and he skimmed it quickly. At the end, he was grinning broadly.
“Yeah, it’s real. Twelve O.W.L.s through and true.”

“What did you get?” she asked, taking back her letter in mild disbelief. She peered at him in
genuine interest, tucking her scores back into the envelope.

He tried to look offhand and handed her his own letter. “Seven.”

Hermione beamed at him, sidetracked for a moment from her own success. “That’s wonderful, Harry!
I knew you could do it!”

“What about Ron?” asked Harry, raising an eyebrow.

Hermione dismissed this with a wave of her hand. “Oh, he’ll manage.” She peered at it again, her
hand brushing a stray wisp of hair from her eyes. “But Harry … it says here that you failed
potions.”

“So?” asked Harry, bemused.

Hermione explained patiently, “You want to be an Auror. Auror’s need N.E.W.T. level potions.
Snape won’t allow you back into his class without you getting at least an Outstanding grade.”

Harry’s stomach dropped. What was the point of getting eight O.W.L.s if he couldn’t become an
Auror? He scanned the letter again but it was still there – the salient “FAIL” stamped mercilessly
onto parchment. How could he have failed? It was coming back to haunt him … he should’ve paid more
attention in class … He groaned audibly and pressed his hands to his forehead.

“Well, it’s not too bad,” Hermione said with a pitying look. “Maybe you could talk to Professor
Dumbledore - or Professor McGonagall. They’ll convince Snape to let you back in…”

She said that so very forcefully and confidently that he almost believed her. But it was useless
– Snape was too stubborn. He sighed miserably.

Hermione bit her lower lip. “Harry, I know you don’t want to hear this, but … I think that you
should make a compromise.”

He glanced at her, knowing the answer. “Like what?”

“Occlumency,” she stated, her head held high; though he could tell she was eyeing him rather
apprehensively, “I know you don’t want to, but … I think you’d better continue it. Just ask
Dumbledore, Harry, please.”

He thought about it for a moment. It was worth it, he knew that…

“Alright,” he muttered, and Hermione said no more on the subject.

* * *

That day was one of the shortest Harry had ever experienced. After giving him a tour of her home
(where she had explained nearly everything, down to the painting in the living room which had
belonged to her step-aunt Clara), she had set about talking to him about his summer, conveniently
avoiding conversation of Sirius, of which he was particularly grateful. Her questions were so
straightforward and freely spoken, Harry had no doubt left in his mind why he had come to her to
seek solace. Doubly, she for once had ceased mentioning either classes or curriculum ideas, and
laughed and chatted with him about what she had been doing that summer and what she was planning to
do. It appeared, after a short while, that she had been quite as lonely as he.

After Hermione had showed her parents her O.W.L. scores (“Oh, Hermione, darling! That’s
*wonderful*!”), she had led him out to her backyard, blushing rather red from her parents’
loving praise, and there they had talked once again, accepting an afternoon tea and crumpet from
Mrs. Granger, and merely catching up with one another.

They had been having such an amusing time that Harry completely forgot about the Pensieve lying
covertly at the bottom of his suitcase, and when, many hours later, he remembered, his whole life
seemed to hurl itself back into his consciousness.

He kept the Pensieve hidden, the whole while knowing it was just one more thing, one more
thought to weigh heavily on his mind. It was as simple as he was not ready, not subjectively
willing to share either this newfound mystery or the Prophecy’s haunting words, and he told himself
that he would tell Hermione and Ron when it did not feel so utterly overwhelming. *Not now …*
he always muttered, *later.*

And it was after the initial shock of staying at Hermione’s home did he realize what kind of
situation he was in. At every spare moment he looked up, expecting Ministry personnel to swoop down
upon him and take him right to Dumbledore. It was incredibly unnerving. Never coming, however,
Harry fretted less and less, until he hardly thought of them at all, and spent all of his
afternoons with Hermione worry-free.

He spent a week in this fashion, coming out from the spare bedroom every morning and tucking in
every night. Hermione’s parents soon succumbed to their daughter’s own admiration of Harry, their
stony behavior dropping immediately, and they became very friendly and amiable. The only break in
this manner was their nightly whispered arguments with Hermione, which Harry had begun to ignore
after Hermione’s assurance it was not in the slightest about his arrival. He found it no worse than
Dudley’s thundering snores, and was able to sleep without difficulty – and, he was even getting
used to Crookshanks’s (so called by Hermione) loving snuggles.

Yet still, Harry was no closer to solving the Pensieve mystery than he was about to deem Malfoy
his brother. But amid his and Hermione’s daily walks and conversations, and amid the hustle and
bustle of the Granger’s busy lifestyle, Harry had no desire to work on such a problem now
anyways.

* * *

“I was just thinking, Harry,” said Hermione one particularly rosy summer day, peering at him
from over her slightly burnt toast, “Maybe we should go and get our supplies today.”

Harry nodded, but he was reluctant. The time at Hermione’s house had been so very peaceful; he
was amazed to find school was about to start up again. The thought brought back unpleasant
memories.

Just then, Mrs. Granger came out onto the back porch where they were sitting, a confused, rather
plastered smile on her face; she was carrying an oddly shaped figure that looked strangely like a
breathing feather duster.

“Errol!” cried Hermione instantly, jumping up from her seat and hurrying towards her mother.
“But why -?”

Harry knew from the expression on her face that she was thinking exactly what he was thinking.
Why would Ron use Errol when he had Pig to deliver letters? Utterly baffled, Harry moved the plates
and saucers to one side, and Hermione took Errol into her arms and laid him gently on the table.
They leaned forward together, and Hermione retracted the letter from his grasp.

*Hermione –*

*How are you? Sorry I haven’t written. Mum has been busy yelling herself hoarse over Fred and
George’s famous departure last term, and even though it’s been a few months, she still can’t seem
to get over it. You should hear her. She sounds like a banshee. I feel sorry for whoever has to
hear those Howlers she’s been sending over to Fred and George’s lot in Diagon Alley. I think she
enjoys it though, even with the fuss she’s been making. They’re making loads of money.*

*On a happier note, Dad says the Death Eaters are being pretty quiet. There’s no fresh news,
which I guess I’ll interpret to be good news.*

*Ginny and I haven’t gotten our Hogwarts stuff yet – do you want to meet up with us at Diagon
Alley today? You can owl Harry, too, if he can get the Muggles to toss him out.*

*Hope to see you later!*

*-Ron*

*P.s. - Pig had a heart attack. It’s about time. But don’t worry, Hermione, he’s all right. I
hope Errol doesn’t die on the way to your place … Mum would be frantic.*

Harry couldn’t help but laugh. Hermione folded the letter back up neatly, giving him a
half-exasperated look, but ended up laughing as well.

* * *

Without much persuasion, Mrs. Granger agreed to take Harry and Hermione to get their school
supplies. She drove into an empty lot, parked, and Harry and Hermione led the way into Diagon Alley
without further ado, scanning the streets for any sight of their redheaded friend.

They found him, as they expected, plastered to the shop window of Quality Quidditch Supplies.
Ginny, who looked interested, but rather annoyed at her brother’s behavior, waved a hello to Harry
and Hermione, and called cheerily, “Over here!”

Harry and Hermione maneuvered through the crowd and were immediately engulfed by Mrs. Weasley,
who embraced them so tightly their heads knocked together.

Ron looked up from his reverie and grinned. “Harry! Hermione! You made it! Did Hermione owl
you?” he asked Harry curiously.

Hermione said swiftly, “Ron, he was at my place.”

“Oh,” said Ron, looking taken aback. “Oh, well, right.” He regained his composure and gestured
to the window, which by now had very noticeable handprints, and exclaimed excitedly, “They have a
new broomstick handle – supposedly it reads your mind and knows which way to turn and stuff … I
told Mum that I had to get a compass for my broomstick, and she almost believed me and gave me the
money.” He retreated from the window with a sighing, “Oh well.”

Ginny joined them, grinning mischievously at Harry and Hermione. “He got caught, and Mum nearly
sent him to live with Fred and George. But then she realized she was already mad at them. She
lectured Ron for *hours*.”

“Like Quidditch isn’t more important than school, anyway!” Ron retorted, his ears going red.
Harry laughed.

Hermione scowled at both of them, and Harry stopped immediately. He did not feel like being on
the receiving end of Hermione anger, just after they had spent so much fun together.

“I suppose you were pleased with your O.W.L. results, then?” Hermione asked Ron coolly.

Harry, who could feel a row coming on, said quickly, “Hey Ron, can we see Fred and George’s
place?”

Ginny shrugged, and Ron, who was turning an interesting shade of pink, managed to say, “Sure.
They’re busy talking anyway. Don’t want Mum bursting into tears again.”

He gestured towards Mrs. Weasley and Mrs. Granger, who were talking together at a distance.

“C’mon then,” he said, and lead them forward.

Hermione had her arms crossed over her chest, and Harry nudged her gently, saying, “Lighten up,
okay? It’s no fun without you.” He grinned. “Besides, we both know Ron is a git …”

This seemed to help a bit, because Hermione uncrossed her arms and was considerably friendlier,
following Harry’s lead through the crowded streets. Ginny tagged along behind Ron.

They stopped in front of a small, but vividly-colored building, with a flashing neon sign that
read in looping cursive handwriting: *Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes: Home of the Strange and
Peculiar!*

They pushed through the doors, and Harry was surprised to see the place booming, crowds of
people throughout the store, looking at fake wands and sweets, or merely flipping through large,
slightly overwhelming catalogs at the front.

But that was not the only surprise. In the middle of the room was a scarlet-plumbed parrot on a
gilded stand, squawking things like, “Welcome to Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes! Your place to shop!” or
“Rain or shine, friend or foe – it doesn’t matter!” From the ceiling hung small plates with a dozen
or so sweets each, and everyone once in a while, a person would eat one, turning with a muffled cry
into a bright yellow canary. Then the bystanders would be treated to a sight as the person molted
back into their regular human body, gaped in amazement, then burst out laughing. Applause rang
throughout the store, and Harry finally caught sight of Fred and George, who rushed forward, saying
swiftly, “Canary Creams! Two galleons a dozen!” A weathered man dropped coins into Fred’s
outstretched hands and Fred handed him a silky beige bag, saying cheerfully, “Thank you, good
sir!”

George suddenly spotted Ron, and he rushed forward, grasping his hand and wringing it tightly.
“Ah, Ronald, our distinguished brother. Simply wonderful to see you, old chap.”

Ron rolled his eyes and said loudly, “The fame is getting to their heads.” Ginny giggled.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk, Ronald,” said Fred, pocketing his money, “You wouldn’t want Mummy sending you to
live with us, now would you?”

George grinned. “We would have a splendid time, though, wouldn’t we Fred?”

“Yes, quite.”

Both brothers turned and saw Harry. “Harry!” exclaimed George brightly, “Our main man!”

They grinned at him. “We owe it all to you,” said Fred, gesturing around him. “Everything here
is from your winnings – plus, a little profit of our own.” He jingled his pocket cheerily. He
looked past Harry’s shoulder, spotting Hermione. “Would do with a bit of our stuff now, eh
Hermione?”

She looked rather flustered. “Well … I have to hand it to you, it’s quite brilliant.”

“That’s it, Hermione!” said Fred grinningly, “Have a little fun. Go wild.”

Hermione’s lips twitched.

* * *

The rest of the afternoon was spent getting supplies, laughing, and joking with their friends.
Harry, Ron, and Hermione had met up with a few fellow Gryffindors, who had greeted them jovially;
and Harry had even run into a few of the D.A. members, who all asked him if he was continuing the
meetings this year. Harry, who hadn’t given this aspect of returning to Hogwarts much thought, was
much heartened, and replied that most likely they would, if Dumbledore saw it fit.

When Harry and Hermione returned home to the Grangers’ that night, Harry immediately went
straight for bed, amid a whispered goodnight from Hermione, which he willfully returned, and
without much prompting, plopped onto his bed.

However, falling asleep was the last thing from his mind, as he watched the silver moonlight
flicker dreamily across the ceiling. The mysterious Pensieve was nagging at him, as was his guilt
of keeping the Prophecy’s words to himself. He would be returning to Hogwarts in a few days time,
but before then, he felt like Hermione, at least should know. He could tell Ron later …

And it was with a heavy heart that Harry drifted into a restless sleep.

Hermione will know what to do … she always does …

Yes … he would tell her.

* * *

**A/N**: That is one of the longest chapters I’ve written in my life. *wipes forehead*

Hopefully you guys are patient. This story might take a while!

*looks at clock* Damn! Time to do homework!

Thanks for reading. ^_^

-Lauren

{ACK! Silly me! Thanks for the reviews guys, but PLEASE try to stay off of the O.W.L. scores – I
edited my more obvious mistakes, but other than that … I’m really, really sorry that it’s not
perfect, but I’m not JK Rowling, you know. The O.W.L. scores have NOTHING to do with the plot other
than the Occlumency training problem. I’m just trying to make it as genuine as possible, lol.}



3. Chapter 3
------------

**A/N:** LOL, thanks **RickyElRey.** I *was* being a little difficult with myself. It
was just really frustrating, because I got up the morning after I posted, saw the obvious mistakes
I made, saw the reviews that reminded me of what mistakes I made … I then attempted to fix those
mistakes, but managed uploading the wrong chapter … and I had to delete the chapter again … Then, I
couldn’t get the chapter up fast enough, so people were asking me where the chapter was … I felt
like screaming. But no worries, it was at 5:00 in the morning and I felt like screaming anyway.
*smiles fixedly*

Wow, sorry for that ramble. I’m starting to rather enjoy this story, so I’ll try to post more
often (and if that means shorter chapter, so be it!) Thanks a lot for the reviews.

This is a more H/Hr-y chapter, for those certain impatient people … *cough cough* (me being one
of them, of course. lol)

Oh! To those of you who like romantic comedies, watch “Say Anything”. That is such a wonderful
movie. I was thinking H/Hr the entire time. ^_^

Okey-dokie. One more thing. I know how much you guys adore long chapters, but I think I’m going
to stick with medium-sized ones, so I get them up faster. I’m doing this for you guys, lol! Just …
that way, you won’t lose the flow of the story.

* * *

The next morning was bright and cheery, and the light shone through the daintily curtained
window, striping patterns across the walls. Harry was lying awake in bed, arms crossed behind his
head; his glasses perched on the bridge of his nose and his black hair in untamed disarray. He had
lain awake since early that morning, when the outside fog had crept stealthily over the windowpane
and past the large oak tree in the backyard – and it had only been minutes before when the mist had
finally given way to smiling sunlight.

Harry’s mind was whirling so quickly he felt like he would soon scream just to release some
energy. He realized then what it must be like to be Hermione, a genius in her own right, quivering
with the right answer every minute of every hour; every hour of every day. He sighed, and reached
out a hand to stroke Crookshanks, whom was curled into a ball at his side.

How people took their normal lives for granted he did not know. All he knew was that he’d give
anything, everything, to be someone else for just a while.

Rolling onto his stomach, Harry reached inside his suitcase, retracted the rewrapped Pensieve,
and peered at it for a moment, as if staring would do him any good. What he didn’t know, he felt,
could have filled its contents to the brim and overflowed into the room.

There was a knock on his door, and Harry said, “Come in,” shoving the Pensieve under his
quilt.

Hermione pushed through the door and made her way across the room.

“Hi,” she said, still wearing obvious marks of tiredness. The bags under her eyes were more
apparent than ever.

“Hi,” he responded. He tried to hide his symptoms of insomnia, but Hermione looked right at him
and said, “Have you slept at all?” He could’ve done and asked her the same.

With a purr, Crookshanks leapt off the bed and streaked to Hermione, weaving himself
affectionately around her legs. She smiled weakly.

“Not really,” Harry said truthfully.

Hermione’s fingers undid a knot in Crookshanks’s ginger fur. “If you have a lot on your mind,
Harry, you can always talk to me.”

He grinned reassuringly. “I know.”

She smiled back faintly, unsure. Her eyes bore into his.

Harry felt as if the time was not at all right, but he succumbed to her piercing gaze and said
slowly, “It’s about something I found this summer … in my aunt and uncle’s attic.”

“What is it?” she asked curiously.

He reached under the covers, and pulled out the Pensieve, handing it carefully to her. “You know
what it is, right?”

She looked awestruck. “Of course. It’s a Pensieve, a thought-container, but …”

Harry looked at her, and she said softly, painstakingly, “Only witches or wizards with special
honors are given Pensieves. They’re not simply *bought*.”

“Dumbledore has one,” Harry said, lowering his voice also, though he was not sure why; “I saw
into it in fourth year. And then last year, when Snape was teaching me Occlumency -,”

“Snape has one?” asked Hermione, frowning.

“No,” said Harry, shaking his head, “He just was using it, because -,”

Harry stopped short. Hermione’s eagerly awaiting expression vaporized.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Nothing.”

Hermione just watched him, and when he didn’t say any more, dropped her gaze to the Pensieve in
her hands. She wiped away some gathered dust. “It’s old,” she said distantly. She rolled it over
and looked at the ancient runes carved onto its side.

Harry watched her closely. “It doesn’t have any of that silvery stuff inside,” he said
flatly.

“Well, you wouldn’t expect it to, would you?” said Hermione vaguely, as if that were the obvious
thing, “It’s been stored up in an attic for *ages,* by the looks of it …”

“We can get them back, right? The thoughts?” asked Harry hopefully.

Hermione touched the Pensieve carefully. “I’ve read about it somewhere – it’s a simple
incantation involving these –,” She prodded the runes, “- and the name of the person whose thoughts
the Pensieve contained.”

“Oh,” said Harry, feeling crestfallen. “See, that’s the problem. I don’t know who it belonged to
– and I certainly don’t know what those things say …”

Hermione huffed impatiently. “I *did* take a whole class on such signs, you know.” Her eyes
flashed, but Harry could see the amusement in them. “It says: *intricacy is as such the mind sees
it – yet the mind’s eye is unclear without the intricacy of hindsight*.”

Harry felt confused. “What has that got to do with anything?”

“Listen to it, Harry,” said Hermione tolerantly, “See? The complexity of something – its
intricacy – is based on how each individual sees it. For instance, I could look at a puzzle and say
that it’s not hard, but someone else could say it is.” Hermione was fingering her hair anxiously,
which Harry found to be quite distracting… “But then, it says, how we see the intricacy of
something could not come to pass without having experience, or hindsight. It’s a paradox.”

Harry’s head was throbbing painfully. This made sense to her?

“The message is clear,” Hermione said, heaving a rather drawn-out sigh, “We don’t know how
complex something is until we’ve already passed it by.”

“Well, thoughts are complicated,” Harry said in a desperate attempt to sound intelligent, “Maybe
the Pensieve is talking about the thoughts that it holds.”

“Or maybe,” said Hermione vaguely, “Maybe … the Pensieve is trying to warn us of the
consequences of messing around with other peoples’ thoughts.”

Harry and Hermione looked at each other.

“Well, that settles it,” said Harry firmly, “Now I *have* to know.”

* * *

The rest of the day was spent in absolute disorder. Amid Hermione’s tediously fastidious packing
for the new school term, and her parents’ constant pleas of her to write them every day, Harry was
quite overwhelmed. The only other place as chaotic (or even more so) was the Burrow – but
Hermione’s charming home was giving the Burrow a definite run for its money, and it was equally
impressive, since it was only Hermione and her two parents creating havoc. Harry himself was not
involved - he was quite content to stay out of the way, since no one was asking for help
anyway.

At the end of this particularly grueling day, Harry and Hermione said their goodnights, and,
with a quick smile passed, hurried off to their separate rooms.

Harry fell asleep with a clenching, excited feeling in his stomach. He had been thinking about
the Pensieve all day, but for a few moments, he completely forgot of the morning’s talk, and
drifted into a slumber involving nothing but thoughts of a new year at Hogwarts.

* * *

“Harry! Harry!” He groaned, turning over onto his stomach and stuffing the pillow over his ears.
“Harry!” There was a recognizable voice, sounding urgent this time. “Wake up!”

Harry flung himself awake suddenly, so rashly that he almost knocked poor Hermione clear off her
feet. She sidestepped his flailing arm and said, “Harry, Mum and Dad have to take us to King’s
Cross in 45 minutes! I let you sleep in, but -,”

“I’m up, I’m up,” Harry said quickly, when he saw Hermione make a move to shake his shoulders
again, “Just let me breathe, will you?”

Hermione smiled sheepishly, but composed herself swiftly and said, business-like, “Breakfast is
in the kitchen.”

She walked out of the room, closing the door behind her; Harry dragged himself out of bed,
undressing and pulling clean clothes back on. He ran his hand through his hair quickly, shrugging,
and looked around for the Pensieve. Finding it safe in his suitcase, Harry was satisfied. He zipped
up his belongings and trudged out of the room, still half-asleep.

He met up with Hermione and her smiling parents in the tidy kitchen. The smells that assaulted
his senses made his stomach groan, and he sat down as quickly as humanly possible. Hermione sat
down next to him in her chair, her lips curling into a slight, amused smile.

“Toast, Harry?” she asked, holding up a plate stacked high. He grinned and took it gladly.

After a half hour of eating, Harry was delightfully full and satisfied. He looked around the
kitchen in blurry happiness, taking in his surroundings as if his life depended on his doing so.
His eyes grazed over Mr. and Mrs. Granger, so glowing in their flourished pride; and over Hermione,
who was chattering animatedly to her mother, her eyes shining and lips upturning. This, he
realized, was a real family. He felt his heart tremble inside his chest. He was not dismayed, but
the thought – the realization – that he missed this … it was too much. The silly idea that the
Dursleys were family weighed spitefully on his mind. They were a travesty, at best, shoveling food
into their son’s mouth to keep him happy.

He found Hermione staring at him strangely, and he gave her a weak smile.

“Breakfast was great,” he said to her, and her pursed lips transformed into an instant beaming
smile. “I can tell you made it.”

“Thanks,” she said, blushing modestly. She was about to say something else, but her attention
was drawn away as her mother pulled her into conversation once again.

Harry was surprised when it was time to leave for King’s Cross. They pushed and shoved the
trunks and suitcases into the back of the car, and all scrambled inside. Hedwig’s cage was fit into
one seat in the back, and Harry was forced against Hermione, whom had Crookshanks curled
comfortably on her lap. Whenever the car bounced, Hedwig would screech and flap her wings
hysterically, whilst Crookshanks turned his squashed, cunning face towards her, licking his lips.
More often than not Harry found himself looking into the eerie yellow eyes of Crookshanks, pressed
(not uncomfortably) against Hermione’s side.

They reached King’s Cross Station with no time to spare, and Hermione, with hurried grace, stood
up on tiptoes to give both her mother and father a peck on the cheek. They waved her along, Harry
thanking them over and over for their kindness. He fondly recalled hearing Hermione’s mother call
after him, “We’ve taken quite a liking to you, dear! Come visit us anytime!”

Hermione drew forth a bright smile moments later, saying in an almost teasing voice, “I told you
they’d love you.”

Harry grinned.

* * *

After such a pleasant morning, it was hard to be anything but giddily happy. Harry and Hermione
met up with Ron at the entrance to Platform 9 ¾, who gave them an unreadable look before smiling
rather forcefully. Together they walked casually through the barrier, but Ron’s peculiar behavior
was still evident. This did not go by Hermione unnoticed, and she looked Harry’s way briefly before
shrugging and pulling Crookshanks away from a terrified first year.

“Is Pig alright?” asked Harry in way of making conversation, watching absentmindedly the same
first year cling to her mother.

Ron laughed loudly. Hermione frowned. “He’s fine, but Mum has him at home to let him
recuperate.”

“Well, I do hope you’ve been giving him enough attention,” Hermione said, “Heart attacks are
very serious …”

“He’s *fine*, Hermy,” said Ron, rolling his eyes.

“Don’t call me that!”

Ron ignored her, turning to Harry. “So what did you get on your O.W.L. scores?”

Hermione spoke for him, saying proudly, “Seven. Didn’t you, Harry? And after all that trouble,
too.”

Ron’s expression was of mixed incredulity and envy. “Oh, wow, mate. I only got five.”

“Hermione got twelve,” said Harry quickly.

Ron mumbled to himself, disgruntled. Hermione looked triumphant, but Harry saw a faint trace of
red on her cheeks.

A shrill whistle sounded, and they boarded the Hogwarts Express, amid the hustle and bustle of
fellow students. Thankfully, they found a compartment to themselves at the back of the train, and
were soon joined by Neville, Ginny, and, to Ron’s dismay, Luna Lovegood, who was clutching the
latest edition of *The Quibbler.*

“Are you well, Ronald?” Luna said in a misty voice, brushing past him to go to her seat. She
smiled at Harry, and even nodded amiably at Hermione. Ron looked at Harry and Hermione for help,
but when they did nothing but shrug, he nodded.

“Yeah. I’m fine.”

She beamed. “Splendid. Are we continuing with the D.A.?”

Harry shrugged instinctively, but realized that she wasn’t talking to him. Ron turned red,
painfully aware of being spotlighted, and said, “Harry doesn’t know yet.”

Luna merely smiled and returned her attention to *The Quibbler*.

“Who do you think is the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher?” asked Ginny, leaning
forward to talk, “I’ve heard rumors, but I don’t think they’re true. Loads of people are saying
that Lupin’s back, but I doubt it.”

Hermione pondered this. “It’s a pity. He was a great teacher.”

“Well, you know,” said Ginny, lowering her voice, “He *is* a member of the
You-Know-What.”

Harry knew the “You-Know-What” to be the Order of the Phoenix; and judging by Hermione and Ron’s
expressions, so did they. They all shrugged.

“Maybe,” said Hermione indifferently, “but I don’t think we should over-analyze this quite yet.
Dumbledore has his reasons, whoever it is.”

Harry grinned to himself, thinking the *last* thing that Hermione should be doing do would
be to tell someone not to over-analyze.

The witch with the food cart came, and Harry, feeling still pleasantly satisfied from Hermione’s
breakfast, bought only a few Chocolate Frogs and Pumpkin Pasties, leaning back in seat for the rest
of the ride to Hogwarts.

* * *

They arrived in front of the magnificent castle a couple of hours later. Harry, Hermione, and
Ron got off quickly (especially Ron in his case – Luna was staring at him for half the ride over),
strolling across the station to the carriages with many waves and hellos to various people. Harry
felt immensely glad to see the large form of Hagrid wave happily at him from over the river of
nervous-looking first years.

Selecting a carriage drawn by threstrals - ghostly horse-creatures with a sweet tooth for blood
– Harry, Ron, and Hermione clambered inside. The carriage started up minutes later, with a violent
jerk, which caused Hermione to tumble forward onto Harry who was sitting across from her. Flushed
from embarrassment, Hermione was helped up by Harry, amid Ron’s raucous laughter. Harry watched her
as she brushed herself off and sent Ron a glare that would turn any man’s blood to ice. Ron stopped
laughing at once and looked innocently out of the window at the castle, humming distractedly to
himself.

They were then led past the giant doors of the castle and into the front hallway. But before
Harry, Hermione, and Ron could make their way to their appropriate tables in the Great Hall,
McGonagall walked up to them.

“Mr. Potter,” she said briskly, “Professor Dumbledore would like to talk with you.”

Harry’s heart stopped right then and there.

He was going to be expelled. Dumbledore was going to chuck him out. He was never going to trust
him again. But of course, why not? Harry had deliberately gone against Dumbledore’s emphasis to
stay at the Dursley’s house – of course he would be angry. Disappointed. Hurt. Harry knew that.

*But nothing happened*, Harry reasoned with himself. *Nothing happened.*

Hermione sent him a questioning look; Ron was looking thoroughly baffled. McGonagall tapped her
foot impatiently, turned around, and started walking.

“Hurry along, Potter!” she called, “The headmaster can’t wait forever!”

“Right,” said Harry, his throat dry. “Er … I’ll see you two later.” He nodded his head to
Hermione and Ron.

He would come back, surely … but then they would want to know, wouldn’t they? *Why* did
*Dumbledore want to talk to you, Harry?* he knew they would ask. What would he tell them? He
wasn’t ready to tell Ron and Hermione the Prophecy, not yet … He couldn’t even talk about his
parents in front of them …

Feeling doom befall him, Harry turned on his heel and walked after Professor McGonagall.

* * *

**A/N:** Not really a BIG cliffie, I know. I’m sorry. I think you guys will like next chapter
– the Pensieve will no longer be a mystery, more H/Hr moments (*squee!*), and … stuff. Yay! I just
have to get past the “introductory”. The next chapter will be the beginning of the “real
story”.

Thanks for reading!

-Lauren



4. Chapter 4
------------

**A/N:** Finally I finished this chapter – sorry I’m such a slow updater. I have this
annoying habit of going over and over the chapter until it feels perfect. And I have to usually
write when I’m in the mood for a certain *mood*, I guess. =) I annoy myself sometimes.

Oh yes, and about the threstrals. To be perfectly clear, Ron and Hermione can’t see them. It
hasn’t been perfectly clear to me in terms of how Sirius died, or whether he even did. We don’t
even know what the veil is, even though we have our theories. Thanks for the observation! I’m
always happy to hear what you all have to say.

Also, before you guys start – Harry, in this story, had his Firebolt when he went to the
Dursleys’. It’s really unclear in canon whether he got his broomstick back or not, but when I
started this story (in December or something), it didn’t really occur to me. *shrugs* Oops.

Have fun and enjoy!

* * *

Harry was unpleasantly aware that his insides, which prior to that moment had been full to
bursting with candies and excitement, were now in the process of shriveling up and dying. He
followed close behind Professor McGonagall as she walked, head hanging, his eyes focused
determinedly on her pitter-pattering brass-buckled boots. From the entrance hall, he heard the
distinct sounds of screaming, laughter, and applause. Harry scowled at the revelry.

He was endlessly annoyed at himself for being weak and foolhardy, venturing thoughtlessly to
Hermione’s humble home without so much as a thought for her well-being … at least he could have
been mindful of *that*. It had been worthwhile, he knew this, because Hermione’s presence
soothed him; yet now, everything he had tossed aside as unimportant became reality. And the
shocking, horrendous reality that it was scared him.

He was fighting a losing battle. He knew that without going to Hermione’s house the Dursleys
would have driven him slowly, painfully insane – and yet, when he left, he was putting himself in
danger, as well as Hermione (he recalled this with a uncomfortable spasm of guilt), and now … Well,
now Harry didn’t know what to expect.

McGonagall was slowing her strides. She turned around. Harry, with an astounded blink, saw that
they were standing in front of the giant stone gargoyles which led to Dumbledore’s office and
Headmaster’s quarters. For a fleeting moment, Harry thought he saw the shadow of a smile on her
weathered face - but he dismissed this thought quickly as she curtly gestured him forward, and said
in a clear, brusque voice, “Pumpkin Pasties.”

The gargoyles sprung to life, stepped nimbly out of the way, and McGonagall led Harry forward
into the vast, spherical room. He felt like a mindless drone following orders to impending doom as
McGonagall gestured him onward up the spiral staircase and up to the oaken door. Grasping the
griffin-shaped knocker with one hand, she knocked three times. The door swung open almost
silently.

Harry was so deep in thought that McGonagall had to snap her fingers under his nose to get his
attention. Amid another fluttering, terrible feeling of regret and foreboding, Harry walked
uncomfortably past McGonagall and into Dumbledore’s office. From his standpoint, his palpitating
heart sounded painfully loud.

McGonagall turned on her heel and left. The door shut behind her resolutely. Harry swallowed and
racked his brain desperately for an excuse, any excuse … but it was pointless … his mind was a
blinding whir of colors … he couldn’t think …

“Hello Harry,” said a soft voice. Harry looked up, palms sweating. Dumbledore was seated at his
desk, peering at him over half-moon spectacles. Though his gaze was not nearly menacing, Harry felt
both fear and determination brew inside him. His eyes spotted the portraits lining the walls; one
of the latter headmasters began whispering to his neighbor.

“Hello Professor,” said Harry.

Dumbledore smiled. “Won’t you sit?” He waved his wand carelessly, and a checkered pouf appeared
in front of his desk. Harry sat instantly, insides wriggling unnervingly.

“I have something important to talk with you about,” explained Dumbledore with a slight #######
in his eye.

Harry nodded, watching his Headmaster’s expression. Then a thought occurred to him. For a brief
moment Harry’s mind wandered to Hermione and Ron, snug in the candlelit Great Hall, perhaps in a
few minutes time tucking in to eat, and felt a pang of envy. But soon it was replaced by confusion.
Didn’t Dumbledore always attend the Sorting?

“Professor,” said Harry, voicing his concerns, “what about the Sorting? Aren’t you -?”

“Ah, yes of course. Fortunately, we will finish before the Sorting starts … the first years are
always a bit late… ” Dumbledore clasped his hands over his desk. “Yes, well … as Minerva kindly
reminded me, we are in need of a new Gryffindor Quidditch team captain.” He smiled. “She and I
would be most pleased if you chose to accept the position.”

Harry’s hands and feet went numb, and he clenched his fingers together to circulate the blood.
He felt like a horde of stampeding Hippogriffs had trampled across his windpipe.

“I understand,” Dumbledore continued, noticing the gaping expression on Harry’s face, “that this
is much more work to add onto you schedule, but I feel certain you can handle it all. Will you
consider it?”

Harry’s heart was doing cartwheels inside his chest. *Consider it?*

“I’ll do it!” said Harry quickly. His mind whirled. Him, *Captain*? This was such a
surprising relief that he nearly laughed out loud, but caught himself just in time. It didn’t seem
real.

And he was expecting his headmaster to expel him …

In fact, as he had done with the D.A., Harry began, almost unconsciously, to think of plans,
tactics, new players … He would need charts and diagrams, certainly, and he would ask Hermione to
help with his planning … He would be fine, all he needed was a bit of organization …

Dumbledore was smiling. “Then it’s settled. You can begin preparation as soon as you think
appropriate. Professor McGonagall will undoubtedly remind you of your schedule, so no need worrying
about that.” Dumbledore stood up. “Well, I figure the Sorting will be just about starting …”

Harry stood up as well, still shaking slightly. It had been such a shock, totally unexpected –
and Dumbledore hadn’t even mentioned his excursion to the Grangers’. Harry felt overwhelmed
suddenly with questions. Perhaps he didn’t know? No, he reprimanded himself. That’s impossible. He
would know, wouldn’t he?

But as Dumbledore escorted him out of his office, Harry could find no trace of anger or
resentment in his gaze. And this unimportant thought drifted unconsciously to the back of his
thoughts as excitement bubbled up inside him. Almost absentmindedly, a grin came to his face.

* * *

Harry made his way to the Gryffindor table, passing on the way the white-faced first years (some
of who turned to stare avidly at him), and pulled up a seat next to Hermione. She looked up
expectantly and nudged her elbow into Ron’s ribs, who promptly spit out a half-chewed Chocolate
Frog onto his plate. He glared at her.

“Bloody hell, Hermione! Are you trying to kill me?”

“Well, if you didn’t eat your food like it was the last on Earth, then *maybe* it wouldn’t
be blocking your windpipe, and *maybe* you wouldn’t have that problem!”

Harry felt as though he was walking on air. Not even Ron and Hermione’s customary bantering
could dampen his spirits.

“What did Dumbledore want, Harry?” asked Hermione, ignoring Ron’s roar of outrage and turning to
Harry anxiously. “What was so important? Did he ask you about Occlumency training?”

“Er, no,” said Harry uncomfortably. He had forgotten all about that.

Ron said impatiently, “Well?”

Harry tore himself away from Hermione’s appraising expression and grinned at him. “You’re not
going to believe this – I’m the new Quidditch captain!”

Ron looked as though he has misunderstood Harry for a moment, before his own face broke into a
grin and he patted Harry on the back enthusiastically. “Good going mate! Knew it would have to be
you, of course, McGonagall absolutely adores you!” He laughed. “Nearly cried when you were banned
last year, and she nearly cried again when the ban was lifted. Well, doesn’t matter, we’re sure to
win the cup again this year!”

He lifted his empty glass in a silent toast. Harry laughed and shook his head.

Only Hermione looked disgruntled. Harry’s grin faded a bit. “Hermione, aren’t you happy for
me?”

“Oh yes, of course, Harry,” she said quickly. “Well done.”

Harry turned to Ron, feeling rather uncomfortable, but he was already leaning across the table,
telling anyone who would listen about Harry’s newfound success.

“If it’s about the Occlumency thing,” Harry whispered, leaning in close to Hermione, “then I’m
sorry. It slipped my mind. I promise I’ll talk to Dumbledore about it.”

Hermione looked a bit happier.

“And you wouldn’t think that I’d leave you out of it all?” Harry asked teasingly. “You’re my
prime coordinator, organizer, and planner. You’re helping me out with basically everything I can’t
possibly do.”

Harry grinned.

Hermione flushed, looking slightly embarrassed. “You’re making fun of me!”

Harry shook his head vehemently. “I’m being completely serious.”

Hermione ###### her eyebrow playfully.

“Okay, maybe a little,” Harry admitted. “But I’ll still need those charts of yours to manage my
time. And your nagging has never allowed me to fail …” Harry watched Hermione’s expression
carefully, grinning. Whispering again, he said, “Listen, Hermione, I don’t know about you, but I
want to make this year as normal as possible …”

But as soon as he uttered the words, he dubbed them as the stupidest thing he had ever said.

* * *

Surprisingly, the Sorting was uneventful. In a certain way, Harry was relieved. He did not want
to think much about anything. These thoughts were transferred to his appetite, and much to Ron’s
disproval, he made no move to eat. He thought about the Captain position of the Gryffindor team,
but that only made his meal seem all the more unappetizing. He was nervous. He was able to admit
that.

To everyone’s confusion, Dumbledore’s speech did not include announcing a new Defense Against
the Dark Arts professor. Harry found this odd, as there was no extra chair either. It was as though
he skipped the whole process, jumping right to the feast without a word of explanation. Everyone
seemed to notice; there were much hushed whispers. Dumbledore paid no heed to these, ending as
always with a gentle smile and a slight wink.

* * *

Harry closed his eyes late that night, lying tiredly in his four-poster bed with his hands
clasped over his stomach. He listened carefully to the congested snores that could only be
Neville’s and tried to pick out the nonsense sentences in Ron’s muttering, hoping this would lull
him to a dreamless sleep. Nothing, however, had come close, and Harry found himself achingly
fatigued, unable to rest yet again as night dragged on. Worst of all, his thoughts wandered, taking
him into a whole new stage of insomnia.

He felt like he was made of nothing but nerves. Jumping, twitching, excited nerves - a strange
mix of emotions that hovered on the brink between mild excitement and complete hysteria. Everything
seemed to be happening at once. Everything. Even the Quidditch captain position, which seemed like
a dream come true hours earlier, became a rather ominous thought. *This is mad,* Harry told
himself miserably. *How can Dumbledore expect me to manage a team when I can barely manage my own
life?*

Harry rubbed his eyes, removing his glasses in one swift movement. He sighed and clenched his
fist against his side.

What he needed, he realized, was someone to talk to. Someone who would listen.

Despite the complications of his tumultuous life, the answer was quite simple.

Harry, suddenly blindingly aware of the prospect of a sleepless night, swung his legs over the
edge of the bed and put his face in his hands. He massaged his forehead, and with a short pang,
felt the godforsaken scar under his fingers.

*I hate this.*

Harry stood up, not bothering with his glasses, and walked to the door of the dormitory. He
grasped at the blurry doorknob and twisted. How could he ever think that his life would ever be
normal? Harry felt like a fool. It was like trying to forget who he was …

*Harry Potter.*

Funny how he loathed that name.

Harry made his way, nearly blind, through the dark, gloomy common room. He plopped down on one
of the scarlet armchairs, crossing his arms. His breathing calmed, and amazingly, the atmosphere
was soothing now instead of threatening.

His eyes wandered aimlessly, until they rested on a solitary figure sitting cross-legged,
staring into glowing embers of the fireplace. He squinted.

Even from a distance, devoid of glasses, he could recognize that endearing bushy hair.

“Hermione?” he called quietly.

He saw her turn her head. “Harry?” Her voice was both worried and surprised. “What are you doing
up?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” he replied, just a bit teasingly.

She smiled, consoled, and Harry got up from his armchair to join her by the fireside. He saw now
she was wrapped in a blanket, her legs pulled up securely against her chest. She rested her head on
her hands and stared once again into the fire.

“Where are your glasses?” she asked. She turned to look at him; her smile was fuzzy.

Harry was surprised to find himself blushing. “Well, the short story is that I left them in my
room.”

“There’s a long story?” Hermione asked, amused.

“No, not really.” Harry touched his face. He frowned.

“Well, I think you look nice,” said Hermione, reading his thoughts exactly. “It brings out your
eyes.”

Harry didn’t know why this affected him so much.

“I think you look nice, too,” he told her truthfully.

They stared back into the fire. Silence enveloped them both.

“I never thanked your parents properly for letting me stay at your place,” Harry started,
fishing for a subject to breach. “It was really great, I hope they know that.”

Hermione’s warm hand touched his arm briefly, then drew back. “I’m sure they understand.”

“You’re lucky,” Harry blurted out unexpectedly. “I mean, having parents like that.” Immediately,
he regretted saying it. Not even to his closest friends had he talked about his parents or his
feelings towards family. It was a silent mutual understanding between them, the trio, which forbade
them to go beyond the obvious, comfortable boundaries.

Hermione never made it uncomfortable. She just touched his arm again. He found the gesture
soothing.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asked.

Yes. He did. Desperately.

“No.”

No resistance. No begging. No pressure. Hermione merely let the subject go.

*Thank you.*

A rustle of paper broke the hesitant silence. “Here, I drew these out for you.” Hermione handed
him a neat folder. Harry was amused to see a roaring lion (rather blurred) emblazoned on its front.
“I’ve been thinking about what you said earlier. I know I don’t know very much about Quidditch, but
I’ve learned enough over the years to do some things …”

Harry smiled at her, deeply touched. “I’d look at them now,” he said, “but I can’t see
anything.” He squinted once again at the cover. “Wow, Hermione! This is amazing. You did this in
one night?”

She shrugged modestly. “Oh, it’s not much. I just thought you might need some help. Though,” she
continued, frowning, “it seems rather callous of Dumbledore, handing you such a huge responsibility
on such short notice. Don’t you have enough on your mind already?”

She didn’t know the half of it.

“I’ll be fine, Hermione.” He grinned reassuringly, but couldn’t help thinking how similar her
thoughts were to his. His thoughts strayed precariously close to the Prophecy.

Perhaps he should tell her …

*No,* his mind said firmly. *No use worrying her.*

Harry thought he saw her look curiously at him, but dismissed it quickly. He was being
paranoid.

Why don’t I tell her?

*You know her. She’d be worried sick.*

That was the last thing Harry wanted. That was why he didn’t tell anyone in the first place.

The reminder brought him back to his senses.

“Well,” Hermione said, getting up and yawning. “I have to sleep. I’m exhausted.” She smiled.
“‘Night, Harry.”

Harry wanted her to stay, but kept his mouth securely closed. “‘Night.”

Hermione wrapped the blanket around her frame and left for the stairs, yawning again. Harry
watched her leave before turning back to the folder in his hands. Deciding it would be best looked
at in the light, Harry headed off for his own dormitory.

Harry could hear the snores even before he reached the door. Opening it quietly, he picked his
way through the room, plopping unceremoniously onto his bed. There he reached for his glasses and
shoved them on. Immediately the world cleared.

The folder looked positively marvelous, Harry thought fondly. It was almost too perfect.
Tentatively, Harry opened it.

On the inside cover, in her own diligent handwriting, Hermione had written his name. It shone
gold against the scarlet background.

The folder itself looked simple enough. Harry tried to pull out one of the labeled sections.
However, everything was stuck fast. Harry frowned.

*Or not.*

A piece of parchment fluttered to the ground. Harry picked it up.

*Harry –*

*To work, tap your wand to the folder and say which section you want opened. It’s quite
simple, and really very efficient. All you have to do is get the hang of it!*

Harry grinned. Just like Hermione.

He reached for his wand on the nightstand. He looked at one of the classified sections, tapped
his wand against the folder, and muttered, “Diagram.”

A perfect replica of a Quidditch pitch rose out from the base of the folder, sprouting tiny
hoops and a nearly microscopic field of green grass. The four miniature balls were floating next to
the ground. Harry touched the snitch with the tip of his wand and it began to move, fluttering
around the pitch. Even more astounding were the seven scarlet dots that were hovering in a perfect
line behind the left goal hoops. On the other side, Harry saw, was a choice of Slytherin,
Hufflepuff, or Ravenclaw colors.

Harry gaped, at a loss for words. A warm rush of gratitude towards Hermione’s brilliant efforts
swept through him, and he felt almost dizzy with the graciousness it represented. It seemed that
somewhere, something clicked inside his brain. He had always appreciated Hermione, of course - her
steadfast attitude and loyalty was more than Harry could have asked for; and he always knew she was
astoundingly clever. But to see the finished product of schoolwork was not the same as having, in
his hands, a gift that she had labored over just for him.

Harry felt suddenly very guilty. To ease his mental chagrin more than anything else, he touched
his wand to a red dot labeled “seeker” and moved his wand across the field. The red dot followed,
creating a dashed line behind it.

*Amazing.*

* * *

“But Hermione doesn’t even like Quidditch!”

Ron’s voice was disbelieving, mingled with, Harry noticed curiously, a splash of envy. They were
in the common room, waiting, as usual, for Hermione to come downstairs. Earlier that morning, Ron
had woken up, seen the replica of the Quidditch pitch, and announced with an astounded expression
that it was the most “bloody fantastic thing he had ever seen”. His exclamation was denounced quite
quickly when Harry told him Hermione had created it, and instead, he took to blatant skepticism of
her handiwork.

Harry shifted where he was standing. Ron crossed his arms.

“D’*you* know why Hermione has a sudden love for Quidditch?” he shot at Harry.

He shrugged nonchalantly. “Viktor Krum?”

Ron’s expression turned from annoyance to searing hatred in a split second. The color of his
face was a grotesque mixture between olive and crimson.

Harry grinned, unable to hold out seriously for much longer. “Oh, lighten up, will you? I was
kidding.”

Ron muttered something under his breath. Harry was suddenly aware of another presence. He looked
up.

Hermione was coming down the stairs. She smiled brightly at Harry, and said sharply to Ron,
“What’s wrong with you this time?”

Harry noticed that most of Ron’s abnormal coloring was not yet gone. She gave Ron a look of
purest annoyance, huffed, and drew her bag around her shoulders.

“Nothing,” responded Ron gruffly. He turned on his heel and left for the portrait hole.

Hermione immediately turned to Harry. Her gaze was questioning.

“I dunno,” Harry said, before she could ask. Though Ron was being immature, Harry knew that he
would not want Hermione to know about his behavior. Harry understood. Some things are best left
unsaid. Hermione seemed to understand the problem anyways, Harry noted. Strange – it was rather
discomfiting.

He swiftly changed the subject. “That folder is brilliant,” he praised ecstatically. “I never
knew you knew so much about Quidditch.”

“Well, I *have* come to all of your games,” responded Hermione with a small smile. She
added, “Yours and Ron’s, I mean.”

“We’ve taught you well,” Harry said, grinning. “All we have to do is get you on a broomstick
–”

“Oh no!” Hermione interrupted, laughing. “You saw me in first year! I’d rather not risk my neck,
thank you very much!”

“The look on your face when you found out books couldn’t help you!”

Hermione struggled to breathe, and said between laughter, “I was such a little know-it-all,
wasn’t I?” She shook her head. “I’ve changed so much.”

Harry was silent, grinning. Hermione raised her eyebrows at him and said seriously, “Harry, this
is the point of the conversation where you say, ‘oh yes, Hermione, you have changed, and for the
better!’ and wink.”

“What if I say it and don’t mean it?” responded Harry cheekily.

“I’ll know.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“And why do I have to wink?”

Hermione shrugged. She was smirking.

“Fine. Oh yes, Hermione, you have changed, and for the better!” He winked at her.

That did it.

They were both laughing now, so loudly that the first years on the other side of the common room
were starting to stare at them.

Hermione’s face was shining, her cheeks red from laughter. In Harry’s eyes, it was a true
portrayal of innocence. He loved to see her happy – somehow it managed to soothe his problems
too.

“Are you two coming or what?”

Ron poked his head out from behind the portrait hole, and Harry and Hermione made their way over
to him. Harry rolled his eyes so Hermione could see, and she laughed again.

* * *

There was an unusual amount of whispering, Harry noticed, when he, Ron, and Hermione took their
seats at the Gryffindor table for breakfast. It was a standard meal, with platters full of sausages
and eggs, tureens of sauces, plates piled high of kippers and buttered toast. Harry had not eaten
much the night before, and therefore immediately piled as much food as he could muster onto his
plate. Ron apparently had the same mindset as Harry, as he was quickly ridding the table of all
sweets.

Hermione, however, was reading over their schedules, her plate and utensils untouched. Ron gave
her a kind of disappointed look, then tackled his own meal with gusto.

Harry was reaching over the table for some treacle tart when Hermione announced in
disbelief:

“There’s no Defense Against the Dark Arts class!”

Harry blinked, drawing his hand back. Ron gaped stupidly. “What d’you mean, there’s no
*class*?”

Hermione pointed at all three of their schedules. “I mean it’s not there. Look!” She ran her
finger down the left column. Harry looked around; everyone else seemed to have the same reaction,
pointing at their schedules and gesturing confusedly.

“How could Dumbledore just cancel Defense Against the Dark Arts?” said Harry angrily, leaning
closer to Hermione to get a better look. “That makes no sense!”

Hermione frowned darkly. “Maybe it has nothing to do with Dumbledore.” She looked at Harry.
“It’s almost certainly Fudge’s doing.”

“You’d think even *he’d* understand the importance of Defense Against the Dark Arts,
especially now!” exploded Harry. “What do we have to do, shove Voldemort into his office?”

Hermione looked unfazed.

“That wouldn’t be a bad idea,” muttered Ron under his breath, despite his wince.

Hermione sighed. She did not laugh. “But it’s not about that anymore, can’t you see? He’s still
afraid of Dumbledore. Everyone knows if Dumbledore wanted to be Minister, Fudge would stand no
chance. He’d be shoved aside for sure. It’s absurd, but it’s politics.”

As the meaning of this sunk in, Harry felt disgusted.

“He’d risk lives for his own personal satisfaction?” asked Harry quietly.

Hermione stared in horror at the look on Harry’s face. “Oh, Harry -”

He turned away. Ron looked highly uncomfortable. “Hey, mate, it’s okay. That’s what we have
Aurors for, isn’t it? Voldemort isn’t our problem.”

A flurry of rage overcame Harry for a moment. He couldn’t think clearly.

*Not our problem.*

*He’s* my *problem.*

*Kill or be killed.*

*I hate this.*

“Harry?”

Hermione’s voice pushed through the din of his thoughts.

“Harry, you’re shaking! What’s wrong?”

Harry stared at her white face, his eyes flickering to meet hers for a moment before turning
away.

“I’m fine,” his voice told her unconvincingly. It didn’t sound like his voice at all; it was
more like a broken record than anything, off-key and crackling.

“You can tell us if something’s wrong,” said Ron.

*No. I can’t.*

Standing up, Harry mumbled, “I’m going for a walk. I’ll see you two later.”

Harry saw Hermione make a move to stand up, then freeze as Ron put a hand on her arm. He could
feel their eyes on the back of his head all the way out into the corridor.

Like a tidal wave, hopelessness washed over him. It felt impossible that he could fix
everything. Was that not what the whole damn world wanted? For him to solve their problems, avenge
their deaths and grievances? Harry hated himself for being targeted, and he didn’t know why. He had
escaped, simple as that, and he didn’t know why people looked up to him. It was slowly killing him.
Harry scowled and shoved his hands in his robes. His own *friends* thought him a monotonous
superhero, scourging the world of evil.

*But,* Harry corrected himself, *you’ve never shown weakness to anybody. You’re afraid of
being ordinary. A nobody. You don’t want to relive that.*

Sirius. His parents. How could he just ignore Voldemort’s reign of power?

Harry walked out into the cold autumn air, breathing in the musty scent of fallen leaves. The
grounds looked simply stunning, a pattern of yellows and oranges against the ripe green of the
sprouting grass. The lake was as clear as a mirror, reflecting in it the colorful trees and crystal
skies. He felt it unorthodox to be sullen on such a perfect morning, but there was not a thing to
be done about it. In one swift movement, Harry grabbed a stone from the ground and threw it across
the lake.

*This is weakness*, his mind hissed.

Harry felt an immense force press down on his lungs. His eyes stung, his throat burned.

Was this how it was to be weak?

Harry didn’t know how long he was out by the lake, glaring at life. It felt like forever. Time
was dragging, lapsing into short spurts of energy before fading. Clouds began to form above his
head, floating away as he sat. The longer he thought, the more hopeless he became, until it was
nearly unbearable. It was too much. Hermione was right. Dumbledore was callous. He didn’t know, he
didn’t think. Harry was beginning to question if he cared at all. He didn’t seem to care when Harry
left the Dursleys. If he had cared, he would have talked to Harry. Scolded him, even. Screamed and
yelled, slammed his fists against the table, forbidding Harry to disobey him ever again.

But Dumbledore didn’t even notice.

He looked across the lake. It was impossible. Just impossible.

* * *

When Harry finally decided to come back inside, the corridors were empty. Everyone was in class.
He strolled down to his first lesson, not bothering to look where he was going. He passed Filch on
the way, who sent him a truly evil glare, and could have sworn he passed Peeves at least three
times. On the third, he was setting a quite treacherous contraption for the next person who entered
Charms. Harry ignored him as always, decidedly keeping his distance from the door.

“Potter!”

Harry raised his head tiredly. Professor McGonagall was striding towards him. He waited for the
reprimand to come, but surprisingly, it didn’t.

“Potter, can I have a word?”

Harry nodded, and she drew him aside. “I heard you accepted the position.”

His muddled brain sorted this information slowly. “Yeah. Yeah, I did.”

She smiled. “When are you beginning tryouts?”

Yes. Tryouts. Harry had forgotten. He had been so caught up with *managing* the team that
he forgot about getting one.

“Whenever you’re ready, of course, Potter,” McGonagall urged him.

Tryouts would be ideal to take his mind off everything. Maybe Quidditch could keep him
focused.

“Tomorrow. I’ll start the tryouts tomorrow.” Despite himself, Harry felt a quiver of excitement
in his stomach.

McGonagall looked positively faint with happiness. “Well then, Potter, good luck to you. But if
you ask me, I haven’t seen a sorrier bunch of players in years.” She peered at him sternly over her
spectacles. “Make sure you choose appropriately for the team. I trust in your abilities.”

*Another person not to let down.*

“Thank you, Professor,” said Harry.

“Don’t overwhelm yourself, Potter.”

* * *

“Despite it being suspiciously like homework, this is almost fun!” exclaimed Ron. He was waving
his wand around, experimenting with different colors.

Harry grinned, while Hermione clicked her tongue.

“Homework *is* fun, if you appreciate it,” she said. Harry and Ron grinned at each other as
she leaned forward to add a splash of crimson tint to the flyer. “When you’re older, maybe,” she
added.

Ron rolled his eyes so she couldn’t see. “Okay, Hermione.”

He seemed determined not to make a scene out of berating her. Harry found it relieving,
especially now, as all he needed was peace and quiet. He supposed they both had collaborated on the
attempt to remain civil towards each other, but he appreciated it all the same. He had come back
from his talk with McGonagall feeling slightly happier, telling Ron and Hermione about the
scheduled tryouts the next day. Hermione had immediately suggested flyers. To his relief, they had
both offered to help.

“We’ll just put this up on the bulletin board when we’re done,” said Hermione, smiling at her
work.

“I can’t wait!” said Ron happily. “Wonder who’ll show up?”

“You, me, Ginny,” said Harry, counting off on his fingers. “Who else?”

“I suppose Ginny would want to be chaser now that you’re back,” said Ron, grinning slyly at
Harry.

“Oh *please*, Ron, not this again,” Hermione said snappishly, cutting into the
conversation.

“What?”

“Harry and Ginny. You *know* she doesn’t fancy him anymore.”

“Still,” said Ron. “It’s worth a shot.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “But Harry doesn’t fancy her.”

“How do you know?”

“It’s obvious.”

“But –”

“Could you please stop talking like I’m not here?” Harry interrupted, as Hermione turned back to
the flyer with a tetchy huff. Ron’s teeth ground together.

The trio sat in silence for another few minutes, working on the flyer. Finally, they were
done.

“I think this is the best work I’ve done, ever,” said Ron.

Hermione was smiling at the finished product.

Harry grinned. “Not too shabby.”

* * *

Harry was a complete nervous wreck when he walked down to the Quidditch pitch the next evening.
He was dressed in his uniform, Firebolt slung over his shoulder, feet quaking in his boots.
Thoughts, welcome and unwelcome, flooded his mind. What if he was a terrible captain? What if no
one showed up? What if he made a fool out of himself in front of everyone? Harry knew he was a
strong player, but he had never even considered if he could lead an entire team.

Ron noticed his far-off expression. “You’ll be fine.”

“Yeah,” he murmured.

From his side, Hermione said soothingly, “Don’t worry, Harry. It’s always hard the first day.
Remember the D.A.?”

Harry sighed. She was right.

As they neared, Harry spotted a crowd gathered near the stands. A few were sitting, their chins
resting on their hands. He walked up to them, and they looked up. His throat went dry; nearly
thirty or more Gryffindors had shown, all looking cool and expectant. He felt a small nudge at his
side and saw Hermione point to the stands and mouth, ‘I’ll be up there.’ As she left, he felt his
courage falter slightly. Some people watched her curiously until she sat down.

“Hi everyone,” said Harry. He shifted where he was standing. He clutched Hermione’s folder
tightly. “Thanks for coming.”

Some people nodded.

“Er, I guess I’d better introduce myself.” Harry cleared his throat. “My name is Harry Potter,
and I’m Gryffindor captain this year.” He saw the typical double take concerning his scar, but
ignored it as always. “To be honest, I’m a bit nervous this evening, so don’t be surprised if I do
something extremely stupid.”

There was some laughter. Harry felt his hopes rising.

“It’s simple, really. We’ll have different stations, you could say, for each position.” Harry
pointed across the pitch. “Because of a shortage of players, I’ve decided to just wipe the slate
clean. Er, every position is open except for seeker, which is what I play.”

The crowd seemed to be hanging on to his every word.

“Let’s get to it then! Everyone have their broomsticks?” There was a murmured ‘yes.’ Harry
pointed out each station. “Keepers by the far goal posts, beaters in the middle … over there … and
chasers right here. Okay?”

Harry glanced up at Hermione. She smiled.

“I didn’t know you were going to do that,” said Ron. Harry turned his eyes away from
Hermione.

“What?”

“Just make a whole new team,” Ron said bluntly. “I didn’t know you were going to do that.”

Harry rubbed the back of his head. “It’s not you, Ron. Or Ginny. You two are almost guaranteed a
spot. I just want to start the whole team over, that’s all.”

“Oh. Okay.” Ron looked mollified. “I guess I’d better go then.”

Harry grinned. “Break a leg.”

Ron raised his eyebrows. “I’d rather not, actually.”

“Get going,” said Harry, grinning, “or I might have to throw you off the team.”

He rolled his eyes. “I’m going, I’m going.”

Harry hugged Hermione’s folder closer to his side and sat down to watch the chasers.

It seemed like the night lasted forever, yet took no time at all. Harry’s eyes were beginning to
strain as he watched everyone strive to impress him. There were some good players with a few
problems, some weak players who could become better with practice, and some lousy wannabes who
seemed to have shown up just to see the famous Harry Potter. Harry ignored these people as best he
could, though they seemed to move in his line of vision like a moth to a light.

It was sometime later that Hermione tapped his shoulder and announced her departure. At this
point Harry began to wish for the end of the tryouts. He looked down at the notes he had taken and
the names he had written down as prospective teammates. He rubbed his eyes and watched Ron block
another potential goal. Even though he still wasn’t extremely confident about his skills, Harry had
to admit Ron was getting better. He supposed he had practiced over the summer. Harry looked at his
broomstick lying against the ball crate. He was itching to fly. It was almost overwhelming.

Finally (hours later, it seemed), Harry called it quits. “Good job, all of you!” he said
proudly. He grinned at the group, and saw some girls turn their heads together, cheeks burning.
“Well, er, I think I’ll have the team figured out soon … so check the board in the common room.
I’ll have it posted there.”

The crowd quickly dispersed, talking together loudly. A few people came up to him, looking
breathless, asking how they did. Harry recognized these as the tagalong hero-worshippers, and
though he was polite, disentangled himself from their midst as swiftly as possible and hurried up
to Ron.

“All right?” he said as soon as Ron was in speaking range.

Ron was grinning over Harry’s shoulder. “Those girls have been eyeing you all night.”

Harry didn’t have to turn around. “I know. They’re bloody frustrating. Don’t know a thing about
Quidditch.”

“You mean to say you’re not *completely* flattered by their infatuation?” asked Ron in mock
surprise. He grinned at Harry’s huff of impatience and waggled his eyebrows. “If I were you, mate
–”

“Don’t even start, Ron,” said Harry, gathering together the balls into the crate. Ron grinned
good-naturedly.

“Spoilsport.”

“At least I’m not desperate.”

“Ouch.”

Harry panted as he strapped in a struggling Bludger. “Listen, Ron, go ahead. I’ll be done in a
minute.”

As soon as Ron was gone, Harry sat down on the grass. The tryouts had gone wonderfully, Harry
thought with a surge of pride. Everything had gone according to plan. And it had also executed his
wishes perfectly – his mind had been blissfully blank for hours, lingering only on Quidditch and
its players. Nothing could have helped him more.

But now …

Sitting here, Harry realized how wrong he was. It was when he was alone that his thoughts rushed
back. He thought he could escape, he thought he could sweep his problems under the rug and let them
rot. He was wrong.

Harry shut his eyes tightly. Maybe if he thought too hard the damn thoughts would destroy his
mind. Maybe they would kill him. Painlessly even. If he could just end it now –

*No.* He shuddered. *No.*

Suicide. The word was bitter. Atrocious. Shameful.

Was homicide better? To kill another, take a life.

Genocide. Racial extermination. Was that what he was fighting to stop? He was the protagonist,
wasn’t he? The hero?

Harry shuddered again. He grasped his broom in his hands.

“Harry! Harry!”

A shock wave raced through his body so quickly his breath caught. He turned. Hermione slid to a
stop right next to him; Harry had to grab her shoulders so she wouldn’t fall forward.

Her face was red against the cool night air, and she clutched a stitch her side. “Harry,” she
panted, breathless.

“What?” he asked worriedly. His eyes searched her body for any harm. To his embarrassment and
hers, Hermione pulled her cloak around her winded form rather quickly. Her cheeks flushed a
brighter red, and Harry was sure it wasn’t from the cold.

She stammered, “Harry, I – I know who the Pensieve belonged to.”

“What?” He was stupefied.

Hermione was looking at him now with an almost pitying expression. She spoke with a hushed voice
that brought chills down Harry’s spine. “I don’t know if you really want to hear this, but … Harry,
the Pensieve – it belonged to your father.”

* * *

Again, sorry it took so long for me to update. I hope you like this chapter – this is the
longest I’ve written, ever. Consider it a record – and a one-timer thing at that.

Two and a half more days of school! I’ll update more in the summer, I promise.

Cheers!

-Lauren