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84reedsy · 3 years

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It Does Not Do Well to Dwell on Dreams - Snamione One-shot

Rating: E (Explicit) Pairing: Hermione/Severus Snape Characters: Hermione Granger, Severus Snape, Minerva McGonagall Word Count: 2269 Warnings: Smut Description: Post-Second-Wizarding-War AU, Hermione struggles with a new reality that she never expected. Her head was buried in her hands. Her fingers still thin and her skin still paler than normal. Though the war was over and the good side victorious, Hermione had not found her peace. Her appetite eluded her as she struggled with emerging demons; her own mind was becoming an enemy.

She sat among the curiously quiet portraits in Headmistress McGonagall’s office. She could feel their acrylic stares and could hear their canvas shifting. Yet, they did not speak to her, not even the most recent portrait that she avoided with purposeful desperation.

Minerva watched her former student struggle and she felt helpless to aid her. The post-wizarding-war-world was fraught with young witches and wizards struggling with the gravity of not only what they’d won, but more so what they’d lost. Hermione had only danced around her problems, never speaking of them fully. The weight of them was holding her down and Minerva knew if she didn’t release them soon, Hermione may never be unencumbered by them.

“It’s every time I close my eyes, Professor,” Hermione croaked from behind her palms, “I haven’t slept well since the war and I’m exhausted. But every time I try to rest, I’m haunted by what I see…” She knew that she sounded as if she were describing nightmares instead of what they actually were. She was not terrified by the images she saw, she was comforted by them. And that made everything all the more disturbing.

But the comfort was fleeting, for as soon as she woke, she had to reacclimate to every depressing reality as she grappled with the fictional world of her dreams. Her waking moments were haunted by the desire to live only in her dreams. She knew the logistics of such a life were unrealistic and if she were to speak this to anyone, she knew exactly the advice she’d received.

“There are potions, elixirs,” Minerva mentioned, noting the way Hermione’s fingertips gripped her hair more tightly, “That promote certain dreams or even prohibit any. They are usually restricted, but I believe your predicament would afford you certain concessions.”

Hermione’s hands lowered to fold her in her lap, her head still downturned as she leaned backwards in the chair. Her shoulders slumped in a posture of defeat, but her old Head of House’s words brought a glimmer of hope. At the same time she felt a sadness of what illusion she may miss out on.

“"There's nothing you can do to bring him back." Minerva said more gently, speaking to her suspicions. She approached Hermione carrying two black vials.

“I know, Professor,” Hermione mumbled, her most recent dream playing like a film reel in her mind. She stared at the offering for a moment before taking them.

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She had not the energy or focus to apparate now - so Hermione found herself on a train from Hogsmeade back to London. There were few other passengers, so Hermione easily found an empty compartment. She sat next to the window, her forehead leaning against its cold pane. Her reflection was fogged by her breath as the clicking and the clacking and the motion of the train car became a hypnotic refrain. She was drowsy, but she fought it. She was more tired of towing the blurry line between fantasy and reality.

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“You’ve returned again, Granger?” The voice bellowed in an echo as visuals fell into place around her. She sighed as her surroundings dripped in, filling in the void of darkness with color and light.

“It would seem so,” She answered unannoyed, but with a resolute sadness.

“Memories of me displease you?” Snape asked, sitting casually in a dark, wing back chair. Books stacked themselves from the ground up and a fire bursted to life in an ornate fireplace.

“Real ones, yes. But these,” She motioned around the room, “Not so much,” In J z jus “So you find enjoyment from my presence in your mind?” He asked the question with a snarky confidence. She wanted to brood and pout, but his oddly playful nature drew a smirk from her.

“I prefer to think of you not dead, yes,” She answered quickly. She needed to remember reality and not be so easily subdued.

“If I were alive, would you carry on the same way you have been in your subconscious?” he closed his book now, the words on its spine as well as any other book in this library-esque room obscured as they always were.

“Doubtful, Professor,” she approached him, sitting on a stack of heavy textbooks next to his chair, “I believe you found my company distasteful,”

“Can you name anyone whose company I did seem to enjoy?” He countered, smirking himself when she had no quick reply, “So you have no basis for comparison.”

Hermione wanted to argue with him, but she wanted so much to believe that he desired her in real life as he had in her dreams. She looked down at her hands in her lap. She was in her school uniform once again, though the skirt seemed to be much shorter than the dress code allowed.

“There’s nothing I can do to bring you back, Professor,” She admitted with a sense of shame.

“Are you sure of that?” He postured, almost playfully, “Perhaps, part of me slithered into your mind to live out my sordid fantasies of you, a prideful Gryffindor that seemed to struggle at keeping herself muzzled.” The aspiration spoke to the silly hopefulness in her mind that somehow he was indeed a sentient spirit that was independent from her psyche.

He slunk from the chair as he spoke, kneeling before her feet. His hand held her chin while his thumb slid along her lips, parting them.

“You shouldn’t say such things, Professor. It isn’t right,” She argued with an obvious lack of conviction.

“But then why do your knickers dampen so when I say them,” He didn’t have to run his hand up her thigh to know how she responded to him, “And why do you call my name so loudly when I’m inside of you?”

Her core burned with anticipation. It was so visceral that she was aware that her unconscious form was responding as well. The dreams hadn’t always been so carnal. They started off rather innocent and oddly comforting. But as she became closer to this imagined being, she felt herself desiring him, needing him….and dare she even admit for the consequence of losing her mind, loving him.

She could feel the friction of his hand resting on her knee and the drag of his palm as his fingers disappeared underneath the pleats of her skirt.

“Your thighs open at the mere chance of my touch, and you think this isn’t right,” He scoffed at her, his face nearing hers. She could feel the tickle of his hair against her cheek, his breath against her lips. How could a dream feel so real?

Her head tilted back as his finger tips stroked the fabric of her predictably wet knickers. She knew she would need to resist it someday, but she didn’t have the strength or wish to do so now.

“Professor….Severus,” She whispered, her hips rocking ever so gently. The stack of books she sat upon swayed with her movement. It defied the laws of physics, but it was her dream, she made the rules.

“Hermione, my dirty little witch,” His fingers slid to the edge and slipped underneath her knickers. His fingers felt so definite, so real, so talented, “So needy,” His fingers slid into her deprived entrance, letting her movements make them delve deeper into her slickening tunnel. She chased the itch that was beginning to spread in her sex. Her eyes were closed, but she could feel the lifting of her skirt as his head descended between her spread thighs. She could feel lips suckle her nub and his fingers bury themselves to his bony knuckles in-time with his lashing tongue.

She gritted her teeth as she grabbed a handful of his stringy hair, groaning as a bursting pleasure erupted from her manipulated sex.

“You certainly didn’t waste any time,” She gasped for breath as she leveled back down from oblivion. Dreams used to stretch for hours on end with little progress. Lately he seemed impatient to defile her. She couldn’t complain though.

“We’ve wasted enough of each other’s time,” He stood, his cloak draped open and he undid his belt and trousers. A flip of his fingers and the book stack transformed, stretching into a shining onyx black desktop beneath her, “And your train is nearly to the station,”

Hermione furrowed her brow, how could he know such a thing?

His manhood was as pale as the rest of him, but bulging with veins and ridges. She was eager for it, spreading her legs even wider as he stepped between them. Her thighs rested against the sharp lines of his hips. The weight of his shaft rested against her while his hands slid under her sweater from her waist. Her nipples were already peaked in the anticipation of his ministrations and of the exposure to his gaze.

His kneading made them ache, but she enjoyed the torture so earnestly that she dared not request it to cease.

“Look at you,” He tried to sneer, his black eyes boring into her, “Just begging for it aren’t you?” He watched her squirm rubbing her soaked knickers against his shaft in hopes of enticing him quicker. He seemed to acquiesce to her urgency. Pulling her knickers to the side, he plunged into her waiting quim.

Hermione squealed as she was filled, the pressure of the intrusion sending shockwaves from her core to every nerve-ending in her body. No other person or device that she’d had inside of her felt quite as gratified. How could a mere thought satisfy her so much more greatly than something physical and tangible?

She had never been physically close enough to him to inhale his musk other than moments before his death. But the scent that surrounded her, she just knew was his. She reveled in the closeness of him, knowing that in life he kept every other person at such a distance. To be allowed this close to him was an honor even if it wasn’t real.

“You feel exquisite,” He growled into her ear, feeling her sex quiver around his pummeling cock, “Let me claim you, witch,” He demanded.

“Severus, please….” She beseeched him, her body begging for completion.

“You can claim me, but you must first give yourself to me,” he slowed his thrusts, much to her devastation, he grinned with a sinister manner, “I have plans for us, witch,” He veiled his intention, knowing it would intrigue her into compliance. She looked into his very like life stare, kept on the edge of orgasm by his slow, purposeful fucking.

“Severus, I am yours,” She finally relinquished and was immediately rewarded with the punishing pace she’d come to crave. Her mouth hung aghast as she was ravaged, staring up into his intense visage. Her release rolled over her like a crushing wave, capturing his attention and dissolving his restraint. The heat of his seed filling her was absolute, the weight of his body as he shuddered over her was felt with such a present realism. She wished she never had to wake up.

The entire room jolted and began to melt away as quickly as it had appeared.

“Severus?” She called out to him as he looked around the room and back to her. His hand grazed her cheek momentarily before he drifted away. The disappearance was followed by another jolt and then blackness.

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Hermione’s eyes fluttered open quickly as the daylight assaulted her vision. The train was stopped and the steam from the train’s undercarriage obscured the view of the station landing. She still felt heat at the apex of her thighs. She swallowed the lump in her throat as she once again tried to reacclimate to conscious reality. She knew if she explored her knickers they would indeed be soaked, but the pooling of Severus’ cum would be absent in them. It had occurred so many numerous times before she thought herself used to the disappointment by now, but it still seemed to sting.

She deboarded the train and began a slow walk to her flat. Her hand in her coat pocket held the two vials from the Headmistress gently. She couldn’t help but think a mindless rest would do wonders for her.

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Minerva paced in her office, replaying the different conversations she’d had with Hermione over the last few months. It was evident she was troubled. It didn’t seem to be the guilt for being unable to save Severus as it was early on. Something knew was weighing on her and Minerva’s own mind was troubled with the suspicions she had.

“Minerva, you’ve never been one to be apprehensive with your words,” The portrait behind her desk drawled. She straightened her spine before turning to face the Headmaster she replaced.

“Perhaps my words, Severus, have never been quite so malignant.” She replied sharply as she faced the most newly installed portrait.

“Please, speak your mind,” he implored, but his tone indicated no curiosity.

“The seriousness of this situation is not without grave danger. Even the accusation is reprehensible.” She had hoped her suspicion was a baseless one, but doubts about its falsehood were building, “Tell me, Severus, how much you know of horcruxes.”

His widening smirk confirmed what Minerva had feared.

“She can’t bring you back, Severus,” Minerva said, lacking conviction.

He answered her question with a confident coolness, “Are you sure of that, Minerva?”

#SNAMIONE #snager #hp fanfic #severus snape #severus #Severus x Hermione #Hermione Granger #hermione/snape #snape/hermione #hermione #hermione x snape

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whenihaveyouromione · 3 years

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When I Have You - Chapter 15

Read on Fanfiction.net or ao3 if you’d prefer!

If you’d like to see fanart for this story and sneak peeks, follow this story’s Instagram account whenihaveyou.romione!

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Chapter 15

"Mr Weasley, you may have been invited here today, and you also may be considered a lifetime honorary member of this school; however, that does not give you the right to use such language in my office."

Ron flushed, glaring at the umbrella stand he had just tripped over in the headmistress' office, sparking a tirade of language that his mother would have severely scolded him for. As she wasn't there, it seemed that Professor McGonagall had taken on that role.

"Er, sorry, Professor," he said, glancing at her sheepishly.

Harry, who had more elegantly emerged from the fireplace, smirked.

McGonagall's lips curled into a thin smile as she beckoned them further into the spacious office. "That's quite alright."

It was the first weekend of November, and Hermione and Ginny had organised with the Headmistress for them to not only visit Hogsmeade for the day, but for them to also spend the day at Hogwarts as well.

When Ron had first received the owl, he'd been hesitant about returning to the place that now seemed like a past life to him. Harry had had his concerns too, but as the weeks wore on, and the more they discussed it, the more the idea had grown on them.

"It'll be good to see how it's turned out since the repairs, won't it?"

So here they were, landing via the Floo Network in Professor McGonagall's office, being greeted warmly by her (minus the scolding Ron had just received).

Ron had only ever been in this office a few times, but it looked very different to how he remembered Dumbledore keeping it. McGonagall was definitely a lot cleaner, and she had far less extravagant objects. More useful ones, too.

He and Harry both sat down in two armchairs McGonagall had just conjured for them.

"Where's Hermione?" Ron asked, looking around.

"Having breakfast in the Great Hall, I’d imagine," McGonagall said with an air of amusement. "With your sister as well, whom I'm sure you're just as excited to see?" she added with a raised eyebrow.

Harry snorted beside him, and Ron flushed again.

"Yes, her too."

“So, I hear the two of you are doing well in your training with the Ministry?” McGonagall said, smiling between them. “Top of the class, so I should think.”

“Along with Neville,” Harry said cheerfully. “Yeah.”

“Ah, I am pleased to hear about Longbottom,” McGonagall said fondly, now staring somewhere off in the distance. “I always knew he had it in him…” She turned her attention back to Ron and Harry. “You’ll make fantastic Aurors. First hand experience, which is what the department has been lacking for many, many years.”

Ron beamed at the compliment. He could remember his meeting with McGonagall back in fifth year, and how he’d uncertainly expressed his desire to become an Auror to her, and the surprised look she’d given him. Then she’d handed him many alternative brochures, encouraging him to look carefully into them and to consider his options. He’d left deflated that day, almost giving up on the idea of ever becoming an Auror.

And now… now she believed he would be good at it.

His smile widened.

“Er, how’s things here, Professor?” Harry asked. “How’s —”

“Everything is as well as could be,” McGonagall answered. “I must say, though, the older years have thinned, but the first years numbers are as large as ever. I wasn’t expecting it, but it seems that parents still wish for their children to receive a magical education here. I’ve no doubt that within a few years, the school will be at capacity again.”

Harry nodded, followed by a silence.

McGonagall jumped to her feet a moment later. “So, I suppose you’re both keen to see Miss Granger and Miss Weasley?”

Ron clambered to his feet eagerly. He’d not seen Hermione in over two months, his only correspondence with her twice a week via owl. He was desperate to just lay eyes on her again.

McGonagall smiled knowingly as Ron regained himself and walked to the door, feigning near disinterest.

They walked in silence through the corridors. The castle looked just as it had before it had been destroyed, despite some new portraits hanging around. There were no cracks, no places that showed where the walls had been blown to bits only a few months prior.

And yet, Ron still knew he had made the right decision by choosing not to come back. It felt good to visit, but training as an Auror, living in his own place — well, Harry’s place — was where he needed to be.

Ron’s stomach lurched into his chest as they drew nearer to the Great Hall. He didn’t know why he felt so nervous — he’d been nothing but overjoyed when he’d seen Hermione after she’d gotten back from Australia — but this time had been even longer. He’d not so much as held her hand in two whole months, and part of him had become used to her absence. Not in a way that meant he was happier without her being there — he certainly wasn’t — but he’d realised how dependent he’d become on her. He’d become used to seeing her every day, having her there when he needed her or when she needed him. It had taken a week or so, but that dependency had disappeared when they were apart, and now he worried that it meant that they wouldn’t be as close as they had been.

The Great Hall was packed with students, all dressed and excitedly talking about the first Hogsmeade visit of the year. It took Ron all of three seconds to scan the crowd and spot Hermione, Ginny and Luna all huddled at the Gryffindor table, talking amongst themselves. None of them had seen Harry, Ron and McGonagall enter.

“Well, enjoy your breakfast, boys,” McGonagall said, and she marched on ahead towards the teachers’ table at the front.

“Come on,” Harry said, grinning, and he too moved forward.

All three of them were so engrossed in their conversation and their food, that Ron and Harry were able to slide onto the bench beside Hermione and Ginny respectively without them noticing.

Ron kissed Hermione’s cheek, causing her to jump and flinging some egg into the air, which landed on some poor, unsuspecting first year at the Hufflepuff table. The boy whirled around, caught sight of Harry, paled, and looked determinedly back at his food.

“Hey!” Ron said, beaming at Hermione, and the concern he’d felt only moments ago vanished with the smile she returned. His heart pounded in his chest at just seeing her, that intense feeling of love he always felt when he laid eyes on her, was there, as strong as ever — stronger, even, with their two months apart.

“Hey!” Hermione replied, throwing her arms around his neck. “I didn’t realise you had arrived yet.”

Ron cast his eyes across the table to where Ginny had caught Harry in some embrace that had some girls casting alarmed looks around them. He turned back to Hermione quickly and said, “I haven’t missed that. But I’ve definitely missed you.”

She laughed, sliding her hand under the bench and squeezing his. “I’ve missed you too.”

“How’s it been, being back?” Ron asked, relieved that Ginny had finally let Harry up for some air. “Weird?”

“Of course,” Hermione said. “I mean, it’s quieter, especially in the Common Room, but it’s been good. NEWTs are… interesting, though.”

“Interesting!” Ginny scoffed. “You would have thought, you know, after what happened last year, the teachers would have eased up a little. But nope, it’s work, work, work. Apparently with the desperate need for jobs now, with half the Ministry, er… gone, they need to make us even more ready. Should have taken a leap from your book and started a career without finishing school.”

“It’s not that bad, is it?” Harry said. “I mean…”

“No… it’s pretty bad,” Hermione said. “I’m struggling to keep up, actually…”

“You’re struggling?” Ron asked, staring at Hermione with amusement. “Then I’m very glad I’m not here.”

Ron helped himself to all the food he could reach and piled it onto the clean plate that had appeared in front of him. “I missed Hogwarts meals,” he groaned. “Nice to have someone cook for you for once.” He cast a nervous glance towards Hermione, but she only smiled at him.

“House-elves are being paid now,” she said brightly.

“Oh, good,” Ron said, shovelling food into his mouth.

“Once you two are done pigging out,” Ginny said, eyeing Harry’s heaped plate with a raised eyebrow, “we should probably get going. Beat the crowd, you know? First Hogsmeade trip in over a year — it’s going to be packed.”

Ginny was right. Fifteen minutes later, the four of them plus Luna were exiting the Great Hall and making their way out of Hogwarts and towards the all-wizard village. It was a cold November day, so they were all rugged up well.

As they walked, Ron slipped his hand into Hermione’s and bent to whisper in her ear. “You know, once we reach the village, we could give the others the slip, sneak into an alley and —”

“Ron!” Hermione said, loud enough for the others to turn to them curiously.

“Are you whispering disgusting things to her?” Ginny asked.

“None of your business,” Ron said. He then said only to Hermione, “I was only joking, though if you wanted to, I’m not going to argue.” He grinned, causing her to roll her eyes.

“And what a sight that would be, if we’re caught,” Hermione said. “Imagine that, me being expelled, because I was found in a side street of Hogsmeade with you…”

“A sacrifice I’d be willing to make,” Ron said, nodding seriously. “It would mean you could come home again!”

Hermione seemed to not know whether to laugh or tell him off, but settled for a smile in between.

As the others walked ahead, Ginny and Luna filling Harry in about the seventh year classes, Ron stopped and spun Hermione towards him. He wrapped his arms around her waist and drew her closer. There, he kissed her — the first damn kiss in two months — and it felt amazing.

“Merlin, I missed you,” he said when they broke away. “I missed that.”

Hermione smiled, gazing up at him, her arms around him. Ron kissed her again, wishing for nothing more than to stay there forever and not let her go.

They stood like that for a while, ignoring the disgusted looks from other students who passed them on their way to the village. It was Ginny’s voice that broke them out of… whatever it was.

“Well, we’re off to do something that doesn’t involve waiting for you,” she said, sounding annoyed. “Once you two can manage to get your hands off one another, we’ll see you in the Three Broomsticks around midday, alright?” And she grabbed Harry’s hand, pulling him up the path. Vaguely, Ron heard her muttering something along the lines of, “Revolting, honestly.”

Luna followed hastily behind them.

Ron laughed, following his sister, Harry and Luna up the path with his eyes. Once they were out of sight, he said, “I was wanting to do that before, but McGonagall was there… I think she’s onto us, you know?”

“And does that matter if she is?” Hermione asked.

“Er, well, no, I guess not,” Ron said, feeling slightly embarrassed now. He was an adult — he was perfectly entitled to have a girlfriend, and he was also entitled to kiss her — when and wherever he wished.

“Come on, you idiot,” Hermione said, taking his hand and pulling him after her. “It looks like we’ve been abandoned. Where would you like to go?”

“My offer from before still stands,” Ron said.

“And my answer still stands,” Hermione retorted. “Not happening.”

“Fine. How about Honeydukes then?”

“Honeydukes it is,” Hermione said, beaming, and she continued to pull him along the snow-covered track.

They had to be the last ones to enter the village despite being some of the first to leave, because every so often, Ron stopped walking just so he could kiss her. By the time they reached the sweet store, it was packed with excited students all greedily filling bags with as much as they could.

“Maybe we should go somewhere else?” Hermione suggested, looking warily around.

“Just let me get some stuff,” Ron said, digging into his pockets for some Galleons. “Our place needs some sweets, you know? And all those times Harry got stuff for me over the years… I’ll stock up.”

“If you say so,” Hermione said, and she followed him to a corner of Jelly Slugs and Every Flavour Beans.

It took a good amount of time for Ron to select and pay for them, stuffing his pockets with as much as he could. By the time they left the shop, it was half an hour until midday, which was when Ginny had suggested they meet in the Three Broomsticks.

“Where to now?” Hermione asked as they made their way past students again, all whispering excitedly to one another.

“Honestly, Hermione, if you said you wanted to spend the rest of the day in that dingy cave Sirius stayed in all those years ago, I’d agree, because it would be with you.” Ron slipped his hand into hers once more as they continued walking. “Though, I wouldn’t mind checking out the new Quidditch shop that opened here.”

“Oh, that’s right!” Hermione said brightly. “They have that new broom, don’t they? The Firebolt Three.”

Ron looked at her incredulously.

Hermione shrugged. “I spend most of my time with Ginny these days. I’ve heard her mention it a few times.”

They came to stop out the front of a shop that had, for a long time, been abandoned. Now, it had a fresh coat of paint and in the large glass window was the fastest broom in the world. Ron groaned with longing.

“One day,” he murmured, pushing through the crowd of students, “one day, I hope to earn enough to be able to buy myself one.”

“You will,” Hermione said. “Aurors earn good money.”

“Not trainee Aurors,” Ron said. “I’ll have to wait three years. Then there’ll probably be a more expensive, better one out that I’ll have to save for all over again.”

“And then you can buy that one,” Hermione said gently. “Is there anything in there you want to buy, or do you want to head to the Three Broomsticks now?”

Ron took another longing look at the broomstick before turning around and heading back up the street again. He couldn’t help but feel slightly miserable at knowing he probably would never be able to afford the best broom, whatever it was.

Even though they were early, they found Harry and Ginny already waiting at a table in the corner, Butterbeers in front of them. Ginny waved them over.

“You two finally came up for air, I see,” she said as they slid into two seats opposite her and Harry.

“Says you,” Ron scolded. “If I remember correctly, you and Harry were in the Great Hall —”

“Where’s Luna?” Hermione asked, looking around the busy pub.

“Well, I’m not sure,” Ginny said. “She said she had to meet someone and went off.” She shrugged.

“Butterbeer?” Hermione asked, looking at Ron.

“I dunno. If I’m not a student, am I allowed Firewhisky?”

“Probably, but as I am a student, I can’t get you one,” Hermione said.

“Er, alright,” Ron said. “Butterbeer is fine.”

Hermione went over to the bar to order their drinks. When she came back, Ron and Harry were filling Ginny in about everything happening at home.

“That reminds me,” Ron said, taking a sip of the Butterbeer, “Mum insisted we come over tonight for dinner. Me and Harry. She said Percy is bringing someone — his Muggle girlfriend, I assume. The one none of us have met — and said something about it being really important we’re there for it.”

“Wait, you’re going to get to meet this Audrey?” Ginny asked. “That’s not fair!”

Ron and Harry shrugged.

“But I guess that means he’s told her about us, then. About who he is. Will be a shock if she shows up to the Burrow and doesn’t know anything.”

They spent the next half an hour speculating about what Audrey would be like, eventually reaching the conclusion that she had to be almost like Percy, otherwise he probably wouldn’t be taking the relationship seriously.

“I bet she got top of all her classes in her Muggle school,” Ginny said. “They’ll be a perfect match.” She then looked at Ron determinedly. “Write to me about her straight after. I want to know everything. Take a picture if you can.”

“I’m not going to take a picture of someone I just met!” Ron told her, raising an eyebrow. “What has gotten into you?”

Ginny flushed slightly, averting her gaze. “I’m just interested, that’s all. She’s a Muggle. I mean, wouldn’t it be interesting if we had a Muggle in the family.”

Ron watched his sister with amusement. “You and Dad should talk more,” he said.

“Well, just write to me, alright? At least tell me a bit about her.”

“Yeah, alright,” Ron said, resisting the urge to sigh.

They stayed in the Three Broomsticks for the remainder of the afternoon. The pub began to thin out, leaving just them, a few other students, and now bringing in the general wizarding population. Some were looking a little shady to Ron the later it got.

“Er, we should probably go,” he said. “You know, get ready for this all-important dinner.” He jumped to his feet, the others following suit.

“I really wish you didn’t have to go,” Hermione said, slipping her hand back into Ron’s as they made their way back to Hogwarts. “I wish we could spend more days like this together.”

“Well, when you’re done with school, we can,” Ron said. “Every weekend, every day off… though, training is going to get more intense after Christmas, I reckon. That’s what we were told anyway.”

They walked in silence for the remainder of the way, Hermione only speaking when they reached the entrance doors. She turned to face him, staring up at him with a sad smile. “There’s usually a visit around Valentine’s Day. I’ll let you know —”

“You’re coming for Christmas, aren’t you?” Ron asked, desperation laced in his voice.

Hermione continued to look at him, her smile fading completely. “Ron, it’s just… NEWTs are… they’re hard. There’s a lot of work…”

“But —” There was a sinking feeling in his chest that hadn’t been there a moment ago, overriding the elation of finally spending a day with Hermione. He stared at her. “You have to come home for Christmas. I’ve… I thought you would!”

“I want to,” Hermione said, taking his hands in hers. He pulled them away. “I really do. But — Ron, please understand…”

“I’ve got to go, or I’ll be late,” Ron said miserably, trying to step past her. “I love you.”

“Ron.”

He turned around to face her again. Her smile had returned. “I’ll see what I can do, okay? I’ll… well, I suppose a day or two away from here won’t hurt, will it?”

The disappointment in Ron lifted. “You’ll come home?” he asked.

She nodded, continuing to smile. “Even if it’s just for a few days.”

Ron gathered her in his arms, lifting her off of her feet. He kissed her hard on the mouth. “Good!” he said. “Because I wanted us to spend our first Christmas together. I had plans.”

“Plans?” Hermione asked curiously. “What kind of plans?”

“You’ll see!” Ron beamed. “Just, please promise me you’ll come home. Please.”

“I will, Ron,” Hermione said, standing on her tiptoes to kiss him. “I promise.”

Hermione walked him all the way up to McGonagall’s office, opening the door just as Ginny said, “... they’re probably suffocating each other again. Honestly, I don’t know what — oh, hi, guys!” She grinned.

“I thought we agreed that you would be leaving at three o’clock, Mr Weasley,” McGonagall said with a small smile. “It’s a little after that.”

Ron chose not to answer, instead, letting go of Hermione’s hand, kissing her lightly (because it just didn’t feel right grabbing her in his old teacher’s office) and then went to stand beside Harry by the fireplace.

They landed back at Grimmauld Place, this time Ron stepping more carefully out so as not to trip over anything, and waited for Harry to step out a moment later.

“I’m exhausted,” Harry said. “I forgot what it was like…”

“Yeah, well, you can’t be too exhausted,” Ron said. “We’ve still got Mum’s dinner.”

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senlinyu · 4 years

Note

I can’t WAIT for your Sevmione. Omfg. I cannot wait. Based on what you’ve said on Tumblr before about your preferences in Sevmione fic, I think we have similar tastes. Meaning your fic will (almost certainly) be f*cking gourmet. Yesss bless your brain and your inclination to share it’s work with us

Haha. I hope it’s well recieved. It’s a different dynamic for me, both the tension between Hermione and Severus and then figuring out how the sexual/romantic dynamic between them should work. Draco and Hermione are easy for me to write a ton of different contexts with, but sevmione is trickier for me to write and feel like the relationship is in character.

I legit spent three weeks being like: 🤔🤔🤔 how do I get Severus and Hermione to have sex? And once I finally figured that out, then I was like, and how would they have sex? And once I started figuring that out, it still took me several days to actually write it. I have never had a sex scenes take so long to write. 🤣

Here’s a sneak-peek of the intro, because I’m leaving on a trip and then I have the holidays and my father’s getting married and I’m beginning to get the feeling that I may not publish any new WIPs until the New Year. 😭

——

It was subtle at first. For the first several months, she assumed it was merely the stress of the war; for the next several months, she assumed it was the stress of the trials; then when winter came, she assumed it was stress from school.

She kept assuming it was stress until she was walking to the cabinet to retrieve her supplies for Potions class and the walls began closing in, wobbling and swallowing her up.

When she woke again, she was in the Hogwarts hospital ward.

Severus Snape was staring down at her with an expression of profound irritation.

“Did you never consider having that injury on your arm examined by a professional?” he asked, as she sat up in bed. His voice was low and rasping. His throat had been permanently damaged from Nagini’s bite.

Hermione looked down at the still raw wound carved into her forearm. Mudblood.

The bandages she kept on it had been removed.

It was bleeding again.

She turned her arm to hide it. “Fleur treated it. She said it was cursed not to heal. It’s not very deep, I keep it clean. It didn’t seem worth making a fuss about.”

His lip curled into a derisive sneer. “It’s killing you.”

Hermione stared at him blankly for a moment before she looked down again, her heart stalling painfully; as though his words had struck her with such violence her heartbeat had been knocked off tempo. Somehow, even though she hadn’t considered it, she felt strangely unsurprised.

She was so tired. She couldn’t remember when she’d last enjoyed eating, or read a book without developing a migraine, or been able to summon a sense of excitement about anything.

Everything had required effort for so long, she’d gotten used to it.

Now as she sat in bed thinking about it, it had all started after Malfoy Manor. That was when everything had begun getting increasingly difficult and painful.

It was hard to make herself think about Malfoy Manor.

If Hermione hadn’t been tortured they wouldn’t have realised Bellatrix had Hufflepuff’s Cup. If Hermione hadn’t been tortured, Harry wouldn’t have disarmed Draco Malfoy and gained the loyalty of the Elder Wand.

They would have lost the war.

Malfoy Manor had been a vital necessity. A tipping point in the war.

Dobby had died.

Hermione hadn’t been conscious when Dobby died. She’d only found out afterward, when she woke and heard that Harry was digging a grave.

Harry often talked about Dobby’s death. It was one of the most deeply significant events of the war for him. When Malfoy Manor was brought up, Dobby was the first person Harry referred to. Sometimes he would belatedly mention that Hermione had been brilliant and lied during torture.

But Dobby’s death was the most important aspect of that day. It was the tragedy.

Torture was a far distant second.

Hermione never felt as though there was any context in which it was acceptable to bring up a cut on her arm that kept bleeding.

She was lucky to have just been tortured.

She stared across the room at the white dividing curtain. “I suppose it’s not reversible, is it?”

“It’s not intended to be.”

She nodded slowly. lf Snape was telling her that she was going to die, she probably was. Otherwise she probably would have woken in St Mungo’s.

“How long do I have?”

“If you’d bothered to take your health seriously, you might manage to last a year.” His voice was cold.

Her skin prickled painfully. Her organs were shriveling, and she thought she might throw up. Her heart was beginning to pound, as a result, all the cuts on her arm started to throb. They always throbbed, as though she had a pulse-point there. When her heartbeat sped up, the throbbing would reflect it. It would start to bleed.

She’d gotten into the habit of ignoring the throbbing, or pressing her palm lightly against it. Sometimes the pressure and warmth of her hand helped.

As she sat stiffly in the hospital bed, trying not to have an emotional breakdown in front of a professor who had never regarded her existence as anything but a nuisance, several streams of blood began making their way towards her wrist.

Her blood was thin and watery looking. Somehow in the midst of all the effort that it took to complete her homework and make it to class, she hadn’t noticed

She didn’t know why Madam Pomfrey or Headmistress McGonagall couldn’t be the ones telling her that she was probably going to die before she turned twenty.

She swallowed hard. “Thank you for telling me, Professor Snape. I apologize for disrupting your class today.”

Snape snorted, and then coughed when it aggravated his damaged vocal chords.

“There is a reason I am the one informing you. I have several theoretical potions that may slow the effects of the curse, or stop it. Although, you may prefer care at St Mungo’s. However—“ his jaw rolled slightly, as though the words coming out of his mouth had a vile taste to them. “If you choose to remain at Hogwarts, as Potions Master, I will endeavor to develop a cure for you.”

#senlinyuspeaks #asks #unpublished wips #sevmione #sneak peek #excerpt

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owlways-and-forever · 5 years

Text

Making Amends

A/N: This is a little drabble for the Houses Competition, which is happening over on FFnet. Because I like consistency, I’ll be posting all of my pieces on FFnet & ao3 as well, so if you prefer those platforms, feel free to hit me up there.

Round: 1 Theme: Self-Discovery Type: Drabble (200-950 words) | Word Count: 950 Prompt: "Does your mother/father know what you've been up to?"

Summary: Post war, a Draco struggling to find his place looks to Professor McGonagall for advice. Links: FFnet | ao3

After the war, Draco found his conscience itching constantly, niggling at his mind in the background of every thought, every moment of the day. Guilt for what he had done, for what he had failed to do, ate at him, gnawing him to the bone, and refused to release him or give him a moment’s peace. He’d volunteered to help restore the castle, but it hadn’t been enough. The castle was only the physical manifestation of the damage that had been wrought, the emotional scars, however, ran much deeper.

There were only so many people that Draco felt he could talk to, or ask for advice. Few trusted him, and even fewer liked him these days - a real departure from his school days. Or maybe it wasn’t and his friends had only ever followed him for his name and his family’s power.

Draco spent the summer searching for some way to ease his guilt. No, not ease it. He deserved to be guilty, to feel the weight of his actions for all eternity. But he could make reparations for his actions, make the world a better place. He could try, at least. It was harder than he thought, which was why Draco found himself standing outside the Headmistress’ office early in November.

It was cold and damp, as November so often was. He’d gotten rather wet during the walk from Hogsmeade, so his blond hair was stuck to his forehead. He was thinner than he’d ever been before in his life and more ragged than the horrible years under Voldemort’s thumb. No one wanted to hire an ex-Death Eater, and he’d split from his family—or at least from the wealth and influence of his father.

He muttered the password, and the gargoyle sprung to life, stepping aside as the staircase wound upward. Upon reaching the top, Draco knocked lightly against the ornate wooden door. It swung open of its own accord, and he stepped inside. Professor McGonagall sat at her heavy mahogany desk, so different from Dumbledore’s, as she thumbed through a newspaper, barely glancing up at him.

“Please, have a seat,” she said as Draco drew closer and obligingly, he planted himself in the armchair opposite her.

They were quiet for a few minutes as she finished reading her article, before neatly folding the paper and setting it aside.

“Mr Malfoy, what can I do for you?” she asked curtly, though not quite rudely.

“You know that I regret… everything,” Draco said, fidgeting a little. “And I’ve been trying to do things... to help fix what happened.”

“I do,” she said, softening a bit.

“But so far… it’s all just stuff, not… not helping actual people,” he said, trying to convey his emotions, but feeling somewhat short on words.

“Sometimes, we must heal our bodies before we can begin to heal our minds,” Professor McGonagall answered, her eyes clouding as she looked off into the distance, not seeing him, or any of the room in front of her.

“You sound like Dumbledore,” he said, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Yes, a bit too much for my liking actually,” she smiled, her eyes wrinkling. She always had been much more direct than her mentor. “Still, there’s something there.”

“I feel like it’s time to take the next step,” Draco said. “I need to do more.”

Professor McGonagall nodded, seeming to understand how he felt, and she began rifling through her desk drawers. He sat quietly, wondering what she was looking for, until with a small ‘aha’, she extracted a folder from one of the lower drawers, and set it down on top of the desk. It had ‘Phoenix’ written in big letters across the cover.

“Over the summer, I began an organization for those who were left behind by the war,” she began to explain. “There are two homes - one for wizarding children who were orphaned, and one for muggle kids. Ideally, the two would be together, but I couldn’t do it without breaking the International Statute of Secrecy. There’s also a counseling center for adults struggling to cope with the aftermath, and they do some visits to the homes as well.”

Draco wasn’t sure what to say. It sounded like a brilliant organization, but he wasn’t sure why she was telling him about it. He certainly wasn’t a qualified counselor of any kind. And he’s not sure that the wizarding world would accept him working with their orphaned children in any way.

“The director of the muggle children’s home has just given me her notice, so I need to find a replacement,” Professor McGonagall continued. “I think you might be a good fit for the position.”

“I don’t know about that,” Draco said, trying very hard not to wrinkle his nose at the idea of snotty little children running around.

“Mr Malfoy, I think you would be surprised how much you come to care about children under your protection,” she answered. “In any case, I believe the position would be good for you, as well as for the children. Here is the address, if you report there tomorrow, Sonya will begin instructing you in what needs to be done so you can be fully prepared when you take over the position next month.”

“Right,” Draco answered, sensing that he had very little say in this. But then, perhaps he wasn’t meant to enjoy making amends.

“Draco, does your father know what you’ve been up to?” Professor McGonagall asked, raising an eyebrow curiously.

“Wait till he hears about this,” Draco scoffed, echoing the words he had said so many times. “No - can you imagine? He’d be horrified. But that’s really why it needs to be done.”

#gen writes #hp #Draco Malfoy #minerva mcgonagall #hp houses comp #redemption

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braverytaught · 6 years

Note

WHAT WERE MINERVA'S THOUGHTS ABOUT 'THE LIFE AND LIES OF ALBUS DUMBLEDORE' ??!! did she (eventually) read it? did it change anything about how she saw albus???? WE NEED TO KNOW !

@lamentedhope || send me meta topics || always accepting

unsurprisingly, minerva was absolutely disgusted to hear rita skeeter’s announcement about the life and lies: it was clear that rita was capitalizing off of dumbledore’s death, which minerva, of course, found repulsive, not to mention hurtful to those who were grieving him. she had no desire to read the book, nor to trust anything rita might have to say about dumbledore; as we know, minerva tends to believe very few matters of public hype that aren’t corroborated by people she trusts, dumbledore among them, and she’s well aware of rita’s penchant for dramatizing, if not straight-up lying.

so she stays as far away from the life and lies for a good while, and though it’s impossible to avoid hearing the rumors about it, anyone who discusses it in her presence gets a poisonous look from her. she has no interest in listening to the tripe of someone who intends to besmirch dumbledore’s name for the sake of commercial gain and notoriety, certainly not when she herself is still grieving him, and would much rather remember him fondly than not.

now, the contents of the book...someone who plays dumbledore, like u, would be a better authority than me on the matter of how much dumbledore might have divulged to minerva, but i want to point out the passage in the pottermore ebook that says, “Albus Dumbledore offered both comfort and wisdom [after discovering Minerva in tears over the news of Dougal’s marriage], and told Minerva some of his own family history, previously unknown to her. ...Minerva McGonagall was one of only a handful of people who knew, or suspected, how dreadful a moment it was for Albus Dumbledore when, in 1945, he made the decision to confront and defeat the Dark wizard Gellert Grindelwald.”

if we go by this, it implies that dumbledore, in comforting minerva over her decision to leave someone she loved, told her something about his own childhood love and heartbreak -- or, at least, implied enough that she was able to realize that the person he alluded to was in fact grindelwald. i do not believe that minerva would have any knowledge of the fact that dumbledore colluded with grindelwald’s plans, that they plotted wizard supremacy together -- i doubt dumbledore would have told her anything about that; rather, he told a story of loving someone he shouldn’t have, and the difficulty of having to oppose them, or what have u. something analogous enough with her own experiences to bring her comfort.

anyway -- that, at least, implies that minerva would not be shocked to learn that dumbledore had known grindelwald in his youth; she already knew, or suspected, that much to be true. however, if she learned that rita had written, not just of dumbledore’s involvement with grindelwald, but of their collusion, then she would be both shocked and angry. she would immediately scorn such accusations, and the people who believed them. the dumbledore she knew opposed everything about grindelwald’s ideals, and she trusted her own observations over a fifty-year relationship with him (from student to colleague to friend) over the word of a gossip-mongering hack journalist.

not to mention, she was in the middle of one of the worst times of her life -- trapped in a hogwarts that no longer belonged to her, opposing the reign of someone she had once called a friend, trying desperately to keep her students safe from literal torture, which sometimes meant putting herself through it instead. you will recall that when harry says that he’s working on dumbledore’s orders when he returns to hogwarts, dumbledore’s name seems to help minerva regain strength and resolve; she straightens her back and takes charge. that is not the response of a woman who has come to doubt him and the validity of what he stood for. during this time, she needed to believe in dumbledore’s cause. she needed to believe in her own cause, and how could she do that if she was plagued with doubts about him?

which is not to say that she had no doubts during that year. of course she did. it was comforting to think that everything rita said about dumbledore was a lie, but she was right about dumbledore and grindelwald’s acquaintance, and minerva had never fooled herself into thinking that dumbledore told her everything. of course she knew it was possible that rita’s words held truth. and when minerva doesn’t know something, she prefers to investigate it herself. i’m sure that she struggled with an unhappy desire to see for herself, to read this book, during that year -- and i’m sure that, every time, she managed to wrestle it down. because she knew it would anger her. she knew it would upset her. she knew it would not solve her worries, as much as she wished she could use it to decide once and for all that it was all nonsense.

instead, she decided to accept that there were things she did not know about dumbledore, perhaps things she would not like. and, knowing that, she decided to believe in him anyway. she needed to. she had always accepted an amount of ambiguity from him, had always chosen to trust him even when he would not tell her the full story, when he asked her to act in faith rather than understanding. she could continue doing that. for as long as this horror continued, she could continue doing that.

so no, i don’t think she read the book during the 1997-1998 school year, and while the rumors that reached her of it did shake her, she chose not to let them destroy her faith in the man who had guided her throughout her life.

but. i do think she would have read it eventually. sometime after the end of the war, after the dust had settled. sometime when she no longer depended on him as a symbol for her strength, when she could approach the matter with a presence of mind that wasn’t available to her during the turbulent months after his death. she sat in the chair in her rooms off of the headmistress’s office, and she read it. and she cried. and she felt at turns angry, and at turns sad. she scoffed at rita’s obviously biased tone throughout, but she paid due attention to the testimony of bathilda bagshot, and reread the letter in dumbledore’s own handwriting many times.

did reading it for herself change her view of dumbledore? it couldn’t not, in some ways. it was certainly very strange for her. the dumbledore she saw in rita’s book was not the dumbledore that she had known -- and while minerva understands the extent which people can change, because she’s witnessed it, she’s also never experienced it in herself; though she has certainly gone through changes of temperament in her life (most notably the years she spent in the ministry as a young woman), minerva’s core beliefs and personality are stable and frank enough that she has never undergone a truly radical or lasting change in values. that made it hard to reconcile the possible dumbledore of the past with the one that she had known, and certainly learning of his former convictions -- she, who fiercely loves her muggle father and has always been a supporter of muggleborns and half-bloods -- would have struck her and hurt her. but ultimately she chooses to remember the man that dumbledore became, not the man he started out as. if he made mistakes in his youth, if he espoused such unhappy views, then he made up for it in the way he lived the rest of his life.

it did perhaps distance her somewhat from dumbledore, but it was not enough to seriously tarnish the respect that she had for him.

#lamentedhope #long post //#; owl post ( answered. )#; that explains a great deal ( headcanons. )#FINALLY answers this #and predictably rambles to hell #but yeah no minerva would have scorned to even acknowledge the existence of rita's book at first #and she would rather trust her own understanding of the dumbledore she knew than any hearsay or speculation #but reading it would give her a lot to think about and evaluate #but ultimately she can choose to acknowledge his flaws without losing her respect for him #and she didn't experience harry's level of betrayal at his secrecy -- bc she'd always known he was secretive #she accepted that a loooong time ago

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drarrydrabble-blog · 6 years

Text

The Words I Didn’t Say

Pairing: Drarry

Warning: Suicide mention, Death

Word Count: 9k+

Dedication: To all of my lovely betas who made sure my story wasn’t a hot mess!

A/N: The trope I used is based on this idea here! I thought it was very interesting, but don’t look now if you don’t want any spoilers!

The grounds of Hogwarts stood bleak on that particular Saturday on a snowy December. The sky, a mirky, ugly grey peeked into the eighth year common room windows, not minding any of its business as the forty-something students lounged around, doing absolutely nothing. Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnigan sat in one corner, swigging from a shared bottle of contraband firewhisky. Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger coddled each other, hands entwined. While the bushy-haired nineteen-year-old aimlessly stared into the fire, her counterpart supported her weight, looking just as crestfallen. The few Slytherins that dare returned sat amongst themselves and those who were forced back under punishment, such as Draco Malfoy and Gregory Goyle, stood aside, separate from everyone else.

The eighth years were in a particularly sour mood, except for Draco Malfoy, who’d been that way for quite some time.

Since those who fought in the war returned to Hogwarts eighth year under official Ministry instruction, Draco stood aside as someone who no longer withheld his typical spunk and flare. He answered particularly tricky questions in class if he rose his hand before Hermione Granger and no longer had access to studying Defence Against Dark Arts. Draco was bricked up in a sturdy cell of his school, his sentence for making the idiotic decision to step into his father’s shoes. Though he walked free like the others who were instructed to return, there remained a heavy restraint that pinned him to the ground by his shoulders, and he didn’t enjoy it one bit.

No one associated themselves with him either. The mere mention of hanging out with a Death Eater would’ve sent rumours, quite literally, flying around the school. The victim would’ve been prosecuted at the hands of the patriotic students of Hogwarts, the teachers standing aside because they took a disliking to Malfoy and anyone who would lessen themselves to his liking.

Even Goyle, Draco’s once best friend, wouldn’t get too close to him. Given, the past few months had been entirely rocky, but Gregory wouldn’t even glance in his direction any further.

Because of this, because of the war he fought on the wrong side of, Draco remained completely friendless.

Sometimes, when the loneliness became all too overwhelming, he would visit Moaning Myrtle. For some odd reason or another, she still greeted him with a high-pitched giggle and a kiss to each of his gaunt cheeks.

Other times, he would venture off to the kitchen, where the house elves aimed to please. He would sit in there, hours at a time, doing his work, taste testing new sweets the house elves concocted. Remaining in the kitchen became a win-win situation. They fed him while he studied.

Despite the few instances of kindness, he received anything but in the common room. Angry sneers and glowers shot his way from time to time and nothing else. There wasn’t any intention to prove himself, either. Not that he didn’t want to, but he hadn’t any idea where to start. No matter what, he’d be painted as a villain and the good that he did do disappeared with Harry Potter.

Suddenly, a wail disrupted the bothersome silence collected in the common room. The first two to stand were Weasley and Granger, followed by all of the Gryffindors who returned. Draco stood as well, pulled from his stupor. Rubbing his eyes with the heel of his left hand, he could more clearly see Ginevra Weasley clutching a Daily Prophet to her chest. Tears strew down her cheeks, relentless to fall. Stumbling towards Ronald, she shoved the paper into her older brother’s arms and collapsed at the feet of Granger. Obviously startled and sympathetic towards the seventh year, she crouched down, scooping the mess of a teenager into her arms.

“What does it say, Ron?” Granger asked, voice trembling.

Draco hadn’t realized it, but he was gripping onto the back of the chair he stumbled towards quite ferociously. Observing the freckle-faced man clutching the paper, Malfoy held his breath. Many thoughts shot through his mind, but they all fell on one person: Harry Potter.

Terror whiplashed itself across Weasley’s face. Dropping the Prophet, he sat down and buried his face in his hands, looking as if he would have to accept what the newspaper had told him.

Groping for the paper that fell out of Weasley’s hands, Granger fetched the Prophet and opened it, flashing the article that shot grief through both Ronald and Ginevra Weasley.

The Boy Who Lived, Found Dead?

A whir in Draco’s stomach surged a sense of nausea through him at the thought of Harry Potter found dead somewhere, and who knew where? Even his cronies hadn’t any idea where the boy had gone, and they had searched everywhere they could think of. He was to return to Hogwarts or start training as an Auror. When he hadn’t returned to do either, people grew worried.

Now, no one knew where he was and was presumed dead at this point.

But Harry Potter couldn’t be dead! He was the Boy Who Lived, after all. He wasn’t allowed to die, not yet.

Surprised and upset, Draco wiped the tears in his eyes away, not wanting to make a spectacle of himself.

“Oi, Malfoy, why are you crying?”

Too late.

Trying to withhold a sense of entitlement and dignity, he jutted his chin upward just slightly but allowed the tears to roll down his cheeks. “I’m merely sick of Potter playing hide and seek. We know he can’t be dead.”

“He’s dead, Malfoy!” Ginevra Weasley bawled but was hushed by Granger.

“According to the Prophet,” she said, folding the paper and setting it aside. For once, and without malice, Granger glanced his way. “Both you and I know that it is not entirely reliable.”

The inevitable wave of sorrow in the common room filtrated slightly.

“But we can’t listen to the wireless on school grounds!” Weasley unintentionally yelled, then shrunk when he caught himself. “Sorry, ‘Mione,” he said, voice cracking. “It’s just, you know…”

“Come on, now, you lot!” Seamus Finnigan said suddenly, standing from his chair. He thrust the bottle of firewhisky into Dean Thomas’ hand. “Think. We’re eighth years! We have full access to Hogsmeade before sunset!”

“Yeah, that’s right!” Thomas cheered, standing up next to his fellow Gryffindor. “Potterwatch!”

Potterwatch? That term was new to Malfoy, but he knew already that it had to be invented during the war while the trio was in hiding.

The dampness collected in the room began to dry as the morale lifted slightly.

“Who wants to come?! We just need to let McGonagall know and we’ll be on our way!” Finnigan said, a little too happily as he sauntered towards the exit of the common room.

In side conversation, Draco heard the younger Weasley ask her brother if she could come along, only to be denied for obvious reasons.

A rally of voices echoed through the common room, which disoriented the intoxicated Seamus.

“Okay, who is not coming?”

Only one hand stood in the air, and it was that of Gregory Goyle. Obviously surprised that he was the only one to raise his hand, his eyes finally landed on Draco.

“You’re not staying behind, Draco?” Goyle said with a rich amount of indignance. “It’s Potter!”

“And?” Draco cocked a brow, stepping towards the crowd gathering at the exit. “I’m tired of being an enemy. War is over. There are no longer sides to pick.” And if there were, he would pick Potter’s side on any given day.

Draco Malfoy did not want to be his parents, not any longer.

“What would your father say of this?” Goyle laughed, which only provoked Draco.

Cheeks flushing, the room falling silent as he inched closer to Goyle, Malfoy could feel rage course through his veins. “He’s in Azkaban. Besides that, I really don’t give a hippogriff’s arse about what my father would think. He’s a criminal that deserves to rot in prison.”

This surprised Draco himself, but after all of those years of attempting to live up to his father’s expectations, he discovered just how much he loathed the man. Not only was he a coward, but he was also a cheat. Draco knew he had to be accountable for his actions, and he didn’t want to conform to some rogue agenda that would kill others off. Draco finally knew who he was. Nothing like his father.

“Like you didn’t do anything, Saint Malfoy,” Goyle spat, stepping up, their puffed chests nearly brushing.

“I know I did wrong, Goyle! I am not innocent! I know that! But you know what?” Draco said sharply, leaning in. “I am not going to let my past skew my future. I asked for forgiveness. I may not receive it, but I made my peace. I don’t want to be a monster like my father.”

Turning on his heel, Draco found himself staring back at the forty-something eyes of the other eighth years and Ginevra Weasley. Surprise, shock, and confusion reflected back at him, and if he were in any one of their shoes, he’d certainly peer at himself the same way.

But enough of that, they had “Potterwatching” to do.

“So? Shall we ask the Headmistress if we can commence?” Draco looked at his fellow classmates, disregarding their blank stares and gaping mouths shot in his direction.

Stepping up, he headed straight to the exit until a sturdy hand wrapped around his twig of a bicep. Attempting to pull it from the person’s grasp, he turned around to face Weasley.

“What’s it to you, Malfoy?” he asked, flustered, blue eyes blazing intensely back at him. “What’s Harry’s status got to do with anything that pleases you? Why do you care?”

“I prefer to keep my intentions between me, myself, and I, Weasley. Now, if we could, let’s see if the Prophet holds any truth.”

For all Potterwatch knew, it didn’t and after that, no one ever questioned Draco’s motives. The team of eighth years, at least those who were interested, asked on the next several Saturdays at precisely two o’three if they could run into Hogsmeade to listen to Potterwatch. The Prophet, like several had detected, was nothing but a phoney. That didn’t ensure anyone that he was safe either. Now, all Potter was a guessing game, a myth, a legend. Despite the fact that Harry Potter disappeared just as fast as the war ceased and had to be long gone from the Wizarding World, Draco continued to find himself attending the weekly ritual of sitting around an old, dusty wireless, hoping, and almost praying for some sort of news on his existence to ricochet off the walls of Hog’s Head Inn.

As the weeks passed, no longer were only students attending Hog’s Head religiously, but the entire proffessor-body of Hogwarts and those who had permission into Hogsmeade. While Filch remained at the castle to watch those under third year, students streamed along, wanting to know where the Chosen One was and if he was, indeed, alive, but as those weeks came and went, the high morale settled into something of a limbo. Some, Draco included, maintained hope while others weren’t too sure if Potter could’ve done as much as move a finger without being noticed. Though true, Potter had that invisibility Cloak Draco had used against him in sixth year. Whilst those who doted on Potter lamented over him, he always remembered to bring it up.

“There’s no way he can still be alive,” little Weasley had moaned as they tuned out of a Potterwatch for the day the weekend the Hogwarts students were to return for their studies. It was a nippy, frozen afternoon with an overcast sky and loads of snow blanketing the ground. Whilst the most logical of the Hogwarts students remained in the castle, the Weasleys, Granger, Malfoy, and the oaf of a Gamekeeper meandered into Hogsmeade, finding themselves in the Inn. Aberforth Dumbledore, though busy, had tuned in with them, and said his peace already: “The Prophet’s calling it suicide, but he has a head on his shoulders. He’s smart. If he were dead, they would’ve found him already.”

At first, Draco agreed with this statement. If the world-famed Harry Potter was, indeed, dead, they would’ve found him somewhere, someplace, keeled off. But then again—and this was when Draco grew nervous—what if he was killed, only to be covered by his own protection: the Cloak?

Malfoy didn’t know he was displaying any sign of conflict until he was nudged by Ronald Weasley.

“What, Malfoy?”

The last few weeks proved themselves to be monumental, as the eighth years actually began to hold simple conversation with him. Though he wasn’t on a first name basis with anyone quite yet, he was acknowledged and accepted as an individual for once, and the compliments were enjoyable. Hogwarts felt less and less like a prison and more like a home, which was a new and enticing feeling evoked while thinking of his school. Never quite feeling accepted because of his parents, Draco finally had a taste of freedom and it was there, in the walls of his very confinement.

Some days, Draco would browse the libraries and study with Granger. Others, he would visit the pitch and play some Quidditch with little Weasley. She was a helluva Seeker, but nothing compared to Potter.

Ronald Weasley, however, was notorious for grudges. No one had any idea when he’d come around, and Draco didn’t expect him to. He didn’t need to be forgiven, though his hand was out if Weasley ever wanted to shake it.

However, in times of crisis, such as now, all grudges were set aside and anyone who attended the Potterwatches was treated as a friend.

“What if...What if Potter was covered with the Cloak? What if he did die and was covered by the Invisibility Cloak?” Draco said, voice deceiving him with a crack. “What if Potter’s dead?”

Little Weasley paled at the mere mention, despite always groaning over his possible demise. “W-what if…”

“That is always a possibility,” Aberforth said, looking downcast at Draco’s revelation, “but we don’t know. As far as we know, he’s simply blending in with muggles at this point.”

The lot left Hog’s Head Inn that day, feeling as gloomy as the wintery day before them.

The powdery poof of snow that accumulated over the winter began to melt away as buds began to blossom. Spring brought a plethora of hope, promising chances of crystal-clear skies and bright, sunny days.

A perfect evening presented itself to the quartet of the newly acclaimed “Potterheads”. A slight breeze rolled through the courtyard as they wandered towards the newly erected rose garden herbology students have been magically accumulating. Red roses were to bloom any time of year with special enchantments and were closed off to everyone but eighth years and the students creating the garden.

Although Ginny technically was not allowed in the garden, the four Potterheads ventured to the garden every day to discuss their shared favourite subject: The Boy Who Lived. Ever since the garden was put in place, the Weasleys, Granger, and Malfoy would recollect every night, discussing ways they could try and find Potter themselves. When Potterwatch failed them, when Aberforth said that Potter would’ve been found by now, when Hagrid stopped visiting Hog’s Head altogether, the four of them decided that desperate times called for desperate measures. At that moment, only the four of them still sought the truth, but that would change if any of them could help it.

“Remind me again, Malfoy, why you’re even here,” Weasley said when Draco sat in the circle they formed on that particular evening. Granger, attached to her red-headed git of a boyfriend, held a piece of aged parchment, practically inked from end to end. At first glance, Draco thought it to be homework, but upon further inspection, the writing was far too infrequent for it to be anything for her required classes. (From what he’d learned about her, she wanted to work for the ministry—of course she wanted to.) Little Weasley sat, dejected and on her own, knees hugged tightly to her chest. Malfoy ignored this and turned to her brother. He went to open his mouth, but before he could answer, Granger spoke for him.

“Can’t you tell that Draco loves him?” she said, everyone but her freezing at the statement. Straightening her posture slightly, she looked around, surprised, continuing, “What? Has no one noticed how he looks when anyone mentions Harry’s name?”

Draco’s brow furrowed. Was he really that bad at disguising his inner monologue?

“Please tell me she’s joking, Malfoy,” Weasley groaned, taking his girlfriend’s hand into his. “Please don’t like my best mate—”

“And my boyfriend!” Ginny whimpered, jealousy sharpening the blow of her words.

Draco shrunk slightly at the angry siblings as they berated his affections towards Potter. He never asked to be interested in blokes, or that one in particular. Everyone knew Harry Potter wouldn’t go after a former Death Eater, after all, or a boy for that matter. Draco called it wishful thinking.

After a moment of sitting there, staring around at the two gawking faces that peered back at him, he said, shifting slightly in his seat, “It’s not like anything would come from it. First off, he’s probably dead somewhere and who would love a Death Eater?” Tugging his robes around his slender body, his eyes diverted to the grass-clad dirt. He carded his fingers through the green blades, not wanting to speak any further of this...crush he developed on Potter. Like he said, nothing would ever come of it, and it was stupid for him to have a crush on that bloke anyway. Though their perspectives no longer opposed, necessarily, his parents’ did.

Then again, he stopped caring about what they thought months ago.

Still.

“Former Death Eater, Draco. That much is clear,” Granger said, breaking the moment of silence.

And for some reason, white heat coursed itself right through Draco’s body. Brow furrowed, bottom lip jutted out, his attention turned to her. “Why, out of all people, have you forgiven me?” Without much thought, he thrust himself from the ground. “I’ve hexed you, I’ve thrown several slurs in your direction...I...I almost killed Dumbledore and you forgive me first out of every one of the eighth years?!” At this, Draco began to pace, wringing his hands together anxiously, insecurely.

How could such deplorable sins be forgiven by a Muggle-born, his main victim? How could Hermione Granger ever forgive such terrible actions?

“Draco!” Granger screamed, snapping him out of his dread-ridden thoughts. From what was evident, Granger must’ve been beckoning him for quite some time. Standing, fists balled at his side, she stared at him with an intimidating amount of intensity.

Hoping he didn’t appear too ruffled, he smoothed at his robes and crossed his arms, jutting his chin up as he typically did. “Granger.”

With a disdainful look, she said, “That’s who you used to be. It’s clear that you’ve changed…” Sighing heftily, she took a seat. “Now, sit down. We have actual business to attend to.”

Draco sat without argument, smoothing his robes out against the grass so it fell in a graceful way. Then, he turned his eyes upward towards his counterparts. “Is that a list, Granger?” He nodded towards the parchment now on the ground with his chin.

“Yes, actually,” she replied, holding it out for the Slytherin to take. Snatching it, he gazed over the signatures as she said, “those are the people who want us to find out where in the world Harry is.”

Several slanted signatures glared back at him, including Longbottom’s, Lovegood’s, and everyone, as far as he knew, was once in Dumbledore’s army. No professors were listed; this militia was entirely student-made.

“Are you going to sign this, Malfoy?” Weasley asked, nudging an inked quill towards him.

“Of course, am I not a part of the Potterhead committee?” Draco said indignantly, grabbing the quill with haste. He signed with a large, scripted hand and handed the quill and parchment to Granger. “Now, is this all?”

Without a word, the parchment was passed to Little Weasley, who took out her wand and tapped it against the signature page. For just a second, the paper shimmered, golden flecks radiating off the ambient light of the garden’s torches.

“Just a jinx. Makes sure no one can betray the others without consequence,” the Weasley sister informed her, placing her wand back in its pocket.

Not that Draco didn’t expect it, but there always came disappointment with not being trustworthy. “Is it the same jinx Miss Granger used on Marietta Edgecombe? Bit juvenile if you ask me,” Draco noted.

“Far worse, trust me,” Little Weasley replied darkly, handing the parchment to Granger. “You wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of this jinx.”

Understood, Draco thought.

“One more thing before we dismiss,” Granger said suddenly, catching him mid-stand. Taking a seat, he propped his chin in the palm of his hand.

“And that is?”

The muggle-born pulled out a Galleon, handing it to Draco first. “Faux Galleons. Protean charm, as you know.”

Turning the coin in his hand, Malfoy let out a low whistle. He never thought he’d use something connected to that certain charm again. “Why don’t we just gather? No one would stop us.”

“Makes things easier,” Hermione said plainly, standing. “I’ll let you know now that our first meeting is on Saturday, two-thirty.”

The meetings were as frequent as the Potterwatches. Every Saturday at two-thirty, one hundred an forty-two Hogwarts students of all Houses—Slytherins, not including Malfoy, included—meandered to the Room of Requirement to find themselves in a type of Potterwatch Headquarters. While some students brainstormed places to search, others plotted places already explored. Many kept in touch with those who had thought to see Potter and they had their outside sources as well, including Lee Jordan and George Weasley of the radio programme. Potterwatch had become a very sturdy system, Granger, Malfoy, and Weasley all at the head.

The next big project coursing through the Headquarters consisted of hefty, well thought out plans and possibly dangerous ventures. The Hogwarts students wanted to do the unthinkable: set out to a location in a different part of the British Isles. London, England to be exact. Several thought it would be a good place to look around. But Draco, Draco highly doubted that Potter—though thick at times—would be idiotic enough to find himself in the same Muggle city that hosted both Diagon Alley and the Ministry of Magic.

“It hasn’t been pinned off,” Ginny argued, gesturing to the map they had hung up on an empty wall in the room. While standing, other students sat in chairs in quasi-rooms, searching through Prophet articles, sorting through dates and places Potter was “spotted” or searched for. The two had been at it for a while, deciding whether checking London would be wise.

“Yes, but Potter isn’t a buffoon. He would’ve been spotted if he’s been in London this whole time, Muggle or otherwise,” Draco said shortly, placing a pin—a muggle invention—over London. “Case Closed.”

In retaliation, Ginevra Weasley tore the pin from the map. “No!”

“Put. It. Back.” Draco went to grab the pin from her, but before a squabble erupted, the elder Weasley took it and glared from his sister to Malfoy.

“We cannot mark it, but I think you’re onto something, Malfoy.” Handing the pin to Granger, who came up behind her boyfriend, he found Hogsmeade and pointed to the mountainous terrain surrounding the quaint village. “What do you think, ‘Mione?”

For a moment, her face scrunched up, brow furrowed and unsure until her eyes scanned over its surroundings. Like an epiphany rolled through her entire body and shoved her into motion, she jolted towards the map and circled Hogsmeade and the terrain surrounding it several times with something she introduced as a red marker—another muggle invention.

“Brilliant! That has to be it, Ron! It’s where Sirius camped in fourth year!” Capping the marker, Granger turned to Weasley and pressed a sickly-sweet kiss to his cheek. “Good eye.”

“That’s rather close,” Longbottom said suddenly. Draco turned slightly to find him standing awfully close. The git in Draco attempted to coerce him into shoving Longbottom away, but he refrained, maintaining his poise. Turning back to the map, he scanned the area to be searched.

“So,” he said, eye falling on the thick of the jagged lines imposed as “mountains”, “you think he is in the mountains somewhere.”

“One place in particular,” Granger explained, marking a particular region inside her vast circle. “A cave. I remember exactly where it is, too…” Almost bemused, she heaved a sigh and ran her fingers over the mark. “We’ll find you, Harry. We’ll find you.”

A hush rolled over the students. Nothing but the sound of the grandfather clock the room oddly provided ticked for the first time since Potterwatch at Hogwarts banded, and as it did, its face began to mutate.

“What in the—”

“Ron,” Granger said, “it looks like the clock at the Burrow.”

Gawking, Weasley walked up to the clock and ran his finger along the only hand on the face. “Almost just like it,” he confirmed. “It’s on travelling.”

“I didn’t think about it,” Granger said, a smile remaining on her face as she turned to the Weaslette. “Ginny?”

“I did… I’m surprised,” she said, eyeing the clock in amazement.

“Why? The Room of Requirement provides you with what you need, does it not?” Draco asked, walking up behind Weasley with his arms firmly crossed over his chest. Standing beside him, he gazed at the face of the clock. Intricate, yet plain to see, the lightning bolt-shaped hand with Harry’s scripted name carved into it rested on travelling.

“Ooh, how peculiar,” a new, but familiar voice dreamily gasped from the other side of Weasley. Loony Lovegood stepped into view, running her finger over the hand. “Where is home for Harry, you suppose?”

“Just something else we need to figure out, I guess,” Weasley replied, clapping his hand on the girl’s shoulder. “As for now, I think we should check the cave. He’s still alive, I think. Fred’s hand fell off after a while...Dad found it a couple of weeks ago, so if it runs the same way ours does—”

“Harry’s alive,” Draco said more to himself, but out loud. Warmth filled him with the thoughts, as the vivid daydreams of Potter being found, safe and out of harm’s way. Of course, he’d be peaky, as he always was at the start of the year, but he would be there, with them, and alive, so, so alive.

“You really care about him, don’cha?” Seamus Finnigan said from across the room. Silence engulfed the entire room, every last ear ready to hear the answer, to hear the former Death Eater’s position, why he was actually there, if you will.

Turning towards the sound of the Scottish man’s voice, Draco, for once, let those cold, steely walls of his collapse at his feet. Everything in this room was in confidence, after all.

“Yes, I do care about him,” Draco replied, voice cracking just enough to make him sound pathetic, but what was new?

“But you were a—”

“I know what I was,” Draco roared, shaking slightly. His hands found his way to his wand and began to wring it, trying to keep his sudden flare up at bay. “No need of reminding me of my regrettable mistakes!”

A gentle hand caressed Draco’s shoulder, motherly in its warmth and grip. He turned to look right into the vibrant eyes of Ginny Weasley, and for the first time ever, he felt that they could see eye to eye.

“Sit down,” she said, still rubbing his shoulder, “and I’ll get you a cup of tea.”

The table in the middle of the expansive room was occupied with those who searched for dates and places, and once the true six ringleaders of the operation approached the table, linked together in one way or another through touch, the students dispersed, allowing them to take a seat. Ginny sat next to Draco, holding a steaming cup of tea out for him to drink, and he gratefully took it, muttering a, “Thank you.”

“Now that we have a location,” Granger said, tapping the tips of her fingers together as she thought, “I say we go and search. We’re allowed out, the eighth years—sorry Luna, Ginny—and we can go searching—”

“I’m going to go and look for Harry,” Ginny spoke vivaciously, staring Granger down with her fists in a clutch. “Besides, Draco can’t even go! Parole, remember? He can’t go past Hogsmeade!”

“I’m going,” Draco said himself, an ample amount of stubbornness in his voice. “I can't just sit back again. That’s all I ever do.”

“You could go to Azkaban, Draco,” Granger said, brow furrowing in concern as their gaze met. “He might not even be there and if you get caught—”

“Disillusionment charm, Granger. It’s not quite Potter’s magic Cloak, but if we keep to the shadows, I can sneak right past,” Draco said, determined. “Please, let me do something good.”

The entire table-full of people sighed.

“Say, what all comes with your parole?” Dean Thomas asked, leaning against the back of Longbottom’s chair. Finnigan plopped next to him, behind Granger.

“No magic outside of Hogwarts, no Defence Against Dark Arts—figured I might ‘gather some ideas’—completion of eighth year, O’s and E’s on my NEWT’s—more of my parents’ bidding—always being accompanied by an adult—which I believe every single one of the people on this mission are—I could inform you of all of the ins and outs of my probation, but I would rather not waste my breath for a nosy few.”

“We needed to know whether your risks are worth it and I think, with reason, one would understand if you snuck out with us. Maybe lose a few house points, a rather severe scolding, and we’d be on our way,” Granger said reasonably, surprising him with a congenial smile.

“When are we going?” Ginny asked, still plainly terse from the way her shoulders drew upwards.

“Wouldn’t today be as good as any other day?” Longbottom suggested, eyeing around for feedback.

“Might as well,” Weasley replied looking at Granger.

For a moment, she thought. Brows knit, she tapped her fingers together, nodding. “We’d have to leave right now.”

“Fine by me! Let’s go!” Ginny said, and stood up, jerking Draco upwards as well.

“Hold on, Ginny! We can’t leave just yet,” Ron stated, but stood up as well.

“Why can’t we?” Finnigan asked, which earned him a nudge in the ribs from his friend hanging off the other chair.

“We’re not going, are you barmy? Someone has to keep an eye on the clock,” Thomas said, nodding towards the clock. “Ginny is going whether Ron likes it or not and Luna, well….” Gesturing towards her, it was obvious that she was in another world. Eyes scanning the ceiling, she looked around, somewhat bobble-headed.

However, she glanced in the boys’ direction and smiled. “What about me?”

“Nevermind,” Thomas said, turning his eyes towards the ground.

“The key is to not look suspicious, Draco,” Granger spoke, nudging one of the boys off of the back of her chair. Standing, she allowed Finnigan to take a seat before she began to pace, and suddenly, a whiteboard appeared. With that red marker still in hand, she wrote:

Agenda

“Planning never gets us anywhere, plus you just said we could leave now,” Weasley said, taking the marker from her clutch. “Might as well leave and return before nightfall.”

For a moment, an argumentative stance flared within the woman. Puffing her chest slightly, she seemed ready to fight, but as soon as Weasley cocked his head and rose a brow, she backed off. Everyone knew the two bickered; it was Draco’s first time to witness Granger back away from a squabble.

“Okay, fine. I just thought—”

“I know, you want to be thorough,” he simpered, resting a hand on her shoulder.

“On our way, then?” Draco asked, wrapping the newly thought of cloak around himself. “The sooner we search, the sooner we’ll confirm or deny his residence in that hell-hole the lot of you assume he’s located at.”

“It’s not a hell-hole,” Granger argued.

“Well, you’d think he’d have a little more dignity,” the Slytherin assumed out loud, sipping the tea Ginny produced for him.

“He’s in hiding.” Granger shot him a worn glare before pulling out her wand. “We better be on our way.”

With that, the elite team of five—Luna remained in the Room of Requirement—departed.

“How far up the mountain did you say this was again?” Draco asked, growing tired from walking so much, especially since he couldn’t properly see himself. At least thrice he ran into Granger, merely because he could just barely see the outline of his body that camouflaged against the greenery of the mountainside.

“You asked two minutes ago, Draco, and the answer is still ‘I don’t know’. Be patient,” Granger groaned, tromping on the first path they found, used by what seemed like animals.

Just before Draco could throw an arrogant retort in her direction, the lot stopped in front of an indent in the side of the mountain. A lopsided smile embraced Weasley, whilst Granger bounced on her toes. They were obviously in front of the place they needed to be, but weren’t doing much other than ogling the site. Growing tired of standing behind an overexcitable crowd, Malfoy walked around the lot and straight into the cavern….

Where he found nothing.

Just a dim light found its way into the cave which could support a few larger animals, and absolutely nothing was there. The floor barren, Draco found nothing of importance. But as the others spilt in, they began to investigate the walls.

Granger was the first to find something.

“Look here!” she said, waving the others over. Draco moved among them, peering at a few drawings, obviously Potter’s. They were fresh on the stone, and markings of things no one else would draw: an owl and a lightning bolt. Both appeared to be ingrained with wandwork, which hadn’t been weathered down. Though he wasn’t an expert at this sort of thing, he couldn’t deny that it was less than a month old.

“The prat’s been in Hogsmeade, probably laughing at our misery!” Draco gasped, rushing up to run his hands over the stone. “He’s been here!”

A hushed sound of whispering emerged from the other four as Draco desperately groped at the stone, feeling its indent, feeling for any sort of warmth or life. Harry Potter had been there, a month or less ago. Where could he be now?

“Let’s go to Hog’s Head,” Ginny said after a moment, gripping Draco’s bicep. “We can discuss it with Aberforth, maybe he’d gather an idea of where he’d be.”

So the five of them ambled down the mountain and towards Hog’s Head Inn. By the time they approached the heart of Hogsmeade, Draco was no longer invisible. Not that anyone took much notice: he was allowed to remain within the boundaries of the village.

With the tinkling of bells, the front door of Hog’s Head burst open and the young adults filled with a newfound amount of vigour rushed in. Longbottom smiled sloppily, arm around Weasley, who held Hermione close. To them, it was a minuscule victory, something that could let them keep a close eye on the cave. Every day, Granger would check for any sign of life. They believed they were on to something.

But Draco, on the other hand, couldn’t quite believe that he would stay when he’d so easily be sought out.

“Mr Dumbledore!” Ginny gasped, rushing towards the Innkeeper behind the bar who was washing his butterbeer mugs.

“Aren’t you supposed to remain at Hogwarts, Miss Ginevra?” he asked, giving her a patronizing look. Then, his surly cornflower eyes shot in Draco’s direction. “What about your parole, boy?”

“We found where Harry was hiding out, Aberforth. They were only helping!” Longbottom added, which seemed to resonate with the old man. He softened, setting the glass mug aside.

“Let me guess: the same cave Sirius used as a hideout?” Aberforth said.

Weasley looked alarmed. “How did you—”

“I just do,” he answered, continuing with cleaning the mugs.

“Why?” Granger asked in a polite tone, leaning against the wood of the bar. “Did you know he was hiding out there?”

“I would think him a fool if he actually did. Maybe he did stay there. Maybe he knew you were wanting to find him. It happens that people who try to hide never want to be found. Now—”

A sudden thump from upstairs startled everyone, all nearly jumping out of their skin. Dumbledore, however, looked the most startled.

“What was that?” Ginny asked, clearly uneasy by the way she hugged herself in a sense of security.

“I hadn’t checked a room out to anyone—”

“Harry!” Granger cheered, then threw herself towards the stairwell, bolting up each step with increasing speed.

Weasley followed in tow, then Ginny, then Longbottom. Draco was last in line, other than Aberforth, who simply stumbled slowly behind them.

Granger flung open every door, finding nothing until she reached the last. She took a minute to compose herself, an inane smile on her face, but the minute she pushed the door open, the delighted visage slipped into a look of absolute terror. Before she realized it, she let out a scream so loud, the Inn practically shook with her sound waves.

Shocked, Weasley peered in, only to yell, “No!” just as loud if not louder than Granger. He ran in immediately, while Granger remained behind, slipping slowly down the painted room door. Ginny couldn’t look in. She hid in Longbottom.

And Draco…he stood frozen, too shocked to take anything in.

This much was obvious: Harry was in that room, dead. He had to be.

Walking towards the open door very slowly, Draco looked in to see a bloodied figure splayed across the floor. Dead, clearly, and with that mess of curled, raven-black hair. Glasses broken and on the other side of the room, the entire area was a mess, but a beautiful snow-white bird perched itself on Harry’s back, hooting quietly, sadly.

Finally, Draco took in what had really happened.

Harry Potter, the boy he loved so much, was dead, forever lost.

They said it was a suicide. He was cremated only a few minutes after he was pronounced dead, which took the Healers only a few minutes to confirm. Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived was, indeed, found dead and lost in his mind. All the glory that came with the title had a cost.

And Draco thought he had it hard.

All through the year, he thought that having the world against him was so terrible, but really, when he thought about it, several people were on his side.

Granger, Weasley, Ginny, his parents. They were all alive, all well, all wanting him to prosper.

Not that Harry Potter didn’t have those people in his life, but several more died in his name.

Guilt, Draco guessed, lead him to a permanent state of dread that could only be cured with Death’s sweet kiss.

Draco didn’t want to romanticize anything so painful; no one could take the severity of the Boy Who Lived’s death lightly. The entire school was a wreck. Several little wizards and witches lost a hero. The Weasleys practically lost another son. And Draco, though it would always be unrequited, lost his first and only love.

A memorial for Harry Potter was approaching, and everyone was holding onto each other much tighter than ever. Just the other day, Ginny spent a good hour clinging to Draco, crying those dull but beautiful eyes out. She wasn’t the only one, he cried with her, and without her.

He no longer recognized what it was like not to cry. Tears were always in his eyes, spattered on his cheeks, drenching his uniform collar. He didn’t care what others thought.

Yes, he was crying about Potter.

No, he didn’t hate him.

Yes, if he could bring him back, he would.

And it was driving Draco mental, knowing that there wasn’t any way to bring him back. He was long gone by now, cremated and buried along with his parents.

If only he could’ve begun to experiment, to create some sort of potion that brought back the dead. Though Death was unbeatable, he would’ve done anything to best it, to spit in the face of such a cruel being. But there wasn’t any need, there wouldn’t be any need. Not any longer.

It was a cool, rainy day at Hogwarts, wind rolling through the lush courtyards and gardens of the grounds. A single paper flew through the air, spinning, falling, landing at the feet of Draco Malfoy, who was watching a statue of Harry being erected in the rose garden. He was just behind the bushes, seeing that silver boy sparkling in the sun that just barely peeked out from the dense thunderclouds, but the paper caught his attention. Reaching down, he took claim of the sodden newspaper and found that it was a Prophet. The head article said:

The Scandalous Life of Harry Potter: What He Didn’t Want You to Know

Rage struck him through like lightning, his heart pounding angrily against his ribcage. Who could sully Harry Potter’s name like that, especially after finding him in such a way?! How dare they?!

Too angry to look at the words written on the front page, Draco wadded it up and threw it as far as he could, a choked out sob emitting from him with the throw. Knees buckling, suddenly weakening, Draco collapsed, helpless in any attempt to get up.

So, he lay there, sobbing until someone noticed his drenched, robe-clad figure lumped in the grass.

Gently, the person tugged on his arm and upon rolling onto his back, he looked into the eyes of Ginny.

Though red and puffy, those bright umber eyes of hers stared into his. Slowly, she crouched by his side, sniffing. “The article?”

“How dare they do that to him?!” Draco seethed, tears returning to his steely eyes. “The audacity!”

“If it makes you feel any better, Skeeter got sacked for writing it and the editor is apologizing profusely…”

“That’s not enough!” Draco boomed, standing up suddenly. “They can’t do that...t-they can’t—”

“Shh,” Ginny said, standing, pulling the taller boy into her arms. Propping her chin on his shoulder, she heaved an exhausted sigh. “Those who know realize that Harry was one of the best Wizards who ever lived.”

Shaking, crying, Draco nodded, burying his tearstained face into the mess of ginger hair.

For a while, they stood, embracing each other with the utmost intimacy a friendship could provide. She forgave him, all the Potterheads had, but a question burning a hole in Draco’s mind demanded to be asked.

“Ginny?” Draco said, breaking the silence.

She looked up, wiping her tears away with the back of her hand. “Yes?”

“D-do you think Harry would ever forgive me if he hadn’t died?” The question set Draco in another set of hysterics; he nearly crumbled in Ginny’s grip. “I was such a terrible person, Ginny! How could anyone forgive a filthy Death Eater like me? How could anyone ever risk being seen around me? I should’ve died! Not him! Not Harry!”

Grief pulsed from Draco, drawing attention to himself unintentionally. Those in the outdoor corridors began to pool around the pillars, looking into the garden.

“Oh, Merlin! I should’ve died! I should’ve been the one!”

“Mr Malfoy?” A concerned voice from far off called, but he was too far away, too caught up in his dread to focus on anyone or thing.

“I don’t know what’s happening,” Ginny said in a strained voice. “He’s grieving, but he’s speaking nonsense.”

“We’ll take him to the hospital wing, get his head on straight,” the voice said.

Pale blue was not supposed to be dull, but as thousands crowded the Great Hall, Draco wanted to do nothing but stare at the enchanted ceiling. It was a week after the mishap in the garden, and though the potions kept his hysterics at bay, it didn’t stop the brutal attack from making an impact on him. What was once a boy with a hope to find the emerald-eyed saviour of the Wizarding World, became one with a deteriorating heart and a bleak mind. Everything was dull, boring, useless. He thought sixth year was a dark time. Nothing compared to how his beating heart felt like it broke with each pulse. Nothing compared to waking up with nothing to look forward to. Draco was forlorn, heartbroken, and sick.

The room was moist with the tears of Potter’s thousands of followers. The grounds of Hogwarts were jam-packed with people who didn’t even know him, but admired what he’d done.

Everyone acted like a personal friend, like they had known him all his life. They hadn’t, and not that Draco did either, but he knew far more than they did.

It was all too much, hearing everyone chatter about Harry’s life, spewing factoids, discussing his legacy cut short. Draco needed an out, so he shoved himself out of his chair and attempted to search for a way to depart, but before he could step even a centimetre away from his chair, Luna’s hand found its way around his left wrist.

“It’s about to begin, Draco. Don’t you want to be here?” she asked lightly but clearly worried.

“I can’t,” he said, bloodshot eyes turning to the podium prepared for the memorial. “I can’t.”

Luna nodded, withdrawing her grasp from his wrist. “Be safe, Draco.”

People parted as he walked right through, but with all the congestion, it took Draco a fair amount of time to escape the castle. The halls and courtyards were stuffed to the brim as well, but one place that remained vacant was the gardens. Draco supposed that McGonagall didn’t want Harry’s memorial to be trampled and placed a shield charm on the location. However, he stepped in with the slightest of ease and found himself at the feet of the life-sized statue of Harry Potter.

Everything about it was surprisingly accurate. From the arrogant but lovable stance to the glint of mischief in his eyes, the sculpture simply looked like a silver-covered version of the man.

If only.

Draco ran a hand along the bottom of the trousers of the sculpture, murmuring, “I know you would never believe me, but I miss seeing you in class. I used to look over and notice you, being the repulsive git you were, chewing on the top of your bloody quills.”

Laughing at the memory, he sat down and continued, “Also, I think you always struggled with holding a quill. You were used to your muggle devices, weren’t you?”

Fingers tracing over the gold plaque on the platform of the statue, he smiled, looking up at the face of silver. “You were an amazing person. I’m sorry the horrors of war were too much for you…” A few tears slipped down his cheeks. “They’re beginning to become too much for me, too…”

As he cried, a familiar Snowy Owl soared into view. No note was attached to it, as it hovered towards Draco. He stuck his arm out as a landing and it perched there, very gently.

Eyes turning back to the statue, he commenced with his soliloquy. “You know, the minute I knew I loved you was when you collapsed over my bleeding body. You regretted it, I could tell, and you panicked, groping desperately for a way to keep me from dying. I knew then. I knew then that if I died, it would be enough to die in your arms but I didn’t. And when the snatchers brought you to my house…”

Draco gasped, trying to keep himself from breaking into sobs. “I couldn’t let them touch you. I could never let them kill you. I’m sorry you’re not here. These are the words I didn’t say when you were alive, but I should’ve. I bloody should’ve.”

Finally, he allowed himself to openly sob, and as he did, the owl departed from his arm.

Draco didn’t notice, but someone was watching.

Gently, they grasped his shoulder and Draco froze, kicking himself for being caught. He should’ve never admitted something so private in such a public area, but he had.

So, he braced himself, turning around to face a presumably dead man.

Harry James Potter stood right in front of him, a sheepish smile on his face. His eyes turned to the statue, gazing over his silver imposter. “They did a really good job on that.”

Dumbfounded, Draco gawked at the man in front of him. He was barely recognizable, hidden behind long hair and a thick beard, but the blazing eyes and lightning scar were enough to chart him as Harry Potter.

“Y-You’re dead. I…” Was Draco going mad?

“Oh, no. I’m not,” Harry said, grasping Draco’s wrists. “That...was a friend of mine. I’d been following him around…terminally ill, coughing up blood. He was going to die, so he agreed to let me use Polyjuice on him. My secret would die with him, as would my identity. You’re the only one who knows I’m alive.”

“You’re absolutely mental,” Draco whispered, reaching out to touch Harry. He ran a hand across Harry’s face, fingers analyzing the scar on his forehead. “Why in Merlin’s beard would you do that?”

Was Draco dreaming?

With this, Harry became a bit uncomfortable. Eyes turning to the brilliant green grass in the garden, he said, “It would be better if the world thought I was dead.”

How could he think that? So many people depended on him, worshipped him, looked to be just like him. How could he just say that?

“No, it wouldn’t!” Draco snapped, anger flaring in his silver eyes. “Why would you say that?!”

“I…” Harry took a deep breath, as if he was counting to ten. “I found out… The Boy Who Lived… I can’t die.”

Draco cocked a brow. “Wait, you mean—”

“I’m immortal.”

“And you don’t want that?” Draco whispered, stepping closer.

“Of course I don’t!” Harry retorted. “If I stay, I watch everyone I love die. If I live apart, if I’m not ‘alive’, I’m not actively sought out and found and showered with affection.”

“You want to be miserable,” Draco said, crossing his arms.

“I mean, you’re not wrong. I have to live as a bloody owl for the rest of my life,” he replied.

Draco thought about it, about the situation in front of him. Harry Potter was alive and immortal.

Immortality.

“How...how did this happen?” Draco asked, hugging Harry all of a sudden, filled with utter relief. Potter was hesitant at first, twitching in the boy’s arms, but caved and hugged Draco.

“I killed Voldemort and sacrificed my own death.” Harry sighed. “I did what I had to do...and I do forgive you, Draco.”

Draco froze. “You heard..?”

“I’ve been acting as a second year’s owl for a while now.”

“But how?” Draco asked. “How could you forgive someone like me? I’m a bad person, Harry. I—”

“What do you think about your role in the war?” Harry asked, which hardly seemed to correlate with the subject. Through squinted eyes, Draco looked at Harry, saying, “I regretted everything I did to hurt—”

“Bad people don’t know how to regret, but good people who made terrible decisions do,” Harry said, cupping Draco’s pale, gaunt cheek.

“I almost killed Dumbledore, I’ve tortured countless people, I allowed people to get hurt, killed! I—”

“Draco,” Harry said, which silenced the boy. “You notice you’ve done something wrong. It torments you. You’re going to have to forgive yourself too. That’s the second step to redemption...if you could call it that, I guess.”

“And what’s the first?” Draco hadn’t realized, but he was entirely flushed. Cheeks red, eyes trained on Harry, who had those stubby hands on his face, he stared at the Boy Who Lived in amazement.

He felt so solid, so real, so alive and tangible.

“Knowing your faults,” he said. And then, he lessened the space between them, inching closer. “Draco?”

“Harry?” Draco whispered.

“I’ve been watching you—not just you, everyone that’s been looking for me—and I can just say that seeing you develop as your own person, well, has shown me who you really are and what intentions you have.” Gently, his free hand carded the silvery-blond strands of Draco’s hair out of his face.

“I’m not my parents,” he replied, voice rasping.

“Exactly. And, may I say, I think I’m attracted to the man you really are.” Harry smiled, genuinely, and rested his forehead on Draco’s. “I like you, and you love me. I think, if we can try, we can make something of this.”

“But Harry,” Draco whispered, dizzy and hypnotized by Potter’s mere touch, “I’ll die. I’ll have to be a vampire or something. I—”

Harry’s laughter dismissed him. “We’ll make it work. Vampire or not, we’ll make it work.” And then, Harry’s lips found Draco’s. For a split second, the world spun under his feet, the moment too surreal for it to be possible. But he opened his eyes and he stared right back at himself in the reflection of Harry’s glasses. This was happening, he was actually kissing Harry sodding Potter.

He dipped into the kiss, but before anything further could commence, Harry withdrew, looking around madly. “I heard something…I have to go.”

But before Harry could scamper off, Draco clutched his wrist. “So spontaneous...will you ever come back?”

“I’m here every day, you’ll just have to find me in the Owlery.” Smiling, he stepped back and transfigured into his animagus, that beautiful Snowy Owl, and took off, heading straight to his tower.

Draco noted a peculiarity in Potter’s animagus that mirrored his human self. A familiar lighting scar struck through his forehead, stark against his white feathering.

Draco watched Harry disappear, and as soon as he did, a bittersweet smile graced his lips. Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived.

He would live forever.

Too bad the confrontation didn’t last longer, too bad he couldn’t ask any questions, but they kissed, they kissed! Absentmindedly, Draco ran his fingers along his chapped lips. Was this a chase? Did Draco have to find him?

He was right in the tower, he wasn’t too far.

Harry Potter was under their noses the whole time….

Satisfied, he turned towards the exit and found Ginny standing there, confused and tear stained. She didn’t know.

“Draco?” she said, wiping the large tears from her cheeks. He hadn’t any idea how far along the memorial was, but she was clearly shaken.

The man simply walked over, hugging his younger friend, saying, “Everything will be okay.”

“How do you know?” she whimpered.

Draco’s eyes fluttered to the Owlery tower, seeing a white speck perched on the edge of the arch owls flew from. Harry’d always be watching.

“I just do.”

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scienceoffunction · 6 years

Text

Secret Santa Reveal

Title: “Goddammit She’s A Better Person Than I Thought”

Ship: Fem!Wolfstar

Word Count: 1.9k

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When I first arrived at Platform 9 3/4, I noticed someone I would never have seen if it weren't for how odd she looked. She was standing very straight in front of a mean looking older woman, who appeared to be scolding her. This girl was wearing a nice dress, so I knew she was a rich pureblood, but she had curly black hair going down to her waist. The girl nodded and said something so quietly, even my werewolf senses couldn't pick it up. The older woman scoffed and walked back through the barrier, dragging a younger girl by the wrist. The younger girl was looking back at the girl they left and waving. She had a very similar head of hair, though hers was shorter and straighter.

As soon as the woman walked through the barrier, the wild-haired girl opened her trunk. She pulled out a leather jacket and combat boots, which she changed into. She had a smirk on her face the entire time. She shook out her curly black hair and climbed onto the train.

Shit, the train! The whistle blew, signaling the train would pull out of the station in exactly five minutes time. I climb into the same car the curly-haired girl did in hopes of meeting her. I walk until I find her compartment. She's sitting with another girl with wild, seemingly unbrushed, black hair and roundish glasses. Curly said something and glasses laughed.

I slid the compartment door open, causing them both to look up at me.

"Hi," I said shyly. "Can I sit here?" I smiled slightly. Curly hair nodded and grinned up at me. Oh, that smile. Wow. I sit down across from the two girls and tuck my battered trunk under the seat.

"What's your name? I'm Jamie Potter and this is Siria Black," said the girl with glasses, holding out her hand. I shook her hand and offered Siria. She took my hand in hers and smiled.

"I'm Remi Lupin," I said and returned their kind smiles. We sat and chatted about anything and everything until we arrived at Hogwarts.

"Firs' years this way!" An extremely tall hairy man calls as we walk onto the platform. The three of us and the rest of the first years followed him to a fleet of tiny rowboats.

"No more'n four to a boat," the giant man shouted over the chatter of the first years. The three girls find a boat near the end of the row and climb in. A shorter, chubbier girl comes over to their boat.

"Can I share the boat with you?" She asked quietly. Remi grinned at her, and before Jamie or Siria could answer she said, "Sure, hop on in. I'm Remi Lupin and this is Jamie Potter and Siria Black," Remi indicated to the black haired girls.

"I'm Petra Pettigrew," the blonde smiled, "Nice to meet you." She sat down next to Remi in the back of the boat. The boats started moving across the lake as the girls started to get to know each other a bit more. Suddenly a large splash was heard from the next boat. It appeared that a girl fell into the lake. Another girl was helping her back in after a long salmon-colored tentacle pushed her up out of the water. The girl's black hair and robes were drenched.

Siria laughed and nudged Jamie. "Look! Snivella fell in," she said and pointed to the soaked girl. Jamie looked confused for a second and then realized what was going on and laughed along with her. Petra awkwardly laughed to feel like part of the group, but Remi simply shook her head.

"Guys stop," Remi begged. "People are staring." It was true that Remi was very sheltered, never having people really stare at her, and she preferred it that way. Less staring means less time to figure out that she was a werewolf. She only decided to talk with Jamie and Siria so she could avoid stares for being alone. But now she was starting to regret it.

"What's the harm?" Siria asked. "We're only laughing. It's not like we pushed her in." Siria smirked and leaned closer to the chestnut-haired girl. Remi's heart started beating faster the closer Siria got. "That girl is my cousin. Her name is Sedna Snape. Her mom married a Muggle man, so she's exiled, but every once and a while her mom would come and beg for money. Sedna was always crying and hiding behind her mother, so my sister and I nicknamed her Snivella."

Remi was taken aback. She glanced back over at the girl who was crouched, soaking wet, next to a few other girls, glaring at Jamie and Siria as they made faces toward her. Remi sunk lower into her seat and crossed her arms. She clearly did not want to be a part of this. She was also starting to really hate Siria. Remi did not look up until the boats hit land and everyone was instructed to carefully exit and follow the giant man, whose name was apparently Hagrid.

They entered the castle and every first-year looked around in awe. The castle was huge and Remi knew it was full of secrets by the size of it. A strict looking older woman stood in front of the group and clapped her hands, calling for attention. Everyone turned to her, wondering both who she was and what she was doing here.

"Evening students," the woman said with a tinge of Scottish in her voice. "I am Professor McGonagall, Transfiguration professor, and deputy headmistress. Welcome to Hogwarts." She smiled a small, tight smile at the students. "The sorting and the beginning feast will begin shortly, just after the headmaster makes his speech." She peeked through the doors and nodded. "Come students," she said and beckoned them through the door.

They followed her through a humongous dining hall with four tables, two on each side of them. Siria nudged Remi and James and pointed to the ceiling. Remi didn't know what she was expecting, but it certainly wasn't the starry sky above them.

"It's enchanted to look like the sky outside," Jamie whispered to no one in particular. Remi nodded, though she suspected Jamie wasn't even faced in her direction. She had known, but she was still just as surprised.

The students lined up by the platform where the teachers' table was. When Professor McGonagall started speaking, all of the higher years stared straight up at the center of the platform where Professor McGonagall stood, next to a stool with a mangy old hat sitting atop it.

"Each student will try on the hat and be sorted into your house. While you're at Hogwarts, your house will be like your family. You will live in your house dorms, spend free time in your house common rooms, and go to classes with your house. The four houses are called Gryffindor, Slytherin, Ravenclaw, and Hufflepuff."

The first years started murmuring to each other about what house they wanted to be in. Remi heard Siria explaining to a very eager Petra that she wasn't going to be in Slytherin like the rest of her family and that Slytherin is evil. Remi's small hatred for Siria grew into a medium hatred. Slytherin didn't seem so bad. Yeah sure, some of the kids in Slytherin looked kinda scary, but Remi was sure there was more than meets the eye.

Professor McGonagall began calling students in alphabetical order to be sorted. After the sorting ended and all new students were sat at their own house tables, a man with long white hair stood behind a podium at the front of the teachers platform.

"I am Professor Dumbledore and I am head master of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. To our newcomers, welcome and to our to our past students, welcome back. Now before we start our feast, I'd like to say a few words; clinomania*, nyctophilia*, and logolepsy*. Now enjoy your food!" Professor Dumbledore clapped his hands and the house tables filled with food.

Siria and Jamie took one look at the food and immediately started eating. Remi took little and ate slowly. The four girls, Remi, Siria, Jamie, and Petra, were all sorted into Gryffindor. Siria seemed quite happy to be different than her family. Happy enough to spray food everywhere while she eats like a wild animal.

"This food is much better than the food at home," she said though a mouthful of chicken. Remi scooter away from her to get out of the splash zone.

After everyone was full of dinner, the tables cleared themselves and desert appeared. Remi felt like she couldn't eat another bite without vomiting, but Siria just continues shoveling food into her mouth.

Finally, after what seemed like eternity, Dumbledore dismissed everyone to bed. The prefects, Cassiopeia Rose and Jackson Smith lead the Gryffindors up to the tower. Once they got to a portrait of an extremely fat woman, Cassiopeia turned around.

"This is the entrance to Gryffindor tower. The Fat Lady will ask for a password, which does change from time-to-time, and if you say the right password, she will grant you access to the tower, understood?" She asks in a voice that reminded Remi of her mother. All the first years nodded and murmured in agreement. "The password for now is lacuna. Can anyone tell me what that means?"

Remi, without thinking, raised her hand. "Yes, you there, um...?" Cassiopeia said pointing to Remi.

"Remi Lupin. Lacuna means a blank space or missing part." Siria looked at her with a weird look on her face like she was surprised and amazed. Cassiopeia smiled and nodded. Then she turned to the door and said the password. The portrait opened up, and for what seemed the millionth time that night, all the first years looked around in wonder.

"Boys follow Jackson up that way to your dorms and I'll take the girls. Remember, girls dorms are off limits to boys," Cassiopeia said. Remi was at least 98% sure Jamie wasn't listening. She was staring at a red headed boy following Jackson up the steps to the boys' dorms. Siria knocked into Jamie as the four of them and a girl they didn't know followed Cassiopeia up the girls' dorms. "Each of your trunks are at the edge of a bed. If you need anything, I'm in the fifth year dorms. Sweet dreams girls." Cassiopeia shut the door behind her and left the five girls alone.

Remi immediately went to her trunk, took out her pajamas, and disappeared into the bathroom. As Remi changed, she looked at all of her scars crossing over her chest. She sighed and put her pajama shirt on.

When she got back into the room, the other girls were nowhere to be seen. Remi's enhanced hearing picked up snores from Jamie and the other girls bed, but Siria's was empty. Remi then picked up sobs and soft words of comfort from the corner, Petra's bed. Remi carefully walked over an peeked through the curtains. Inside, Siria was hugging a sobbing Petra.

"It's okay, it's okay," Siria said softly. Petra sniffled.

"I miss them already," she whimpered. Remi stepped back from the bed and over to her own. The only thought going through her head was, "Goddammit, she's a better person than I thought." Remi scoffed and laid in her bed to fall asleep, excited for her first classes at Hogwarts.

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This is the @hogwartshousesnet secret Santa. I got someone with the url of hermionegrangsr but I couldn’t find their blog 😕

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dweemeister · 7 years

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Movie Odyssey Retrospective

Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone (2001)

This June, it will have been twenty years since J.K. Rowling’s Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone (titled Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone for all markets outside the United States) was published in the United Kingdom. More than fifteen years have passed since the film adaptation was released worldwide, enshrining Pottermania in popular cultural history. For your reviewer, the appeal of the story behind Harry Potter broke through a period where my reading comprehension levels were about a grade behind most of my peers. I could recall and understand the implications of certain narrative passages in Harry Potter more easily than almost all other books I read. Whatever the reason for that, it might have something to do with the basics of what Rowling set to print: the world Harry, Hermione, and Ron lived in was transfixing; their adventures transporting.

What follows is a retrospective review on a film that I must have seen somewhere around ten times now, if not more. From one of my fondest earliest memories of seeing the film on a chilly Southern Californian evening (I was a sensitive eight-year-old, as the climax freaked me out) to rewatches from a DVD encased in its battered box to the latest rewatch last week, it is a childhood favorite. But this is a write-up on why Sorcerer’s Stone – the film – succeeds the way it does (a warning: I am of the unpopular opinion that the earlier films work better as films than the successive entries). This is not a review on how faithful it is to the text.

The plot should be at least vaguely familiar to most, but for those who haven’t read the books or seen the movies, read this paragraph. Eleven-year-old Harry Potter (Daniel Radcliffe) is raised by his Muggle (a person without magical abilities) relatives aunt Petunia (Fiona Shaw) and uncle Vernon Dursley (Richard Griffiths), sleeping in a cupboard under the stairs. After a blizzard of owl-delivered letters and Dursley evasiveness, Harry learns that he’s a wizard from half-giant Rubeus Hagrid (Robbie Coltrane), and decides to accept an invitation to attend Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry – that’s what all those owls were for. Hagrid in a way becomes a surrogate father, as he helps prepare Harry for the upcoming school year and tells him that his parents were murdered by a dark wizard named Voldemort. But for whatever reason, Voldemort’s killing curse rebounded when used against Harry – killing Voldemort, and leaving Harry with his lightning-bolt forehead scar. It's blasphemous to have a character in British children’s literature to have both parents alive, you know. While traveling to Hogwarts, Harry will meet his eventual friends Ron Weasley (Rupert Grint) and Hermione Granger (Emma Watson) – they will be sorted in the same “house”. They attend classes, come to care for each other and, of course, there’s some matter of the Sorcerer’s Stone to attend to.

An enormous cast of characters are played exclusively by British and Irish actors, per Rowling’s request to Warner Bros.: Headmaster Albus Dumbledore (Richard Harris), Deputy Headmistress Minerva McGonagall (Maggie Smith), Potions Professor Severus Snape (Alan Rickman), Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor Quirinus Quirrell (Ian Hart), Harry’s rival, Draco Malfoy (Tom Felton), and numerous others. Non-Hogwarts characters include John Hurt as the wandmaker Mr. Ollivander and Julie Walters as Ron’s mother, Molly Weasley.

Director Chris Columbus, in 2001, was best known for his work in children’s films and movies where children figure significantly. Having directed the first two Home Alone films and Mrs. Doubtfire (1985) as well as writing The Goonies (1985), Columbus was Warner Bros.’ pick for directing, rather than Rowling’s preference of Terry Gilliam (1985′s Brazil). What Columbus accomplishes is being faithful to Rowling’s book as well as making Harry Potter accessible to general audiences unfamiliar with the story – I have difficulty believing that Gilliam would have succeeded in the latter. It’s a daunting task, having to helm the most anticipated literary film adaptation since probably Gone with the Wind (1939). But Columbus has one thing in his directorial arsenal subsequent Harry Potter directors lacked. Though he is certainly the most conservative of the Harry Potter directors (also including Alfonso Cuarón, Mike Newell, and David Yates), Columbus introduces a wonderment, a starry-eyed, open-mouthed passion and enchantment never again replicated by his successors. It is filmmaking direct from Spielbergian tradition.

With no other Harry Potter films serving as a template, Columbus – who has sometimes been characterized, rightly or wrongly, as a studio yes-man – and screenwriter Steve Kloves were deferential to Rowling in several aspects of production (including aesthetic, character appearances, universe canon, and even approving the non-use of green contacts when Daniel Radcliffe’s eyes were too irritated by them). For lack of a better word, it is a workmanlike directorial and screenwriting effort for Columbus and Kloves. Having to introduce the extensive dramatis personae and cinematically set up the universe, this necessitates exposition – which Sorcerer’s Stone has more than subsequent Harry Potter films. If Sorcerer’s Stone ever feels too episodic and set-piece heavy, that’s the way Rowling organized her book in order to establish setting and characters. It results in a clunkier, less fluid film adaptation, additionally depriving Harry with moments that express his relief and liberation from his Muggle relatives.

But where the lackluster direction and writing taketh away, the performances, the atmosphere, and the music giveth.

Columbus, noting his directing and producing credits, also knows how to work with children. This is an underrated quality among mainstream Hollywood film directors, and this attribute pays dividends in the Sorcerer’s Stone – setting precedents for future directors to follow in the later Harry Potter films. This brings us to Daniel Radcliffe, Emma Watson, and Rupert Grint. Only Radcliffe had any professional experience as his two co-stars had only acted in school plays. Much has been written about the Britain-wide search for the parts of Harry, Hermione, and Ron. Yet to have one budding professional and two non-professional actors in a high-intensity film production environment get together and bounce off each other’s performances so effortlessly is miraculous. You feel that inspiration from the three leads; you feel that uplift as these three friends are admiring whatever new magic is put in front of their faces; you feel their terror when confronted with the malevolent. The kids are being allowed to play kids – even Watson’s precocious and bookish Hermione has her moments of vulnerability and spectacular misjudgment. How exact each actor’s comedic timing is (and the provided example is not even the best example)! And how fortunate that this franchise landed these three the way they did, that production on the seven sequels progressed at a rate before they became too old to play children.

The supporting cast, too, is blessed with some of Britain’s finest actors shouting nonsensical terms that pass for spells. For the first film, they are led by Robbie Coltrane’s Hagrid. Coltrane, the first cast member announced for the film, must set the tone as he is Harry’s introduction into the wizarding world. One could not ask for a better performance from the Scot, exuding compassion and an intolerance for injustice. Richard Harris plays a Dumbledore that will not be a richly textured until much later in the series but is more comforting than Michael Gambon’s Dumbledore ever could be; Maggie Smith is taking cues from her performance as Miss Jean Brodie for younger generations to define McGonagall. Alan Rickman plays Snape with hamminess and theatrical gestures to go alongside his unsettling, sneering tones. John Hurt is exceptional in a brief scene as Ollivander; Ian Hart is underwhelming as Quirrell. For many of these important supporting characters from Hogwarts, they are only beginning to be molded into the layered individuals readers would eventually know them to be. Even for a 152-minute film, expecting full characterizations is asking too much.

While using the backdrops of Alnwick Castle and Gloucester Cathedral for interior shots and using an enormous, detailed model for exteriors, the task of enlivening Hogwarts falls to production designer Stuart Craig and costume designer Judianna Makovsky. Craig, influenced by the architecture of English cathedrals, also invested in York Stone in the enormous set for Hogwarts’ Great Hall. The stone, prohibitively expensive and initially questioned by executives, proved to be a shrewd purchase – the stone endured the footsteps of thousands of cast and crew from Sorcerer’s Stone until it was dismantled following The Deathly Hallows – Part 2. Craig also implemented clashing architectural styles for Diagon Alley, contributing to the bustling atmosphere that, for some, is the film’s first “wow” moment. Meanwhile, Makovsky’s wizard’s robes defined later incarnations of wardrobes in the series, also lending Harry Potter a timelessness in its ambiguous timeframe (that wasn’t established until sometime after). Makovsky and Craig rely on warm colors to fashion a storybook feel to the production that would disappear after Chamber of Secrets. If one hasn’t noticed by now, precedent-setting is a recurring theme.

Perhaps one element of Harry Potter productions that strayed from original precedents was the scoring. For the first three films, John Williams lent his musical expertise for themes that would largely be discarded by the series’ conclusion. As a result, Williams’ score – dismissed as “overscoring” by handfuls of film critics upon the film’s initial release (and also overshadowed by Howard Shore’s composition for The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring that same year) – has been evaluated more positively as time has passed. Indeed, the most satisfying incarnations of Harry Potter’s themes are contained in The Sorcerer’s Stone. In 2001, while at his summer home in Tanglewood and with two-thirds of the score completed, Williams previewed “Hedwig’s Theme” to a live audience – the critical and popular reception was tremendous, prompting Williams to increase the theme’s presence in the film. “Hedwig’s Theme” features perhaps the most famous celesta (a music box with piano keys) line in film music as well as soaring, texturally rich strings (the rapid ascending-descending lines are a string player’s nightmare, but provide a harmonic depth that, nowadays, only Williams can conjure up for film).

Influences from Hook (1991) and the Home Alone series can be heard (see: ”Christmas at Hogwarts”), but the themes are entirely original. The aforementioned “Hedwig’s Theme” is used as a film-driven motif for magic in general, and is also integrated into “Harry’s Wondrous World.” “Harry’s Wondrous World” is a marvel of composition, interweaving Harry’s evolving leitmotif from receiving his first Hogwarts letter, his loneliness with the Dursleys, his first steps into the wizarding world, his first evening at Hogwarts, his first Quidditch match, and even his departure from Hogwarts at the end of his first year. Every section in the orchestra has its moment of glory – even among sections that are not to Williams’ strengths in lower strings and higher woodwinds. Voldemort’s motif remains in the background until the second half of the film, making its first notable appearance in “The Mirror of Erised” (a cue that counterbalances the rousing pieces in Williams’ score) and subsequently imprinting itself as a major leitmotif during the Forbidden Forest scene. But Voldemort’s motif actually appears first in “Hedwig’s Theme”. Beginning at 2:00 at ending at 2:30 in “Hedwig’s Theme”, listen closely. Ignore the celesta and ignore the high-flying strings in those thirty seconds. There is one instrument – which sounds like a French horn, but I’m not certain – playing Voldemort’s motif pianissimo under the melody (the instrument changes notes three times from 2:09-2:11). Minor musical details like that complete an intricate score by Williams. It is his one of his greatest achievements, with its placement throughout the film empowering a pragmatic film to near-musical perfection. Like the acting, the costume design, and the production design Williams’ music is the structural cornerstone in which the fourth to eighth films attempted, but failed, to produce.

Despite the film’s rushed special effects which falter during the flying and Quidditch scenes – the greenscreen effects, even for audiences in 2001, were too obvious – and simply functional direction, Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone is a film that is greater than the sum of its parts (too many retrospective reviews emphasize how poorly the visual effects have aged; I agree in part, but that is reductive film criticism). The acting can be inconsistent, awkward; the pacing and screenplays would be a problem for all eight films. But when tasked to deliver jaw-dropping awe and magic unlike any that had ever depicted in film, Sorcerer’s Stone is a resounding triumph.

Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone contains one of my favorite scenic juxtapositions in all of film. Harry, who is spending his second night gazing at the Mirror of Erised – a mirror that, “shows... nothing more or less than the deepest, most desperate desires,” of a person’s heart – has an unexpected conversation with Dumbledore about the mirror. Users have wasted themselves in front of the mirror, Dumbledore says, some even driven to insanity. A person’s most fundamental desires require exceptional effort to achieve or, as in Harry’s case, impossible to realize. Chasing apparitions will only lead to suffering; entertaining dreams without action is futile. These are lessons that I would not expect any child to understand – the appeal for adults is self-evident. Though the Mirror of Erised does not appear in future installments of the series, Harry periodically will mention how he wishes things might have been different. Given time, Dumbledore’s wise words on that late December night will define how Harry conducts himself. For Harry and, I suspect, almost everybody, such lessons will take a lifetime to learn – few will ever learn them fully.

There is a cut after Dumbledore has advised Harry not to seek the Mirror of Erised again. We see Harry, donning Winter robes and a Gryffindor scarf, trotting in the snow. He is alone with his owl, Hedwig. John Williams’ score emerges from a meandering minor key to an oboe rising to play the main idea from “Harry’s Wondrous World.” Hedwig is allowed to stretch her wings and fly, as the film transitions from Winter to Spring, from an old year to a new year. In less than three minutes, Sorcerer’s Stone has touched upon impermanence and renewal with melancholy, gentleness.

It is moments like these that separate this, the first of the Harry Potter films, with the later entries as well as contemporary major studio productions. For easing audiences into a universe that has provided reassurance and wisdom, the film adaptation of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone is an imperfect modern classic that will be cherished for decades to come.

Whether popular culture will see any phenomena such as Harry Potter again remains to be seen. The franchise’s legacy continued with the release of Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (2016) – boasting serviceable art direction and costume design, but hampered by Rowling’s (who wrote the screenplay) canonical inclusions and inclinations for longform storytelling applied to cinema. Four sequels to Fantastic Beasts are being planned, but I doubt that they will ever match Sorcerer’s Stone for pure, childlike astonishment. No other Harry Potter film ever has.

My rating: 8/10

^ Based on my personal imdb rating.

This is the ninth Movie Odyssey Retrospective. Movie Odyssey Retrospectives are write-ups on films I had seen in their entirety before this blog’s creation or films I failed to give a full-length write-up to following the blog’s creation. Previous Retrospectives include Dumbo (1941), The Sound of Music (1965), and The Wizard of Oz (1939)

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