DISCLAIMER: I do not own Harry Potter.
[01 - Silvershade]
So, how'd you do it?
He could still remember the contempt in those words. The bitterness. Envy. Disappointment. The reality of it all made him painfully aware of the truth—of those around him; of people he'd call family without second thought; of those he considered friends.
Friends. The very word was a knife through him, twisted violently into the wound at every memory of joy and mirth. Where were his friends now? They thought he had betrayed them, thought that he was lying through his teeth. All for the fame, the gold, and the glory. That very assumption was enough for them to think he was arrogant enough to cast his name into the Goblet of Fire, and for them to proclaim him as some usurper of the true Hogwarts Champion, Cedric Diggory.
How could he not have seen it? It was always there, always happening. The truth. Whenever he did something that earned their good graces, he was the hero, the Boy-Who-Lived, who just went and showed he had skill to back up the talk. Conversely, whenever something was wrong and he was around, he was easily casted out and made to be the scape goat. He was painted a villain as easily as a hero.
In the end, he was a freak—just like what the Dursleys had always said.
That was the reality of it all. Even in Hogwarts, he was still that boy who slept in the cupboard under the stairs. They saw him as the Boy-Who-Lived, yet he always felt like the Boy-Who-Lived-Up-To-Expectations. He was a pawn in Riddle's game for magical conquest. He was Ronald Weasley's target of hatred whenever the redhead saw something he could never hope to have. He was Hermione Granger's diary to write on whenever she had a spat with Ron, and would easily be forgotten once she'd forgiven the git. He was Draco Malfoy's feel-good punching bag to keep him from feeling an inadequate Pureblood.
Harry hoisted himself from his bed, taking with him the Marauder's Map and the Cloak, swearing himself being up to no good, and maneuvering to who-knew-where in the dead of the night.
The dark-haired teen felt numb. Isolation had never been a foreign concept to him—a decade of it has made him rather familiar with the sensation it brought. Sadness, too. But at the moment, he did not know what to make of it all. He wanted to cry, to curse the world, to shout at the unfairness of it all. He wanted his anger to take him. He wanted his grief to swallow him. And yet all he could feel was a hollow sensation pulling in all of him.
As he was finally made aware of his surroundings, the Map told him he was now in a corridor by the seventh floor. He wondered then briefly just how long he had been walking around, or how he had gotten here for that matter. His musings were then interrupted when a door chose to appear out of the wall, stone transforming to blackened steel. Another mystery to Hogwarts then, he thought. There was a nagging idea at the back of his head, asking him to enter. As he felt that he didn't really want to return to the dormitories, or sleep for that matter, Harry took one of the handles and pushed, finding himself in a wide room devoid of any decorations of sorts, a bluish-white glow lighting up the room. Was it an unused classroom?
His steps echoed inside the room as he made way for the center, where he found a small, leather-bound book the size of his Potions manual. Silver letters of "S.S." where embossed on the maroon cover, faded but still legible. Harry frowned. He was no stranger to writing paraphernalia left lying around like this, especially when one had nearly led to his and Ginny Weasely's death during his second year. The prospect of another possessed diary out after his hide was very much unwelcome, but damn his curiosity if it didn't make him think twice about picking it up.
Unlike Riddle's diary, he found that the parchment on this one actually had writings on it. And they weren't of the type jotted down to just recall the events that had occurred during the day—the old parchment compiled several academic notes, containing experimentation on crossbred plants, original potions, spells, charms, curses, and hexes, research on various magical creatures of the reptilian kind, alchemy, folklore, wand lore, and others he could not recognize. That was all that he could glean as he scanned page after page as he neared the middle of the thing. For all the books Hermione Granger read, the dark-haired boy was sure this was the stuff of the bookworm's wet dreams, crudely put. He could almost picture the bushy-haired girl going ballistics on the writings on the journal, conducting her own forays into the library just to further the knowledge quilled down upon the journal's parchment…
Hermione. He understood that she was one of the few left believing in him and had actually cared. What he didn't understand was how she could not make a choice between a friend who was tearing up inside, and one who was being an insensitive git. The choice was obvious, although he could not blame her if she didn't want to tear down the friendship they've come to develop. He and Ron were very important to her, and he knew just what kind of life she had led before she had come to Hogwarts. He could sympathize with the experience, after all. Hermione being on the fence about their fight was hinged on the belief that they were an inseparable trio, and that she could definitely find a way to bring them to their senses.
Then again, that plight was something familiar to him, too. He recalled all the times Hermione and Ron had butted heads with one another, with him just off to the side spectating and trying to await a fight he knew wouldn't last. Now that he thought about it, he was actually worse off—he just let the two of them get in a row, and he would do nothing all because he was under the impression that it would somehow resolve itself. Like freaking magic. And the first time he thought so, Hermione was sent off crying her eyes out in a bathroom, with a troll to boot.
So much for damage control.
Sighing, he decided to clear himself of those thoughts and resume browsing the contents of the journal. As he went on forward, he had finally encountered personal entries of occurrences, but what had bitten down hard onto his curiosity was the page that held the last entry into the thing, and Harry took an actual interest in reading the entry.
What was written then had the boy's eyes bulging in utter surprise.
.v.v.v.
To whomsoever shall find this diary, I implore you take care of it. Rowena has graced me with her kindness well enough that she has sequestered my writings into one of the more hidden parts of Hogwarts. I know Godric will not take kindly to this, but for all the honorable warrior and Pureblooded wizard he is, he is still as bigoted as the next. I know I've had my share of Pureblood supremacy drivel, but she has opened my eyes, and I can only hope that my descendants, and those who belong in the future, share my vision.
What is written down here is only the surface of the ocean of knowledge I have come to explore. Should you choose to immerse yourself deeper, I must warn you that you must be prepared to witness the truth of the World; of what lies beyond Light and Dark. In order to see the beauty in harmony, one must also embrace the discord along chaos. Even the brightest of the Light casts its own Darkness, and the latter cannot swallow anything if there was nil of the former.
The knowledge I impart here on every page is the more general form. The literature supporting these documents are with Rowena, and I am sure she is capable of hiding trees well enough in a forest (as she possesses a cunning most different from mine!). I have included a way for you find the bigger pieces of the puzzle, but only one worthy of my name will be capable of beginning the search for them.
Rowena, Helga, and Godric have all helped me in my endeavors to quill down what I have come to learn. I guard my works jealously, but only against those who I know to be far from being called my true allies. Godric, it seems, can no longer be trusted. Helga is conflicted on where lies her loyalty. For the time being, Rowena is all I can trust, and that is enough.
Dear reader, what lies in these pages is the last gift I impart upon the wizarding world. This diary has been enchanted so that only one worthy of my name can hope to find it and read it. I can only hope you hold ambition in abundance, and cunning even moreso. This diary is a key to a memento of use in my Chamber, if perhaps you can find it, and then read what is here aloud. The magic embedded upon my diary will prevent my pet from harming you, and you must be prepared to enact my final will—one that will, hopefully, bring together all under the wonders of magic, without the constraints of your descent or of your Blood Purity.
This is my last will—null of deceit, of trickery, of lies. Rowena tells me that it is "very un-snake-like" of me, but perhaps I tend to disregard my roots when it comes to my newly founded beliefs and wishes. Fare thee well, my champion, and let my blessing guide you for all eternity—so mote it be.
The last enemy that will be defeated is Death.
— S. S.
.v.v.v.
Once Harry had found out how to exit the peculiar room, he hurried down to the girl's bathroom haunted by Myrtle, and made his way down to the Chamber of Secrets.
Having forgotten much of the prior events leading to his announcement as a Hogwarts Champion, energy and excitement surged within Harry. It was still very early into the mor-night, and he was quite sure he had enough time for some adventuring deep into the bowels of the castle. Once he got the all-clear with the Map, he bolted under his Invisibility Cloak and ran for the entrance of the Chamber.
If it was any different day, he might have made a beeline for the Gryffindor dormitories first, waking up a dreaming Ron, and then dragging him on a wondrous adventure. Sadly, this was not one of this days, and he could tell that this task left behind by the diary author was not meant for more than a person.
Upon arrival, it was quite the boon that Moaning Myrtle was elsewhere—anywhere but here, the lad thought, thinking that it would do him a favor that there was absolutely no one else to witness his late-night escapade into what was now a restricted portion of Hogwarts. After the fiasco back in second year, he and the select few who had been privy to access the Chamber had been imparted with information that it was now a restricted area. No arguments were made at the time when the Headmaster had told them, but now that he was here, it had presented problems since he was about to just break the newly made rule. If caught, he would no doubt be the center of more ire in Gryffindor for landing their House Points in the negatives, and he would be stuck with more than just a month's worth of detention.
—Or worse, expelled. He chuckled at that memory, recalling Hermione's exact expression and back-then squeaky voice.
"Open."
The command registered, and soon enough the sink had opened to form the entrance into the Chamber of Secrets. Before choosing to slide down the pipe, he then thought of how he would be able to come back up into the bathroom—it was a long way down, and the only other way out they had been able to use was when he, Ron, Ginny, and Lockhart had been brought out by Fawkes.
Harry then began hesitating in committing to the act, as it would necessitate for him to have a way back. Suddenly, the diary in hand began vibrating, and he could feel heat surge from the covers. There was a slight shake, and soon enough, blocks from the lining of the pipe began jutting out, and when the shaking had finished, a crude set of stairs now led down to the Chamber.
Here was his way back.
Harry smiled to himself as to the convenience of it all, before lighting his wand with a Lumos, and venturing down into the Chamber.
The trip was just as he remembered it—the pipes, the scent of the leftovers of what the basilisk has eaten, the dark cave leading to the Chamber itself, and finally, the expanse of the whole Chamber of Secrets, clammy and humid with the face of Salazar Slytherin making up the wall on the far north. Lying nearby was the skeleton of the slain basilisk, covered in slime and various dirty fluids, and emitting quite the noxious scent. He ignored it and made way to the very front, stopping in front of Salazar's face, and just as per the diary's instruction, began reading aloud the contents.
"Fare thee well, my champion, and let my blessing guide you for all eternity—so mote it be." No sooner had Harry finished the line that an obelisk had risen from the floor in front of him, rising to be as high as his chest level. Slowly, the he approached it, excitement and trepidation filling his veins, an excited smile upturning his lips. Once in front of it, the top of the slab of stone slid off, revealing its contents held together in place by a set of silvery snakes coiling around it:
A wand.
Harry felt it pull at him, asking him to take hold of it and claim ownership of it. But he already had a wand, didn't he? What was the use of having two wands, when he was already happy with his holly wand? Was the ownership of two wands even possible?
Harry froze. Something felt wrong. His senses were suddenly put on edge. His eyes roamed around, trying to look for whatever had felt wrong, and as he turned back did he see an imposing figure.
The man was clad in a white dress shirt a dark emerald vest under his black robe, trimmed with silver detail. His face was pale, black hair twisting and curling down in an unruly wave. Somehow, the man's looks reminded him of his godfather, Sirius Black; if only it weren't for the eyes that seemed to glow an eerie green, cunning hidden behind their emerald sheen and veiled power swirling calmly awaiting to be released. He stood confident and straight, an air of regality and nobility surrounding him.
There could be no mistaking the man's identity, when moments ago Harry was just looking at his face as a large, stone edifice etched onto the wall of the Chamber.
As the man raised an arm, with a hand out gesturing to Harry, the Boy-Who-Lived found himself glued to the spot and unable to move. Harry's mouth went dry, and words failed him. A sinking feeling went down his gut as a magic circle glowed red from underneath him, runes forming out faster than he could attempt to read them. No more than a second did it take for him to collapse on the damp floor, writhing and twisting as white hot pain shot through his nerves to and fro. Painful and horrible were words that did do his experience justice, the sensation of it magnifying as the magic circle brightened and brightened.
The hurting was not limited to his nerves—his head felt like it was being put through a blender and pounded with nails and needles. Images and… memories (of some sort) that he knew he'd never seen before in his life were being crammed swiftly into his brain, and the pain brought made Harry feel as if he was being broken down to death, then brought to life only to be broken down once more.
And when the passage of time had finally eluded him, and the pain had become far too unbearable, his vision faded to black, and Harry Potter was swallowed by the darkness.
White surrounded him.
He was clothed still in his nightwear, but the glasses were absent from their usual place on his face. Then again, surprise came to him upon the realization that his sight was suddenly very clear—no need for glasses at all.
He heard a faint sound from nearby—wheezing noises, like some decrepit old man gulping in air to breathe. Harry looked around, then discovering the source of it in void of white he was in.
—Merlin.
What was that thing in front of him?
It resembled a human, lying down on the white floor, writhing in agony and gasping for air with labored breaths. It was disfigured, bloodied, malnourished, like some mangled wooden puppet thrown away and left to rot away. He could not bear to look at it, yet he could not tear his eyes away from whatever it was.
"It is human, yet it is not."
The voice echoed from behind him, and there he found the man in black robes pacing slowly towards him and the creature. The man stared icily at the figure lain sideways on the floor, like it was worth no more than an insect or a parasite.
"When the soul is fragmented, it is not a piece of the whole that is taken away—no, what is taken away is a piece of what makes up the whole. To kill is to fragment the soul, and to create a Horcrux, what is willingly taken is not a fragment of the whole soul, but rather that which makes your soul what it is. The night he marked you his equal," the man's sight had him unconsciously moving his right hand to reach for the lightning bolt mark left by Voldemort on his forehead, "he left behind what made the his soul worthy of my name.
"What he left behind was his raw potential." The man circled around him and the creature, green eyes set on his own green orbs. His wand was out, and his hands were rather taken to toying around the magic conduit as he continued pacing circularly, like a scavenger out on the desert. "The night he marked you, and took the lives of your parents, he had unknowingly left behind that which made the difference: his own potential.
"Potential for strength. Potential for bravery; for loyalty and compassion; for knowledge and truth; and for ambition. He can delude himself all he wants, but the moment he left it with you was the moment fate decided that all his actions would be doomed to fail without his potential."
The man suddenly turned to the figure, frown apparent on his face. His wand was directed at the creature, and with a wave, the creature shrieked in anguish. There was nothing else to do but watch, committing to memory as the creature disintegrated into a mist of green and was then condensed into an emerald on the wizard's palm.
The robed wizard then began walking to him with a small smile on his face, hand stretched out and offering the gem. "This is the potential he does not realize has gone. You deserve it. Use it well, just as you would my other gift, dear lad."
The gem was thrust into his own hands, and as he regarded with curiously, he could feel power surge from within it. He looked up, and found his visitor to have already vanished.
"I have presented you means to survive; to grow stronger and better. Use your talents wisely, and show me a future worthy of the Slytherin name."
"He's never been late for breakfast."
A short glare was all Ron could provide in the direction of the comment's origin, which was promptly challenged by the girl who voiced out her concerns. Early morning tension was a rare occasion on the Gryffindor breakfast table, but it was oftentimes a dangerous situation that needed delicate diffusing if it involved Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger.
Neville shifted uncomfortably in his spot beside Hermione, hoping that he wouldn't have to do any diffusing so early into the day. Merlin, where was Harry when you needed him?
"Bet he's having a little private party, what with being champion and all, wouldn't you say?"
Nearby Gryffindor students actually jumped in surprise when Hermione slammed her thick tome on Ancient Runes into the table. "How can you say that, Ronald?! You're his friend, and you throw away his word just like that?! He's told us he didn't put his name in!"
"I wouldn't have said nothing if he told me he'd be entering in the first place! Guess that turned out well, bloody gonna get eternal glory and a thousand more galleons to his wealth!"
Hermione's eyes glinted dangerously, and Neville nodded to the Weasley twins to signal that the cavalry will have to jump in and make sure Ron didn't go to Hell at the young age of fourteen.
"Did you even bother to listen to him?! You, of all people, should know how he hates attracting attention to himself!" The bushy-haired girl seethed, and Neville wondered briefly if Hermione was secretly a dragon Animagus ready to tear right into the jealous Weasley. Fortunately, no one was to find out truth to that thought when Fred and George moved over to make sure their brother didn't cause any more tension, or warrant himself a nasty hex from the resident bookworm for that matter.
"Honestly, little brother, d'you reckon ickle Harrikins to be that quick to look for trouble?"
"If I didn't know better, Fred, I think our dear brother's just forgotten the fact that even we, sixth-year students, couldn't even cheat past that danged Goblet!"
Ron grumbled indignantly as he showed a helping of scrambled eggs into his mouth. "Pretty sure Dumbledore's Golden Boy was just being shown blatant favoritism again—"
Hermione cut off Ron, even more upset than before as she regarded him with dark look. "You think the Headmaster's in on this, when he was equally as shocked as everyone had been?! Merlin, just how much can't you see past your own—"
"Will you shut it already, you nosy, know-it-all, Mu—"
A bang echoed from the back of the Great Hall, and the denizens privy to the squabble over the Gryffindor table watched as Ron Weasley was sent flying over to the Slytherin table, landing right on top of Draco Malfoy's meal and in front of a very surprised Victor Krum. Wide eyes and agape mouths were to be the prevailing expressions over the sight, before heads turned to regard the wizard standing by the far end of the table of those in red and gold.
Smoke wafted from Harry Potter's wand, the telltale footprints of the spell that had sent the redhead tumbling over the air and into Malfoy's breakfast, much to the blonde's chagrin. Pocketing the wand, he walked closer to Hermione, his sight never leaving the groaning Gryffindor who was now being pried off the table by a smoldering Snape eager to begin point deductions and detention distribution early into the day.
"Don't talk to Hermione like that."
The morning crowd felt the temperature in the Great Hall drop marginally. The veiled anger, trapped in the form of frosted words left everyone with a shiver running down their spine. At that exact moment, no one could dispute the fact that a pissed off Harry Potter was very much capable of dishing out threats and acting upon them. It was clear it was not his morning, and no one wanted to start flying off like the Weasley into the next table. Or wall, for that matter.
Neville swallowed as he sneaked a look at his fellow Gryffindor. He knew Harry enough to know how protective the lad was of his friends—he could remember the number of "thank you's" he gave out for the Remembrall back in first year— but the expression on the Boy-Who-Lived's face was something he never thought Harry was capable of pulling off:
It was the look of a man who was debating whether or not to kill his target at that very moment.
Apart from the unusual look about the teen's expression, something else had seemed entirely off. Neville wasn't sure if it was the straight posture, the aura of confidence, or—wait, was it him, or was Harry suddenly taller? And less thinner?
"H-Harry, what's wrong?" Neville snapped out of his thoughts when he noticed Hermione standing to regard the third of the Golden Trio, concern and trepidation present in both tone and posture.
"Nothing, m'fine. Are you okay?" There was still that icy undercurrent in his tone of voice, yet with a tinge of worry for the bushy-haired girl. Harry closed the distance between him and Hermione, raising his hand to her head and then stroking the bookworm's hair. The girl's reaction then was to imitate a fish out of water, with a questionable redness spreading over her face from her cheeks.
Wait, what was he doing? Snape was already marching towards their way, sneer and wand at the ready!
"Troublesome so early in the morning, are we, Potter? That's ten points from Gryffindor for a disruption well so early into the morning, and another five for littering on the Slytherin table. Detention tonight, and I best not have you being tardy after dinner!"
"… Yes sir."
That was new—Harry met the Potions Master without any grumbling or dark looks, impassively receiving the punishment given. He did not even deign to give Snape any looks, focusing rather on continuing to embarrass Hermione with his hand still petting her like some… cat. Like how the bookworm often spoiled Crookshanks rotten.
Students had begun shifting their attentions back to their own businesses when Snape's glare roamed the Great Hall, apparently holding a large radius and a wide area of effect. The now-unconscious Ron was being levitated out of the Great Hall and to the Hospital Wing by two Gryffindor prefects, seeing as to how his brief flight extravaganza courtesy of Harry left the redhead with a slight contusion on the forehead.
Neville could still see multiple glancing from other tables, sights locked on to the oblivious Harry (apparently he didn't really care about being seen petting Hermione like that, at the moment) and Hermione. The shy Gryffindor wasn't even sure if the Beauxbaton contingent by the Ravenclaw side was giggling, or gossiping rapidly in French whispers. It seemed to be both.
"Blimey, Harry, what was that about?"
"Woke up on the wrong side of the bed? Wouldn't blame you, if you did."
"Ickle Ronnikins was asking for it since the other night. Although… bit much of a hit yeah?"
"He is a wizard, Fred; what were you expecting him to do, punch Ronnikins in the face?"
Despite what Harry had just pulled, the twins were in the agreement that Ron was definitely going too far with the words slipping out his mouth—unintentional or not. A few syllables more, and the redhead was about to say something that would have had consequences far worse than just a bruise in the head. Neville nodded along—what Ron was close to saying would have ruined the presently tense relation between the three.
"Just to get it out of the way mate, we're rooting for you. 'Sides, trouble always seems to find you well enough without you running after it."
That had seemed to be the right thing to say, as then Harry shifted his attention from a still heated Hermione towards Neville. The lad gave his fellow Gryffindor a smile, the first of that morning that broke the indifferent attitude that Harry sported. Fred and George followed Neville's lead, genuinely expressing their support in spite of recent events.
"Oi, now that you're in it, wouldn't be that much of a stretch to win it, yeah? People like the underdog bet, Harry; we'll have stakes on you, and the tournament's gotta be easier than a basilisk or a hundred dementors."
"You'll even get a discount on our items—anything off of our patented pool of perilous prank paraphernalia's available for use for the exciting endeavors you're sure to pull off in front of the other Champ's faces."
"Thanks Nev, Fred, George. I appreciate that. See you after class, 'Mione."
Harry strode out of the Great Hall, making track for an early way to class. The buzzing in the Great Hall grew, and hushed whispers from earlier had now gone on to be full-on gossiping. As far as Lavender Brown was concerned, the Potter-Granger interaction had become a more notable topic of speculation as compared to the supposed secret way Harry Potter had found to enter the Triwizard Cup. Seamus Finnigan and the other boys were more or less dramatizing and making fun of Ron's impromptu change of tables.
"Hermione, you still among the living? Oi."
"Don't think so Fred—reckon Harry broke her."
What the bloody hell is going on with me?
Harry's slow gait had turned into a full blown brisk stride as he made way for the stone gargoyle leading up the Headmaster's office. Defense Against the Dark Arts had only ended, and there was an hour more before the Charms class with Hufflepuff. For the first time in his life, never had he wanted Defense to end as quickly as it could—faster than Lockhart's, or those times Snape had taught in place of a sick Lupin.
Following the morning fiasco in the Great Hall, the Boy-Who-Lived's senses kicked in and he mentally kicked himself a thousand times for what he had done—hitting Ron with a spell wasn't on purpose, but had felt good; however, it was how he had interacted with Hermione that had his mind questioning its lack of modesty for such an intimate act.
What in Merlin's name possessed him to do such a thing?!
He was scandalized by it all—he had never regarded his best friend in such a way before, looking deep into her hazel orbs, glancing over her rosy lips, feeling the softness of her hair, and inhaling the scent of sweet, sweet cinnamon off of her. It drove him… barmy, for the lack of a better word. Disgust with himself was all he had first felt when he neared the classroom to prepare for lessons with Professor Moody, then replaced by a mixture of emotions he only felt then. It was uncharted waters, and he didn't know what to do.
He might have asked Hermione for advice, only if she wasn't the center of his troubles at the moment.
Harry's mind decided to zoom away on an imaginary Firebolt, focusing his thoughts on what had transpired in the morning rather than on Mad-Eye's exposition on advanced dueling tactics.
Perhaps that was the first time, despite the ever-looming tension of the Triwizard Tournament, that he had been appreciative of his relationship with Hermione for the year. She had always been one he could count on consistently in troubling times, and it was there and then that he had witnessed that Hermione had finally come to terms with the problem of taking sides. He'd heard the argument before he had gotten into the Hall for a quick meal (one he did not get, in the end), and felt joy, for the first time in the span of his spite-filled days, that she'd chose to defend his side and would not allow Ron to run his mouth over how Harry was being given something so easily.
His entrance to the Great Hall had gone on almost unnoticeably as the people present were far too preoccupied with the Granger-Weasley drama taking place by the Gryffindor contingent's area, with the show being quite the entertainment for Draco Malfoy and his band of Slytherin misfits. When Harry then heard Ron utter something he knew would be far too an egregious mistake, his hand had already darted out with his wand, and it had responded all too quickly to the situation, resulting in a Weasley flying away, Snape being Snape, and him… petting Hermione, much to Neville's and everyone else's surprise.
Harry's gut sank when he reflexively transferred seats during Defense, taking the spot beside Neville by the side rows just to get a little space from a still flustered Hermione and a then fuming Ron, both of whom sent him looks—the former of confusion, and the latter looking like he was drilling holes into him. Professor Moody seemed to have caught on to the discomfort, but made no mention of it other than with the raising of an eyebrow and an amused grunt.
Thinking back on it, there was something there egging him on back in the Hall, pushing him to commit the deeds and feel the way he had felt then. Before he could've rushed in and gutted Ron a new one with only his fists, his wand had responded and he reflexively followed the lead. And it wasn't even his holly wand that was in hand during that moment, but the new one he had woken up with that morning. He was sure it had all been a dream, but the fact that he had the wand and the diary only served to give him suspicious thoughts as to the nature of the items, and of what had transpired. If all that did happen, and he wasn't sleepwalking to the girl's loo for quick sneak-in to the Chamber of Secrets, then this was a situation that warranted a little investigation and counsel. At the moment, Harry couldn't think of anyone better than Albus Dumbledore to shed some light (or a sun-whole of it) upon the matter.
"Cockroach clusters."
The gargoyle let him through easily enough, although he had to busy himself with a thought on just why the Headmaster was so stubborn on using sweets as the local password. He was sure Professor McGonagall may have wandered as well—but then again, it was quite difficult at times to comprehend just what went through the lemon drop-loving wizard's mind.
"Ah, Harry. Welcome. What troubles you?" A jovial tone welcomed him into the office, still crowded with tomes, antiques, magical tools of all kinds, and a whole lot of other wizarding knick-knacks. A similarly enthused trill echoed off to one of the sides, and Harry found the Headmaster's phoenix eyeing him happily.
"Hello, Professor, Fawkes." Trepidation crawled under his skin, and so did reluctance to reveal his discoveries and recent problems. Recalling what Sirius advised him about bottling things up, he let out a held breath and decided that this was for the better. At least he knew the Headmaster was on his side.
"… Last night, I stumbled into some room on the seventh floor corridor, and this door just popped out of the wall." He saw the curious twinkle brighten behind those half-moon spectacles, and continued on. "I went in, and in the room that looked like some classroom, I found this, Professor. I think you'll easily recognize who owns it just as I did—oh, and um, I'm quite sure it isn't possessed."
He handed the diary over to the older wizard, and once Dumbledore scanned the pages, a frown had crossed the elderly man's expression. "Most curious, Harry. While there are no writings on this diary, I can sense a trace amount of magic leaking from it. It is in no form Dark, nor is it of the Light, but if we go by the initials printed here on the cover…"
It was then Harry's turn to frown. "But, there are writings on it, Professor. Look," the boy then asked for the diary back, to which the Headmaster acceded to easily, and then laid it out on the table, his fingers tracing over the notes written about some species of Dragonkind, "this one's discussing some of the physiological similarities between a Norwegian Ridgeback and Aegean Wyrm, and of the theories revolving around the change because of migration by part of the species… Ah! Merlin, so that was it!"
Harry's fingers flipped quickly, until he had then found the page with the oath. "This diary has been enchanted so that only one worthy of my name can hope to find it and read it." The item has been enchanted, and by being able to satisfy the criterion (whatever being worthy of name meant) Harry could read the written material on the diary.
"I do not doubt your claim on the writings Harry, as even I can clearly feel that this tome is magical. As to the identity of the author—"
"It's Salazar Slytherin, isn't it?"
The excited twinkle was there again in Dumbledore's eyes. "This diary has been part of rumors, Harry, and has never been found—until your latest foray—which was why it was dismissed only as such: rumors; no more, no less. Apart from the research on the diary, what else can you share with me? Perhaps something related to the Founders."
Harry recalled the daily logs Salazar had written further near the end, and regaled the Headmaster with the personal accounts of Slytherin, especially his stand on the integration of non-Purebloods into the magical society.
"Extraordinary! To think that Salazar of all people would be supportive of the equality of magic… This changes many things, m'boy. A revelation of this kind, in our era no less, will be quite the controversy. I ask that for now, you keep this to yourself. I trust you enough to make the right decisions concerning this. If Salazar's personal written account suggests he is no Dark Wizard, and that he truly welcomes all those who wish to learn and love magic, I suggest we take it as it is for now—but with a grain of salt, nevertheless. For you see, we have no means of confirming the past so easily, so we of the present would do well to take great care in the things we believe." Dumbledore gave him a sagely grin, one Harry nodded to and was quite eager to return. "Now, was there something else?"
Hesitantly, Harry pulled out the second wand and showed it to the Headmaster, and then proceeded to tell him of what had transpired within the Chamber of Secrets and the ensuing dream concerning Tom Riddle's mangled form, and the meeting with what remained of Salazar Slytherin. On the account concerning Voldemort, he decided it was also worth sharing what he had seen in his previous nightmares before having returned to Hogwarts.
A more pensive Dumbledore greeted him after his sharing, features marred into a resigned look. His shoulders were slumped, and a tired sigh escaped him. The look did not fit the many titles that had come to describe the powerful wizard.
"… I must apologize to you profusely, Harry. It seems that burdens are continuously placed upon your shoulders, and we adults could only hope to aid you or meddle for so long."
A snort came from Harry. "Well, I am a pretty big magnet for trouble."
"Quite right. While as Headmaster, I must delegate to my duties to punish you for an escapade deep into the night, and into a restricted place, no less." The Boy-Who-Lived flinched at the statement, forgetting that he had openly confessed into an eveningly excursion with casual disregard for the rules. "However, in light of recent information, distribution of due punishment will be put on hold. First, we must discuss of Voldemort, and his plans.
"While there was not much to say about what the Dark Lord is planning, he is clearly after you. Again. To quote Alastor, we will have to practice constant vigilance—any angle of suspicion, or from where we could at least assume Tom will be approaching, must be thoroughly examined upon close scrutiny. As of now, can you think of any way he would use, or has used to try and get to you?"
A thoughtful look passed Harry's face, before the proverbial lightbulb lit atop his head. "Two, actually, Professor. The Quidditch World Cup and… the Triwizard Tournament?"
"Good thinking, Harry. The World Cup, as we know, was invaded by Death Eaters. Perhaps they knew you were there, perhaps not. However, the angle they have used was more likely to sow fear, to announce to the populace that things are about to take a drastic change, which would most likely be for the worse.
"Concerning the Triwizard Tournament, it is still quite lamentable that I was unable to have foreseen such a glaring possibility of tampering by an outsider. Believe me when I tell you, Harry, I would like to find a way to get you out of this because it is dangerous—far moreso than your past forays."
There was sincere sorrow, regret, and bitterness in the Headmaster's tone of voice. That Albus Dumbledore would go so far to trust him spoke volumes of how much he did care for him, and he knew that the Headmaster definitely doing his best to do by the negotiations they had conducted concerning Harry's living arrangements with the Dursleys. He could still remember how Dumbledore stormed into the house in Privet Drive, voice booming and magic flaring upon the discovery of what they had done to Harry all those years. Once the wizard was sure that the Dursleys were well and out of his life permanently, the Headmaster had apologized profusely over his neglect of Harry's situation, and finally deigned it time to share with Harry of all the cards he's held so closely to his chest—of the Prophecy, of Harry's role, of speculations on Voldemort's seeming immortality, and of the elderly wizard's machinations.
It had been a grueling task to get past through all that. Harry had been stuck on making the decision of trusting Dumbledore or abandoning him altogether. He had never felt such anger in his life—who wouldn't be when they were told they'd been a puppet the majority of their life? But he decided that he had to be the better man, that at the moment he was just a boy who had no idea of how to beat the Dark Lord, of how protect those he loved. That meant abandoning the situation would be throwing everything he had left into the darkness, and casting away what truly mattered to him. And with that, it was an easy decision that would prove difficult to follow through—in the end, trusting Albus Dumbledore over the past two years had made him mature into a young man he knew he would need to be in order to face whatever was ahead of him.
"I know, Professor. But like I said—magnet? I think it's safe to say I don't really need to go looking for trouble just so it finds me. So, about the Tournament?"
"Although I can provide no further aid as I will be a judge, m'boy, the appearance of the diary might prove to be the help you just need, assuming that therein lies content. As for the help I can provide, expect an owl by the end of the week. Now, for the Tournament being a way for Voldemort to get to you, the idea is more than plausible—after all, your name wondrously appeared out of the Goblet as if it were only natural."
Sighing, the boy shrugged. "Kind of a pain that people in Hogwarts choose to be prats at a time like this."
"Though the First Task will not be happening for some time, I ask you to prepare yourself for anything, Harry. Also, concerning your new wand—well, does it work when you use it?"
The lad nodded. "It's acting just like my holly wand, sir. Quite too well, actually, the compatibility's so natural it's… scary."
"While I would like to speculate on your wand's identity, I believe that is a conversation far more interesting to speak of with the presence of a well-known Wandmaker. The weighing of the wands is soon, and I daresay Garrick well be quite astonished as to the little beauty you have recently acquired."
"So, what of the creature in my dream, sir? And Salazar Slytherin explaining about souls and fragments? Was it related to your theory on why Riddle's in some sort of undying state?"
"The way you've worded Salazar's explanation leads me to think similarly, but at this point I would like to confirm it. However, the person we need to corroborate the final piece of the puzzle is elsewhere, I am afraid, and is quite the stubborn man. Anyway, Harry, you spoke too of the creature disappearing?"
Harry confirmed. "Like I've said, Salazar turned it into some kind of gem, telling me it was potential that I could use now—something that he never understood but is now mine to acknowledge and master. Do you think it refers to…"
"… and he will have power the Dark Lord knows not… Yes, that is not far off, but could it be really possible…"
Before Harry could get another word in, the aged Headmaster rose from his seat and hurriedly made way for his fireplace. "While I would like to continue our discussion, my dear boy, the hour closes and I do believe you have Filius' class to attend to."
"But sir, don't Champions have privileges—"
"Don't worry, Harry. We will continue this, but for now, I must see to some things in order to confirm some of our more plausible assumptions. It would be wise to learn that they are indeed true, and that we can act on them sooner. For now, please attend to your classes and prepare for the Task. I will be here when you need me."
Harry nodded with an appreciative grin, and then made way for his Charms class with the diminutive professor.
The number of people in class who wore the "Potter Stinks" badges numbered everyone-else-to-Potter.
Harry sighed, feeling the start of a headache as he made an effort to ignore the blatant glares he got from his Charms classmates. Despite Professor Flitwick's attempts at dissuading the class from wearing such atrocious accessories, the students voiced out that "there was no rule concerning such things," and they were being worn "in the spirit of fairness for the Triwizard Tournament."
Spirit of fairness my arse.
He had acknowledged the look of disbelief the half-goblin professor gave him, the Ravenclaw Head's expression clearly saying "I tried, dear boy; don't worry, I believe you." Well, at least the adults had the right mind to actually try and be reasonable in spite of recent events.
It felt like second year again, when he had become the center of attention in the similar, negative way concerning the circumstances that had led to the petrification of multiple people (including a cat and a ghost). Back then, it was fear of the unknown that had led them to believe baseless conjecture and rumors fueled by multitudes of gossip, with the misfortune of him being at the wrong place and time leading credence to his involvement with the petrification of students. Now, it was bitterness and resentment over his supposed "arrogance, superiority, and connections with the right people" that has caused him to become the object of attention. Again. And as usual, people took sides way too easily all because they thought they clearly knew just who the bloody hell Harry Potter was.
It was that which had infuriated him the most.
Add to the fact that even people from his own House, who at the very least knew what kind of person he was, had decided to side against him, Harry wondered briefly at how these naive these people were. Of course, he couldn't just go so far to say that everyone was gullible—he would be stupidly similar to them if he assumed so—but the fact that he was so sure there was only a handful of people who actually had brains forming their own opinions based on facts and not supposition had wholly disappointed him. Then again, these were the same people who ate up the Daily Prophet, lies and all, like some scrumptious meal every Sunday. Now that he had realized just how easy people changed allegiances over petty emotions of jealousy and loudly-voiced opinions and ears that scooped up every juicy rumor they heard, it was a testament to just how out of place he had truly been at Gryffindor—at Hogwarts, for that matter.
Perhaps you should start embracing that inner Snake of yours.
The nagging idea was stuck to his mind even until the end of Charms class. The very suggestion brought back the memory of the Sorting Ceremony, and his pleas to be put into anywhere but Slytherin. Then again, maybe it was time to give those snakes a chance—maybe it had taken him three years to realize it, but maybe not all of Slytherin was like the stuck-up ponce Malfoy was. Maybe there were even people there who at least had the civility in them to tolerate his presence.
The idea of acting more Slytherin for the sake of the Triwizard Tournament had come along so suddenly when he held the new wand he had managed to get, and somehow there was that faint sense of familiarity when his hands would hold the ivory wand.
Wood of alder. Core of basilisk spine and thunderbird feather. Twelve and a half inches.
The morning he had woken to the wand in hand, information of it had just popped into his head like that. What made him curious about the wand was the dual core property it had—as far as he was concerned, he has never encountered a wand with two cores sharing the same space. With the limited books the library held regarding Wand Lore, he suspected that the best source of information would be Mr. Ollivander.
Or Slytherin's notes.
As the idea popped into his head, he recalled that the diary was also a wellspring of original spells, charms, hexes, and curses—they might just be what he needed in order to prepare himself for the Tournament, along with the ones he already knew he would have to learn off of their books in advance.
And perhaps that was all he needed for now to distract himself from the students of Hogwarts School of Bitchcraft and Idiocy.
The week was closing to an end, and Hermione had not seen Harry for what felt like decades. Even if it had only been a little over two weeks.
The professors, save Snape, had informed her that Harry had been making use of his status as Champion to skip class in favor of preparation for the upcoming First Task. As distressing as it first sounded to the bushy-haired girl, the teachers have assured her that her friend had the foresight to ask for the lessons and homework for the next two months so that he could work on them and submit by the end of the month. Professor Snape had simply told her that Harry was "finally working like a Hogwarts student was expected to be," and that he was "performing exceptionally and had given naught a peep worthy of deducting points or earning a detention," much to the Potions Master's enthusiasm to humiliate him.
It was a shock to the bookworm.
Granted, she always knew Harry had the capability to excel in his studies if only he applied himself a little more. With the knowledge that the lad somehow had motivation to work on his own, and the initiative to ask (by himself, no less!) for two months worth of class work, she took pride in it that Harry, at least, was still conscious of his academics in spite of the pressure the Tournament was putting on him. Not to mention the rumor mill working 24/7 to discredit him and to continue painting him in a terrible light, she had finally relented to that little voice in her head that Harry needed her now more than ever. As immature as Ron was, he had to realize it himself that fighting with Harry and joining the Hogwarts bandwagon on their stand against the supposed Boy-Who-Cheated was setting his and Harry's friendship to a point past mending. Ron needed a wake-up call to know that if he truly was a friend to Harry, he would trust his words and support him in surviving the Tournament. The fact that the git had the nerve to call her that word, unintentionally or not, had strained further her relationship with the redhead.
Another thing that worried her was the excessive attention Harry had given her during that one morning in the Great Hall.
It was the first time Harry had ever looked at her that way, as if he had realized by that time that she wasn't anymore just another classmate or friend, but that Hermione was very well in fact a girl. His green eyes regarded her almost like he was probing, and there was the warmth of his hand as well as he stroked her hair. It had been both a sweet and embarrassing experience, and she stood there gaping like a statue of a fish. She remembered still how his eyes bore into hers, as if telling her there was a want that he needed her to fulfill.
It was all too confusing at this point, and she decided it would have to be filed in her brain for later.
Her fruitless searching for the Boy-Who-Lived concluded with her resigning for the day and taking a break at the library. There was loads of time before dinner, and perhaps she could finish a few books here and there.
Much to her surprise, her elusive prey for the past week had just exited the library and was glued to the spot, facing her, mild surprise reflected in those green orbs, and stacks of books supported by his arms.
Talk about deus ex machina.
"Err, hey there, 'Mione."
No sooner had he lamely greeted her did she pull out her wand, eyes reflecting just how upset she'd been at the boy—to which then Hermione Granger exploded in a fit of rage rivaling Molly Weasley's.
"HARRY JAMES POTTER, WHERE THE BLOODY HELL HAVE YOU BEEN!? YOU SKIP YOUR CLASSES, YOU DON'T SHOW UP FOR MEALS—"
"Erm, Hermione, look, uh, I can explain—"
"YOU LEAVE YOUR FRIENDS BEHIND ALL WORKED UP LIKE THIS, YOU JUST PET MY HEAD AT THE GREAT HALL AND LEAVE WITHOUT A WORD, IGNORING ME ALTOGETHER—"
"Uh, look, um, I'm really sorry, so please let me—"
"IF YOU DON'T TELL ME WHAT YOU'VE BEEN DOING, I WILL NOT HESITATE TO HEX YOUR BLOODY BITS OFF, YOU INSENSITIVE PRAT!" Harry froze when the bushy-haired girl began tearing up and tackled him to the floor, enveloping him in one of her patented, bone-crushing Granger Hugs.
The tears came all too easily. Here was the stress, finally spilling out of the bottle Hermione had kept it in. The stress from all the moody atmosphere, all the fighting between the trio, all the secretive things Harry has been doing without telling—she had no other outlet, and in her honesty she was sure pouring out her frustrations into her homework would do no good. It would've only made her worse.
"'Mione, I'm sorry."
"… I don't forgive you yet."
He laughed. Merlin, it was great to hear him laugh like that—like he didn't have a problem in the world. "Alright, alright. I'll explain everything, so can we please go somewhere else?" Harry helped her rise to her feet, and she in turn deigned to aid him in bringing the books he had checked out of the library. "I know a place, and it's better no one else hears about it. Can you keep a secret?"
A short agreement then, and a silent trip later, they were in front of a very blank wall by the seventh floor corridor. Harry told her then to wait a bit, confusing her as he walked past the wall thrice back and forth. Her questioning look was then replaced by utter shock and wonder when the wall sank back and started to transform from blank stone into ornamented steel. It grew larger and larger, until a door was in front of them and Harry was leading her in.
"… What is this place?"
The place was wide, almost as large as the Great Hall. Off to one wall was several blackboards, one chalked up with multiple arithmantic formulae and rune arrays with lots of side notes; another, larger than the other board, covered with several parchments with illustrations, formulae, rune arrays, potion recipes, and boatloads of spells, with some having red strings strung upon them and linked to another, entailing probable relations. Littered nearby were several pieces of parchments, quills, inkwells, stacks of thick tomes, a cauldron, and a sackcloth spread with various ingredients placed neatly.
On the far side were several wooden dummies, fake wand in hand and a target mark painted on the torsos. Several had multiple cracks and apparent signs of damage, and looked as if they have been repeatedly exposed to the use of Reparo to keep them standing.
"Professor Dumbledore told me that it's one of the castle's secrets—it's called the Room of Requirement. It can become anything and provide a whole lot of things, all depending on who so needs to use the Room. He said it was the least he could provide me for the Tournament without going out of his oaths as an impartial judge."
His explanation went over Hermione as she walked towards the boards and apparent workplace. A once over at the heap of magical information in front of her had her surprised at a work of this caliber—she had been researching some of the convoluted theories being applied on the runes and arithmantic calculations here, testing them for validity; yet here were they being used, and quite adeptly too, if she were to actually attempt to check them deeply.
Then realization struck.
"Harry, have you been working on this? All of this?"
Harry's reply was to smile sheepishly, a slight pink coloring his face.
"By yourself?"
He nodded.
Hermione was shell-shocked. As she continued to browse his work, she was astounded as to the level of complication needed to understand the concepts Harry was employing in some of these. A quick scan of the his choice of books also served to cement the degree of learning Harry had been employing for the past weeks. Merlin, he didn't know anything about Arithmancy and Ancient Runes, those weren't even his electives! And suddenly, here was he—working his arse off on concepts she hasn't even begun on when he was more than just a year behind her on aforementioned classes!
Deciding to test whether all of this was truthfully the fruits of his own study, Hermione had quickly asked him to state the subject of each work, explaining what it was for, and then expounding on the magical concepts used to make the idea feasible, together with pros, cons, and problems encountered. When Harry quickly agreed and begun doing just as she had asked, her eyes threatened to pop out of her eyes and her ears hung with disbelief. Harry James Potter, who did mediocrely in classes apart from Defense Against the Dark Arts, had eloquently and sprucely explained his recent work.
She had suddenly found him extremely attractive. The stern, focused look Harry had when he explained everything such an intellectual display… it had her weak in the knees, much to her repeated denial of it in her mind.
"Hermione, you okay? Was I mistaken on something? Right, I knew something was wrong with the formula on a reflective Shield Charm variant—"
"N-No, nothing's wrong! In fact," she moved closer to Harry, grasping both of his shoulders, and graced him with a smile that neared her eyes, "this is brilliant, Harry! I can't believe you've advanced so much in just so short a time! I mean, honestly! I knew you were capable of things like this if you just applied yourself, but seeing all this—this is just amazing! And to think I was fuming earlier for you not going to classes—"
It was then Harry's turn to hold her shoulders, laughing mirthfully as he eyed the Gryffindor bookworm. "'Mione, breathe! Slowly, okay? No need to say everything at once, you might bite your tongue!" The girl was agape, appalled by the comment, before snorting and joining in Harry's fit of laughter.
"But honestly, Harry, why haven't you been in class?" A pang of concern and sadness washed over her, recalling to mind just how she had been for the past days. "I thought you were abusing your Champion privileges, but I knew better to ask the professors and I found out you've been juggling homework along with… whatever it is you've been trying to achieve."
Harry motioned for her to follow him towards his workplace, and sat down when he had Conjured two short stools for them two use. Hermione noted the action, deciding to include the question as for his seemingly increased magical repertoire for later.
"… To be honest with you, everything's just been a whirlwind of trouble lately. Like I've told you, I don't want to take part in any of this Triwizard nonsense. But, since I have no way out of this, the least I can do is survive, and I'll need ample preparation. It just struck me recently how Cedric, Fleur, and Victor were leagues ahead of me in what they can do, is all."
"And you just up and went to begin studying?"
"And I just up and went to begin studying." Anyone else would have called cheek, but Hermione knew this was one of rarer kind of smiles Harry showed. She knew he only ever smiled like that when he was actually very pleased with how a task had gone over well, worked on with only his effort alone. It was joy expressed over the pride on a successful homework or experiment, and Hermione couldn't help but sympathize on the matter.
Before she could comment further, the words came to mind again: worked on with only his effort alone. Despite the rules and how everyone felt about favoritism, she suspected that the other headmasters would be more likely to perform questionable practices if it meant netting the win for their Champion. Fleur had Madame Maxime, who looked ready to help her student in any way. Victor had Karkaroff, and for how vociferous he was on the matter of Harry being pulled into the Tournament, the bushy-haired girl suspected that the Durmstrang headmaster was eyeing a win for his Champion and did not see well with the idea of another competitor.
As for Cedric… well, the Hufflepuff could receive aid in a more discreet and indirect manner from some of the Hogwarts faculty, and even Dumbledore himself. And for Harry, if he was given help, then outcries on the unfairness of it all against the Diggory lad would be heard, with the students probably recounting statements of "favoritism for the Golden Boy" over the "real Hogwarts Champion." Even the very act of helping Harry would garner the wrong assumptions, and she knew just how quick much of the student body was when it came to wrong assumptions.
Here was Harry, set on a task very much on his own. Again. Like when he rid the world of Quirrell and Voldemort (for a second time) to protect the Sorcerer's Stone. Like when he rid the world of the basilisk and Voldemort (for a third time!) to save Ginny. Like when he chased away hundreds of dementors with a powerful Patronus that had her wondering just what kind of powerful wizard Harry would be in future.
Now, he was forced to participate when everything was working against him—youngest, least knowledgeable, least experienced, and least liked.
"Why haven't you asked anyone for help, Harry?"
The question was phrased differently, but she did not realize Harry would guess the intent behind it. "I just didn't want to bother you, is all. Don't want Ron taking more out on you. If he found out you'd been helping me out, he'd get in a row with you and go on to say you've been plotting behind his back, too. And I'm having none of that."
Hermione fought back the tears that threatened to spill down her eyes, and paid Harry another hug. It was a wonder to her how Harry, who had grown up without so much care given to his well-being, could ever be so considerate enough for others—for people he cared for.
"Thank you, Harry. That means a lot to me." Her reply had come out as a hoarse whisper, her voice overcome with emotion.
"'Mione, look at me." The girl let go of her hug and found herself face-to-face with Harry, the lad inches away and grasping her shoulders tightly. "I'm sorry for having been such an inconsiderate friend and a right, foul git. I'm sorry for never having the initiative to defend you whenever you and Ron fight. I've always thought it was better to let both of you talk it out, because I didn't want to choose sides and have our friendship end there and then.
"Now, if Ron chooses to apologize for what he's said to us, that's his choice. I don't particularly care much for me, though. But if he so much as tests his sharp wit with a rude comment about you, I don't care if that ends my friendship with him—I'll deck him and curse him there and back again if it means being there for you. You're my best friend; but, honestly? You've become so much more important than that, as I've reflected on recently."
All three years she'd known Harry James Potter, she'd realized how awkward he had been when it came to being expressive about what he felt. He toppled Dark Lords, fought magical beasts; yet he stiffened against affectionate gestures, shied away from praise and compliments, and kept much thoughts to himself. Now, here he was, heart on his sleeve and confessing his honest thoughts. The sincerity and willingness to enact every word lurking behind those emerald orbs—it melted her heart, made it skip beats and jump into her throat.
This was as close as Hermione got to seeing Harry be ever so protective of her—moreso than any other time.
Just as she had thought it couldn't have been anymore of an emotional exchange, Harry leaned into her and wrapped his arms around her, his head leaning to the side of her head. Here he was, the boy who hadn't the faintest of ideas as to how he could go about expressive gestures, giving her a hug of his own—was this the first time he initiated such contact?
It was warm, wasn't so forceful, yet conveyed a deep meaning to her and her alone. The embrace made Hermione feel special, told her that at that moment she was deserving of every iota of his attention. All she could do was hug him back as she cried in joy, not trusting her voice at the moment to convey the gratitude and happiness she felt.
Minutes passed before they finally parted, both quite flushed upon the realization of what had taken place between the two. Though, to Hermione, the words spoken earlier had left something in her mind to clearly think about at a later time:
You've become so much more important than that, as I've reflected on recently.
Cryptic as it was, if she was sure of herself, then perhaps Harry was relaying something very important there. And the thought of it had her quite giddy at the prospect. But if things were to go that way, then perhaps…
She was brought out of her thoughts when Harry cleared his throat. "Well, I've pretty much cleared my homework until the First Task, so all that's in front of me is actually preparing for it. I have no idea about what it's going to be, and this is literally a shot in the dark—"
"Harry?"
"Yeah?"
She brought forth that usual Granger brand of determination, and looked straight into Harry's eyes. "I'll help you. No questions about that. Alright?"
The lad nodded. "Fantastic."
She sent a questioning look over to Harry, aghast that he didn't even so much as complain to what it would entail for him and for her. Harry seemed to have understand the look she gave him, and managed to reply with a very neutral tone.
"If they say anything, well I guess it wouldn't really be surprising if one thing or another befell them. I mean, danger does lurk in certain spaces of the old castle, and I certainly don't want to be caught alone—"
"Don't go attacking people!" An impish wink was his brief reply, coloring her face red with embarrassment at the act.
"It can't really be called an attack if the perpetrator's not caught, yeah? And who's to say it wasn't the twins? Or Peeves? You'll have to expect that, at least, 'Mione, if you would be volunteering to provide aid to this lowly cheat who wormed himself into the Triwizard Tournament."
Hermione playfully swatted at Harry's shoulder, chuckling at the banter. "Prat. Guess I've not much of a choice here, if I really wanted to help you."
"Great!" Harry beamed at her, one that if he had been privy of the gossips that passed female bathrooms and dormitories he would know made the female population melt into senseless goops, and grabbed a nearby leather-bound, maroon book before extending a hand out.
"Welcome to Team Potter."
A/N: One of the ideas I just can't seem to get out of my head, so I went ahead and typed it. Needless to say, I wanted to share it with people who would have the same interests or sporadic ideas like I do. Hahaha. Anyways, the chapters posted here per update would not be connected. Each would be a one-shot (of sorts), with some ideas free for adoption. Just drop me a line if you'd want to. Some, though, may be continued by yours truly if interest expands and more ideas come to mind. Well, we'll see.
Thanks for reading. Cheers.