My dear daughter,

I have not been there to tell you about my life. And while I honestly believe my dear friends have told you of it, they may not have told you all of it. I will be gone soon darling, and I am not the same witch I once was. I think it is time for you to know what really happened.

It began, what feels like, long ago. In a land long lost, a creation away and a dream departed, the like of which you will not find in the world today, there was the city of Dale, with its markets known far and wide, full of the bounties of vine and vale. It was peaceful and prosperous, for the city lay before the doors of the greatest kingdom ever known. Erebor.

Erebor was a stronghold to Thror, king under the mountain, mightiest of the Dwarven Lords. Thror ruled with utter surety, never doubting his house would endure, for his line lay secure in the lives of his son and his grandson. Oh, Harrin, the beauty of Erebor. It was built deep within the mountain itself; the wonder of this fortress city was nothing short of legendary. Its wealth lay in the earth, in precious gems hewn from rock and in great seams of gold, running like rivers through stone.

The skill of the Dwarves was unequalled, fashioning objects of great beauty, out of diamond, emerald, ruby and sapphire. Ever deeper they delved, into the dark. It was there where they found it. The heart of the mountain. The Arkenstone. Thror named it 'The King's Jewel'. He took it as a sign, his right to rule as divinely ordained. All would pay homage to him. Even the great Elven king, Thranduil.

But the years of peace and plenty were not to last. Slowly, the days turned sour and the watchful nights closed in. Thror's love of gold had grown too fierce. A sickness had begun to grow within him. A sickness of the mind. And where sickness thrives, bad things do follow.

They first heard a noise, like a hurricane coming down upon them. The pines on the mountain creaked and cracked in the hot, dry wind. He was a firedrake from the North. Smaug his name, and Smaug did come. Such wanton death was dealt that day, for the city of Men was nothing to Smaug. His eyes were set on another prize.

Dragons do so covet gold with a dark and fierce desire. In the end, Erebor was lost. A dragon will guard his plunder for as long as he lives. The Elves too, were there, to witness such momentous loss and death. But Thranduil would not risk the lives of his kin against the wrath of the dragon. No help came from the Elves that day. Nor any day since.

Robbed of their homeland, the Dwarves of Erebor wandered the wilderness. A once mighty people brought so low. So, so, so very low. Amongst them was their prince, Thror's grandson. Proud. Strong. Stubborn. He protected his people as best he could, with as little as he had, night and day. The young Dwarven prince took work where he could find it, labouring in the villages of men. Oh, Harrin. He was fierce. He was brave. He was beautiful. He was mine. And he gave me the greatest treasure ever crafted, not with gem or hammer or needle, but by love and flesh. But that is a bit too far ahead, is it not?

Yes, my Dwarven prince did what he could. He ran guard, built watches, worked Men cities for extra coin, toiling until he could only collapse into bed at night. But he always remembered the mountain smoke beneath the moon, the trees like torches blazing bright. For he had seen dragon fire in the sky, a city turned to ash and bone. And he never forgave. And he never forgot.

That, my dear Harrin, is where I come in. For, quite by chance, with the will for adventure, a dust of magic, and an enchanted painting, fate had decided our lives would become one. It began-

Well, it began as you might expect. In a castle, there was a witch. Not any old dusty castle, with its empty moat, desolate chambers and dim dungeons. This was a wizarding castle, and that means magic. Vaulted ceilings of night skies, griffins flying, cauldrons bubbling, towers filled with laughter, spells and mischief. Hogwarts…

Hermione Granger's P.O.V

xXx

"Harrin! Will you get down from there for five bloody minutes!"

Hermione Granger shouted as she stood at the bottom of Gryffindors tower on the soft green grass. She had her hand across her brows, to see through the cheerful spring sun, and her best friend, so high, seemed nothing but a smudge of black against the grey stone. A raven's wing flapping in the wind. Harrin Potter was suspended on the side of a turret, glued to brick by sticking charm, with a great hammer in one hand, a chisel in the other, and her wand safely clenched between her teeth.

"Give me a second!"

Was the gruff reply Hermione got for her efforts, half muffled by the wand crammed into Harrin's mouth. Hermione huffed and dropped her hand, scuffing her boot into the ground as she surveyed the area. Gryffindors tower was still only half built, a jigsaw of granite, marble and stilts. The grounds around them was awash with movement, more stone being levitated to piles designated for building or foundation work, groups huddled as they poured over parchment blueprints, pointing out strengths and weakness's to the new designs, and there was even a little camp off to the side, beer, food and banter being passed freely between those on break.

Yes, the battle of Hogwarts had brought it to near ruin. But, with a little care, creativity, community, and Harrin's sheer willpower, brick by brick, it was being resuscitated back to life. Who knew Harrin had such a passion and gift for architecture? Not Hermione. Not Ron. Not anyone really. Well, apparently McGonagall had the foresight they had all lacked. The wise head teacher had, after all, appointed the young woman with the project of Hogwarts reconstruction. Ostensibly, it was also McGonagall who had to dampen Harrin's fiery passion when it blew too hot. Ravenclaw's tower, the first venture undertaken by Harrin, the turret which had gotten the most damaged during the battle, had been fixed beyond the timescale anyone thought possible. Seemingly, overnight, it had sprang back up. Renewed. Robust. Beautiful… Completely alien.

Under Harrin's own hammer and wand, with others under her direct orders, the once thin, elegant tower had become something else. Foreign. Strange. The design became geometric, sleek, simple but somehow contrarily intricate, with cutting edges, harsh lines and regal corners. The windows great square arches were stunning, but daunting. It became hard to tell where the stones were, where one slab ended and the other began, as the tower became almost water like, coherent and glossy. The top crenulations became imposing, haunting juts of granite that cast their shadows deep and large across the grounds. Gone was the gentle receptions of circular simplicity, replaced by rectangular power, a dare almost, an invitation to try and knock this tower down. By the end, it was completely, utterly, conclusively Harrin.

Thinking of the devil, Hermione had just a moment to collect her thoughts as she spotted the raven-haired woman up on the lowest scaffold platform, a streak of ink, as Harrin plucked up a loose rope and swung back down to earth, landing just before Hermione with a resounding thud. Hermione chuckled. Harrin had always been heavy footed, which coupled with her extremely short stature made the whole thing just shy of hilarious.

Still, Harrin Potter was a lot like her tower. Striking, unnerving, and full of sharp, keen lines. As unfamiliar as her stonework. At only four foot three, the eighteen-year-old should, really, be anything but eye-catching. Yet, she was. Her once ridiculed explosion of blue tinged onyx curls was now an envy of many who had once turned their nose up at the very sight, although she normally kept the long locks braided away from her face to dangle down at her waist in a thick plait. She had grown into her squarish-ness, with her broad shoulders, muscled limbs and stocky build being barely lessoned by the curves of womanhood, a tantalizing precarious balance between soft and harsh.

She was strong, incredibly so, for Hermione had saw for herself what the shorter woman's punches and kicks could do, or her favourite, a shoulder ram, which, in Quidditch, had broken many a rib. Her face, once too sharp and angled, became something carven, an effigy to severe vigour, a study in brilliant intensity, only softened by the dusting of taupe freckles that mapped themselves across her pale skin. And her eyes… Merlin, those emerald shards could not be described, not fully, in words. Yes, there was something strange, something other, about Harrin Potter.

Yet, Hermione supposed, that otherness could very well come from her father. For, while Harrin bore James Potters name, none of his blood flowed through her veins. Lily Evans had disappeared right after Hogwarts, the story went, when she was sixteen. Of course, Lily had resurfaced, three years later, when she was nineteen, nearly twenty. She had been hale, hearty, healthy… And heavily pregnant.

James, having grown close to Lily before her disappearance, with the first wizarding war brewing on the horizon, knowing the dangers coming for them all, had offered Harrin, still in the womb, the only protection he could. The protection of his last name. He had hoped, Hermione thought, a bit naively, that with a magical last name, in a war of pureblood mania, little Harrin would be offered defence and exemption.

Instead, James's pseudo adoption of the child had painted a target on her back, and a death sentence on his and Lily's. Sometimes though, Hermione wandered. With Harrin's… Oddities, she could not be the only one to ponder. Was Harrin a half-breed of some kind? Like a Veela? It would explain the brute strength. Why the small woman had not grown since she was eleven. Her keen sight in the night. Perhaps, just maybe, it would also explain why and how Harrin had survived the killing curse not but once, but twice now, with only a lightning bolt scar to show for it.

Then again, had it not been Dumbledore who had told them that Harrin's father was a simple muggle who had been shot in a robbery one night? Hermione scoffed. Yeah, all of them, herself included, had learned to take a pinch of salt along with whatever stories Dumbledore had gifted them. Still, the poor soul was likely dead. Why else would James adopt Harrin or Lily go into hiding without her other half? Sometimes, people just died. It was sad, but it was true.

"Can't you see I'm busy? Not only do I have to build this place, with people who don't even know the right end of a hammer I might add, I now have to follow strict fuckin' blueprints. Blueprints, Hermione! As If I, Harrin, can't tell a portcullis from a gatehouse! The insult!"

Was the rant that broke Hermione out of her trip down memory lane. Unfortunately, it was neither new nor unheard. Harrin had been moaning and complaining, to anyone who would listen, about the recent restrictions placed on her by McGonagall for days. Harrin's temper was never the calmest of seas, and any slight against her pride was a line well crossed. By the none-plussed faces of those wondering around them, this was not the first or only loud spat they had heard from Harrin this week, or likely, this morning.

"I mean, the designs were so perfect before, Hogwarts could never be demolished. Oh, wait, it bloody well had, hadn't it? Nearly crumbled on our fuckin' heads right after the wards fell. It's not like I was doing much! I was only reinforcing the stone in case the wards ever fell again. Merlin forbid someone shows some sort of foresight when it comes to war! How can the council or ministry complain when I'm only adding to the-"

Harrin snarled and raved as she yanked her dragon gloves off, stiffly cramming them into her belt, next to her hammer and chisel. Knowing her friend as she did, Hermione broke in gently.

"Good morning to you too, Harrin."

Harrin's eyes seemed to focus, pinning Hermione to the spot. A sheepish look fluttered across her face momentarily. She meant well, Harrin, she always did, but she sometimes got swept up in the finer details. She eyed Hermione then, and briefly, Hermione wondered if she was just as 'other' to Harrin as she was to them. What was it like growing up not knowing where or who you came from?

"Sorry, Hermione. I'm just…"

Instead of filling in the blank, Harrin waved her hand in front of her face, as if she was wiping away the cobwebs cluttering her mind. She didn't need to fill in much, Hermione understood. They all, her, Ron, Harrin, had felt this way lately. Stagnant. Tight. Boxed in. Hermione dealt with it by throwing herself deeper into her work, Ron by an extra butterbeer, Harrin… Harrin, well, Hermione didn't rightly know how she dealt with it. But there was a shadow underneath her eyes that spoke of sleepless nights, a slump to her broad shoulders, and a snappish sort of doggishness to her. Life post-war, regrettably, was not what any of them thought it would be. Yet, not one to fester on a dim matter, Harrin pushed forth, scratching the tip of her nose with a scarred thumb.

"What brings you to my ends anyway? I thought you were bogged down in the ministry playing parchment rat to the big hats?"

Harrin crossed the distance, up to Hermione's side, barely reaching her ribcage, and began to stroll around the grounds. Hermione glided along, although she kept their patrol tight around the break table. One year on from the greatest war ever fought in wizarding Britain and where were they? What were they? Harrin the builder, Ron the lab-rat for Weasley's wizarding wheezes, and Hermione, the desk jockey. Still, she supposed it was better than being on the run for their lives.

"I was, but I have a special delivery for you given from upon high."

Harrin chuckled and it was such a bright noise. High, lofty, hearty. It was good to hear it, for just a glimmer, to see her dearest friend in high spirits. Burying the uncountable dead, building what was lost, fixing the broken, Harrin, really, even a year later, had not gotten out of the shadow of what Voldemort had taken from her. Yet, ever the hero, she stepped up and did her part, no matter the bruises underneath her eyes, the bent back, or the fatigue. Nevertheless, it had only been a year, and so, hopefully, it would get better soon. Soon.

"From a candidate for Minister of Magic? Don't want it. Send it back."

Oh, Hermione had been since the last time Harrin had told her. Since she had resurrected, defeated the Dark Lord, Harrin had become a symbol. A symbol many new rising people wanted as a promoter. When Shacklebolt stepped down at the end of the war, and the position for Minister of Magic opened up, bribes, presents and outlandish gifts from running candidates had flooded Harrin like a biblical tidal wave.

She sent back every single one, unopened, unused, untouched. If there was one thing Harrin held high, it was her honour. She always had and she always would. You couldn't buy Harrin, couldn't bribe or persuade or tempt, not if she felt it dishonourable or unjust. In that way, she was exactly like the stone she so loved to work with. Unmoveable and unmalleable. Yet, they still tried. Each following gift as outrageous as the next. Harrin only turned her nose up higher, and even publicly lashed out at one or two for their corruption.

"I'd hold back on that order, if I was you."

Harrin's sleek eyes cut towards Hermione, emerald gleaming and shining, almost unearthly, under the bright sun, one eyebrow cocked imperiously high. Coming to a stand back at the half-built wall of Gryffindor's tower, Harrin crossed her arms over her chest and hummed, feet squared, as if she was expecting a fight. Guarded. Shielded. Fortified. Hermione didn't blame her. Harrin never did have a good track record with surprises.

"Okay, you've got my attention."

Hermione nodded.

"The belongings confiscated from Godric's Hollow have been found."

Harrin's face screwed up, lip curling as her arms tightened.

"Things were confiscated from Godric's Hollow?"

Hermione's tone became soft, breezy, tinged with pity.

"It was a crime scene, Harrin."

Harrin's face relaxed and her arms, the muscles, Hermione could see, began to twitch before they dropped from their defensive guard around her, her gaze drifting off over the crowd, up to the sky.

"I suppose it was, wasn't it?"

It felt odd, wrong, to call what happened at Godric's Hollow a crime scene, even if it, technically, had been one at a stage. This was the place her best friend's mother was slain, where Harrin's life had been irrevocably altered, twisted into a tale of abuse, loss and death. Everything bad, every bruise and cut and scar Harrin had ever endured could be traced back to that one place, with one spell, on one night. To call it a crime scene felt shameful in describing exactly what Godric's Hollow is to Harrin. It was her beginning, and sadly, her end. Yet, the ministry had seen it as a simple crime scene, and right now, that was what was important.

"Aurors on the scene took some things they thought looked dodgy or they obtained magical readings from. They got filed away, as normal, but quickly got lost."

Harrin's gaze flicked back to Hermione and her mask was back on tight. The flash of vulnerability and pain long gone, as if it had never been there.

"Until today, it seems?"

It was a wry and dry comment, reminding Hermione of autumn leaves, crunchy and brittle when stepped on, but pretty on the surface. Hermione smiled at Harrin's bite. She knew how to deal with a sardonic Harrin, not so much a pained one. Immediately, guilt washed over her. Harrin had been there for her when she had searched for her parents and came upon nothing but an obituary. Harrin had been there at every single funeral held for those lost in the battle. She visited the orphanages and healing wards weekly, working in the potion labs. She checked in on George every other day, bringing him fresh food and baked goods. She was there for Molly, when she cried and wept over her lost child. She was there for Teddy and Andromeda, taking on nights so Andromeda could sleep, even if Harrin hadn't for a few days. She worked herself to the bone to rebuild Hogwarts. Harrin was there. Every time. Everywhere. For everyone.

But who was there for Harrin? Sure, Hermione and Ron visited when they had time, but even then, the visits were sparse and they usually only talked over work, or grumbled about their own problems. They drank and laughed and relaxed and, not once, Hermione belatedly realised, had they ever asked if she was doing okay. It was just assumed. It was Harrin, after all. The girl who saved wizarding Britain! The girl who lived! The… The girl. The eighteen-year-old girl who was so painfully, obviously worn out and tired. The girl with no family, no home, and no rest. How could Hermione have been so blind?

No more. Hermione swore it. No more. After today, she would… Well, Hermione didn't know what she would do, but do something she would! Harrin had given so much, continued to do so, it was about time they gave something back. Perhaps, with what Hermione had, this could be the first step in that plan.

"Until today."

Hermione said with an air of intensity. And she meant it, on many levels.

"So, what was so important that you had to come all this way to hand it to me personally?"

Hermione beckoned Harrin closer, over to an alcove shaded by the scaffolding. Cautiously, Harrin followed. When the deceptively tiny woman was next to her, Hermione nodded over to the thing she had propped up against the back of the nook. Unhurriedly, Harrin edged towards it, crouching down on her haunches when she was only a hairbreadth away. When she had taken it in, she glanced to Hermione from over her shoulder

"A… Painting? Really?"

There was no ice or fire to her voice, just unfiltered, pure confusion, as Harrin was pulled back towards the painting, almost like she was bewitched, head cocking as she absorbed the brush strokes and oil paint. It seemed to be a scene from a market place, thriving with people. They appeared to be as broad as Harrin, and although amongst brethren, Hermione had the oddest feeling they would be her size too, if they were to leap from paint to life. Their faces were merry, red cheeked and squared, full of thick beards, even the women, which had stalled Hermione when she first saw the painting, and glittering clasps, hair long and braided in intricate weaves and displays. They didn't seem to be a rich people, although their dress was painted in jaunty colours of yellows, blues, greens, golds and reds, the cloth seemed worn in places, poverty peaking out between strokes of bright colours. Cloaked, dressed, they bustled about the wooden stalls as they haggled for toys, food or bolts of cloth. A winding path led off canvas, but at the back of the stalls stood a mountain proud.

Gently, Harrin grasped the oak frame of the painting and lifted it, eyes locked on the mountain. It stood sweeping, strong, stone mixing with sky and fog, bathing it in a blue hue. Hermione noticed the slight tremble in Harrin's hand as it lifted, stout finger coming to the bottom gold plaque to tenderly run across the little engraving. Harrin whispered along with the stroke of fingertip, imprinting, hoarding, taking.

"Ered Luin. The Blue Mountains."

Even as Hermione spoke, Harrin's eyes never left the painting, transfixed by shade and depth, and proud blue mountains.

"It's still giving off high magical readings, but no rune makers, curse breakers, or goblin masters know exactly what kind of magic it is giving off. They know it's harmless. Or, well, they believe it is. It's not reacted in any way to anything. Nothing. Harrin, this was also with it."

Begrudgingly, Harrin dragged herself away from the painting, glancing down to Hermione's outstretched hand. Gently, she laid the painting back against the wall, gingerly taking the thick, yellowed with age, envelope from Hermione's grasp. Deftly, Harrin flipped it over and halted at her name written clearly and starkly on the back. Instantly, Harrin came to the same conclusion Hermione had when she saw the handwriting.

"This was written by my mothers hand."

Wearily, Harrin, eventually, after a long while of simply staring down at the heavy envelope, opened its already torn flaps. The first thing to fall out was a necklace. Harrin bent down to the grass and picked it up, holding it out and high, the sun catching the dazzling silver. It seemed to be a locket of some kind, with a sapphire face, a little lock on the side. On its bejewelled face stood a set of runes, only five, Hermione had never seen before. As strange an alien as Ravenclaw tower, as Harrin.

The ministry had tried to open it countless times and had never succeeded, and yet… Yet, with a single swipe of Harrin's fingers, the locket sprung open. On one side stood a photo, Lily smiling bright and true, from ear to ear, a baby Harrin cradled in her arms. Harrin, even newly born, had a thick head of black curls, almost comically large ears, and yes, she did, after all, have her mothers eyes. On the other side was a simple sketch.

A man's profile, caught in turning to face the artist, smiled back from faun coloured paper. His hair was a mass of charcoal curls, long and unruly, his beard dark and thick but neatly trimmed, silver clasps decorated throughout his mane of raven hair, two braids peaking from coils and curls. The rough hint of white chalk around his shoulder made him look like he was wearing a fur of some kind. Harrin had his smile, small, hardly there, a ghost, but ever so warm. She also had the slant of his eyes, the cheekbones, the dark brow and widows peak and-

The locket snapped shut and Hermione saw the quiver of Harrin's hand becoming unsteady. She was breathing harshly, through her flared nostrils, blinking rapidly and Hermione went to reach for her shoulder, to steady her, but Harrin was in movement, shoving the locket into her breast pocket, close to her heart, tearing into the envelope, pacing as she pulled out the thick wad of parchment and another letter, smaller, untouched by the ministry. Hermione didn't catch a glimpse of the name written on the back, though she did see the splash of ink hinting at one. Back and forth Harrin went, pacing, caged, reading.

"My dear daughter, I have not been there to tell you about my life. And while I honestly believe my dear friends have told you of it, they may not have told you all of it. I will be gone soon darling, and I am not the same witch I once was. I think it is time for you to know what really happened."

Harrin paused and swivelled on Hermione, eyes wide as she shook the letter, as if she could shake free the answers she was seeking.

"She wrote this before she died… How could she… How… What does she mean what really happened?"

However, Harrin wasn't speaking to Hermione, not really, not as she quickly delved back into the letter, eyes flicking as she read with speed. Still, Hermione tried to comfort her obviously distressed friend.

"Maybe she wrote it as a contingency? It was war. Perhaps she wanted you to have something of her if she did di-... Fall. Written by her own hands, in her own words."

Harrin wasn't listening, she was swiftly skimming through pages, growing motionless, pale. Eventually, she looked to stop completely. No breathing. No movement. No noise. Still like a frozen pond.

"Harrin? Are you okay? You're looking a little peaky there. Harrin? Harrin?"

It was the first and only time Hermione had ever heard Harrin stutter.

"It's… It's a-about m-m-my father."

Hermione winced. Was it a retelling of his death? A story of how Lily met him? Only to have it all dashed in the end?

"Hermione… He's alive. My father… He's alive. He's alive!"

Harrin laughed fully, smile almost cracking her face in two, dimples deep and splendid. It was a kind sort of laughter, a song belonging to a bird, summer rain and lightning wrapped in velvet. It was the sound of Harrin's soul, scorching and somehow, some bloody way, as gentle as a lap of a butterflies wing, vivid. It overflowed her, seeping into the air, pouring into Hermione, so much so, that she had no other choice but to smile and laugh along with her friend.

"That's-… That's brilliant Harrin! Bloody brilliant! We can find-"

The painting behind them shone blue, blinding, and Hermione's smile died on her lips. Harrin didn't even get the chance to turn and face the light before it exploded and sent Hermione sailing backwards, groaning as she skidded in the mud and grass. When the light died, as people rushed around her, unsure of what happened, Hermione scrambled up, blinking away the white-spots in her vision. The painting stood against the stone wall, grey and snapped in two. Broken. There was no locket. No envelope. No letters or notes. Nothing.

Harrin was gone.

This fic was inspired by the lovely story, wit and wry, by AlwaysEatTheRude21. Of course, before posting, or even writing, I asked permission from the original author if I could do a, well, sort of AU version if it, and gained her permission. Feel free to P.M her, if you wish. (If you're about to use anything from another fic, always make sure to gain the original authors permission, it's only polite and fair.) The beginning bit, the letter, was also inspired by the opening monologue in the Hobbit An Unexpected Journey, and I have borrowed some direct quotes from the movie script for it. However, I'm going to be trying to dodge a retelling of the Hobbit, including having exact conversations replicated, so expect heavy AU's for both the Hobbit and Harry Potter. I really don't want to just be going over things already been written or what we see in the movies, so I'm trying to stay far, far away from that.

This fic will be focusing on the themes identity, family, home and hope. It will be quite a light fic, with tiny amounts of hurt/comfort and angst, but quickly followed with sweet and fluff stuff. It will also be dipping into Dwarven culture quite heavily, real heavily, with a lot filled in by yours truly, so I hope you will come to like what I have imagined. And, finally, as you can likely tell, the line of Durin, Dis, Fili, Kili, Thorin, will be the central focus.

If anyone is interested, I have a Weheartit account, under the same username, carelessdodger, with a collection dedicated to this fic called Harrin. It will likely get larger as this fic does, and is there for anyone to visit if you wish to 😊.

So, what do we think so far?