Dedicated to T. H. Enesley, my first reviewer of the second chapter. Not for being first, but for what they said. Dearest, writing is best done for others, I have always thought. This chapter I write for you, the last one for those who asked me to continue, the one before that mostly 'cause a prompt was eating my brain out, but also for Luna. Most of my usual stories are in an odd twisted way for a sister who'll never see them.

Also, of course, for my own joy. I won't ever be pushed into doing something I don't want to do.

Thanks for reviewing, and wanting me to continue. I did, and here:


It was a long long time before either stirred, but no one disturbed them sensing something out of ordinary near them. People entered, tiptoeing to see the Boy-Who-Lived, who seemed to be in a trance. Perhaps, they whispered, he was a Seer, or something. Perhaps he was doing some amazing magical technique. Most overlooked the girl, her bushy hair a curtain between her and any observer, leaning against the opposite window, gazing out unseeingly, with an occasional blink.

But despite the clamor, no noise reached the compartment where the two sat. All they felt was warmth, acceptance, comfort, companionship, love, family, things that Harry more than Hermione, had been deprived of for so long that he would never take them for granted.

Their bond had changed, and kept changing. While Harry would have expected Hermione to be as unable to cause him any pain at all as he was to her, that seemed not the case. It seemed to demand protection/love from Harry, and acceptance/love from Hermione, and as Hermione quipped, love, affection, friendship also involved being the first to stop someone when they went too far.

Vindictive, or cruel, they could never be to each other.

As entwined mentally as they were separated physically -by an entire compartment- they reveled in the contact, pushing aside barriers with the unconcern of children who had not yet learnt of emotional barriers, or tact. Communication, as such, they could still not manage, and Harry was beginning to suspect that it would never happen.

Time passed, the world around them swept past. The compartment door opened, people pointed, whispered, then reverently closed it again, a pilgrimage repeated many times.

The light darkened as the angle of the sun changed, directly over head for a while, shining into neither window. The train still rushed onward. Soon the sun was sinking towards the horizon, now a flaming ball of fire shining directly into Hermione's face.

There was a quality of timelessness to the still scene, that should have been so rushed, with the movement of the train. Fewer people tried interrupting now. As ever, the children were still. The sun sank lower and lower, the room darkening, and neither of them had turned on the lights earlier, and they certainly wouldn't now.

The train rushed on, and any observer would see shining windows, light flooding into the dark countryside, silhouettes visible behind the curtains. Then an odd dichotomy, a completely dark compartment.

The silence, the timelessness shattered in a shrill sound, a bell ringing in the darkness. The train was nearing Hogwarts, and students were being warned to change.

Inside the dark compartment, the children stirred in unison, turning away from their separate windows and stretching tired muscles. Hermione rubbed her cheek ruefully; It was red from where she had leaned against the window.

Slowly the children started moving, turned on the light. It was as if the entire world let out a sigh of released tension, relaxed.


Hogwarts was a timeless vision of beauty across the dark water. It blazed welcomingly, lit windows reflecting waveringly on the lake alongside the nearer reflections of the boat lanterns on the water. The dark castle should have loomed, as dark, huge and should-have-been-imposing silhouette that it had. Perhaps it was just hard to be intimidating with a name like Hogwarts. Perhaps...

Hearts were beating faster at the approach, if not in apprehension than in excitement, delight, even grief. Some realized that their parents, and their parents' parents had all gone through this journey once, felt these emotions once, and held a properly solemn silence. Any that felt the need to giggle, to whisper, or even to talk out loud, found their voices stretched, and reflected eerily back at them. They soon stopped. Anyone with any degree of understanding in themselves felt that the trip was best conducted in silence.

The boats glided in to a stop at the bank, and the children, still quiet, made their way up to the castle. The door opened, a women, severe-looking, beckoned them in and left them in an antechamber. And they waited.


The children stood in rows, some twenty of them, waiting for their names to be called, the course of their next seven years to be decided. Harry and Hermione had not discussed whether either had any specific wishes as to which houses they wished for, and secretly, both had simply wished to remain together.

They stood, heads bowed together holding each others' hands almost desperately, wishing hard that their supports not be stripped away. They stood out among the fidgeting crowd of children as the only ones not moving aimlessly, just standing together, and as always, intensely together. Candles dripped wax around them, people chattered, reunited, others made new friends and the two stayed there, communicating soundlessly.

The hall's sources of lights flickered and danced, and people were called out. Decisions that would affect the next seven years of the childrens' lives were made, passed in a few seconds by, of all things, a talking hat. Not many were truly interested in the sorted, cheering dutifully for each newcomer, but not much else. And amid the movement, the bustle, the flickering fires, the laughter, the anticipation, the nervousness, siblings of a deeper bond then most those of blood, stood together, unmoving.

Soon their time was up, and Professor McGonagall, as the woman who had met them at the door had introduced herself, called for Granger, Hermione. For a while nobody responded, the two children, still standing still. Then Hermione twisted her grip on Harry's hand, and they shook hands solemnly, while the entire hall's gazes zeroed onto the girl accompanying the boy that the rumors said was Harry Potter!

Then she pulled her hand away, and left with a last tremulous smile back at Harry, walking to the Hat with a firm step, sitting down and pulling it over her head.

The next few moments were the longest that Harry had had to face. He wondered which house his sister would be sorted into, whether it would make a difference if they were sorted away from each other. The next moment he was shaking his head firmly, feeling the bond between them both. Nothing would separate them.

He saw nothing but the small girl on the low stool, old hat falling over her eyes, such eminently readable expressions passing over her face as she talked- no argued- with the hat. The girl who had become so very dear to him, so very quickly.

Harry was no fool. He knew that strong a connection, that fast, carrying such emotions was rather unnatural for the young shallow children that they were. He knew it had something to do with magic, and something to do with the vow he had taken, though not what.

But he was very content with the way things were. If he was forced to feel so very... very towards Hermione, then he was also completely reassured that she felt the same.

Eventually the Hat spoke, jerking Harry from his thoughts. "Hufflepuff."

The black and yellow decked table cheered, and Hermione stood from the stool, removing the Hat from her head, and glancing at it thoughtfully before handing it to Professor McGonagall.

She looked back at Harry, who gave her a reassuring smile, then walked to the Hufflepuff table, seating herself with dignity. Harry looked away from her, leaning against a nearby wall, forcing himself to pay attention to the rest of the sorting. Sometimes it took a long time, and other times it was finished immediately. Hermione's had been the longest to date.

It seemed to take a long time until it was "Potter, Harry's" turn. He amused himself, trying to distract himself from a hammering heart by mimicking Hermione's straight backed, dignified walk to the Hat, sitting and pulling the Hat onto his head with hands that wouldn't stop trembling.

"Good day, young Guardian." was the hat's greeting.

Harry blinked.


There was silence throughout the hall, a silence unprecedented during any other sorting. The whispers that had been generated by the first announcement of Harry's name were long since silenced. The only movement was the flickering of the light cast by the candles in the Hall. People stared at the boy hero, and not a muscle twitched, everyone wondering where he'd be sorted, and what that would indicate of his character.

Far above, the night sky was dark, and the hall seemed even cozier in comparison. Gleaming cutlery waited for a feast, and the stillness grew uncanny. Someone fiddled with a fork, letting it clink, clink... clink, clink... against something else, a glass maybe. Someone else hissed for him to stop. Someone sneezed, then quickly hushed. The night sounds started flooding through into the room, the buzz of insects, the far off sound of birds, the echoing, high call of a centaur's horn...

The world seemed to wait for a decision.

Which was then made.

"Hufflepuff." The Hat sighed, where it would usually shout. And the stillness broke, a roar erupted.

In the ensuing hubbub, few people noticed Hermione ease her white knuckled grip from the table, and slowly relax her straight-backed posture with a sigh of relief.


1671 words. Now that is what I used to consider a proper length. Not anymore, I guess. But. It was quick. Was it worth it, ya think? I think this is more along the lines of my first chapter than my second chapter. Also, it is terribly hard to keep the story permanently oneshot-able. I don't think I can any more. Sorry guys.

T. H. Enesley: I wrote every single word for you. Now tell me what you think, not whether or not you have the right to ask for more. By the way, you do. Asking is always worth it.

I thank every single person who took the time to write a few lines to me.

Hija.