METAMORPHOSIS
Characters: Harry Potter, Tom Riddle, Hermione Granger, Ron Weasley, Albus Dumbledore, Mrs Cole, Abraxas Malfoy, Billy Stubbs, Dolohov Sr., Orion Black
Additional Tags: Time Travel, Adventure, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Bigotry Prejudice, Period-Typical Sexism, Humor, Angst, Slow Burn, Don't copy to another site, Female Harry Potter, Character Study
Chapter 1: Where we come from
"Well, look who I ran into," crowed Coincidence.
"Please," flirted Fate, "this was meant to be."
— Joseph Gordon-Levitt
Laying on the ground of a half demolished underground station, with the headache of her life, was not what Harry had in mind for her Sunday morning.
To be fair, getting drunk usually led to one adventure or another, at least, that was what she'd recently discovered. Thanks to one converted Seamus Finnigan who'd shown up in front of the girls' dormitory with an apology, and a bottle of fire whiskey. It was true that he'd been willfully ignorant when he believed the lies the daily prophet spread about her, but he'd learned from his mistakes. Ever since then Ron and she had indulged their curiosity on occasion and explored the wonder that was fire whiskey. Granted, their usual shenanigans shouldn't have let her roam father then maybe Hogsmeade, if even that far.
As she took in her surroundings, she realized that she couldn't stay where she was, not only because she was lying on the ground in an underground station, but also because she didn't trust the decrepit ceiling to hold. She also noticed that she was holding onto, what looked like, a few shards of an empty potion flask, probably Hermione's, if she had to guess. Her palm wasn't cut too badly though, barely bleeding.
Decision made, Harry tried standing up, slowly, well aware of the fact that everything was spinning and that her sense of equilibrium had been shot to hell.
Once she managed to somewhat steady herself, she felt for her wand and found it at her hip, shoved in between her skin and the waistband of her skirt. Relieved she left it there, not wanting to risk falling on top of it and breaking it or harming herself in the process. Moody's reprimands about possibly losing an ass cheek or worse hadn't ever really left her mind. However, the glaring absence of pockets in women's clothing left her no other choice but to get a bit creative when it came to where she hid it.
After a few grueling attempts Harry found herself leaning against a soot-covered brick wall. It would probably leave smudges all over her white shirt, but she needed the support more than she dreaded Hermione wiping at her, to make her look more presentable. She started doing fussing over her like that at the beginning of their fourth year, when cameras were following Harry everywhere and the news was tearing her apart, and her friend hadn't stopped since.
When Harry looked around, she realized that she wasn't that far off the entryway. Just a few steps really, and she'd be out in the sun. She breathed in deeply, steeled her nerves and tried to swallow back the bile that worked its way up her throat in waves.
She could do this.
She'd been hungover before, not this bad, and usually with Ron by her side, but she could deal with it.
Braving her fears and her body's undying desire to crumble under her like a puppet whose strings had been cut, she took an uneasy step towards the exit that was just a few feet away. Her feet were unsteady on the rubble, but she pushed on and took another one, and another one, and then Harry spewed.
After that the exhausted teen was barely capable of holding herself up against the wall anymore. She groaned pathetically as she tried to lower herself down to the ground safely, just so managing not to end up on top of her own spit up.
Harry had never felt quite this sick before, this weak, this broken down.
'Harry! It's not meant to be used that way,' Hermione laughed, as she pushed a few more of her Daffodil seeds towards Ron, to cut up coarsely.
'It could be,' she snorted into the half-empty flask of fire whiskey.
She remembered that they'd been together yesterday, evening. But the memory didn't come easy to her. She had to concentrate on the fleeting feeling of recognition. It felt a bit like one of her dreams with Voldemort, like it was neither here nor there, caught in the limbo of her subconsciousness. She needed to hold onto it to make it feasible.
Ron shook his head. 'Not a chance. You'd have to find someone willing to test it first.' He shoved the cutting board towards her and made grabby hands at the bottle of whiskey. They switched.
'Don't mince them!' Hermione reminded sternly, her cheeks flushed, from either the alcohol or the potion fumes, Harry didn't know. But it didn't matter, she threw her head back and laughed at the comment, it wasn't like she could blame Hermione for taking that tone with her. After all, it was her default setting, put anything in front of Harry on a cutting board, hand her a freaking knife, and she starts mincing on autopilot.
What could she say? Petunia trained her good. It wasn't like she'd done the heavy lifting and cooking since she was a child. No, she'd always been given the busy body tasks.
'Mince the herbs, mince the garlic, mince the onions, mince the carrots,' Harry chanted in a high-pitched voice, trying and failing to imitate her aunt's shrill sounding nightmare of one. Meanwhile, Ron laughed heartily. He loved it when she opened up about her shit relatives in a way he could react to, without making her feel like shit about it. Even Hermione smiled fondly at her from her position over the steaming cauldron.
They had been catching up on a last-minute assignment. She knew that Hermione had disapproved when she'd shown up to finish their potion report and Ron and she had been well on their way to being wasted. She must have decided that she deserved a bit of fun, too, instead of resorting to her usual mothering.
But… what were they brewing and why?
Harry rubbed her head, tiredly, trying to remember something that made sense to her.
'We need more practical experience,' Ron groused. 'How are we even supposed to write this report in the first place?'
'He brewed it in front of us,' Hermione argued, exasperatedly.
'Once!' She remembered herself saying. 'Once three weeks ago. This is going to be unspece- inspecifi- not quite right, at best,' she concluded while Hermione looked at them thoughtfully.
Merlin, they had to have been wasted, to even consider brewing something in the boy's dorm, while the majority of their friends were fast asleep.
It had to have been an important potion, too, or else Hermione wouldn't have risked it. Contrary to popular belief, Hermione wasn't an effortless genius, but a genius through effort. Harry knew her well enough by now, to realize that her roommate wouldn't miss out on that kind of opportunity. She was almost always up for doing dumb shit, if it meant that Harry and Ron were helping her practice something productive in the process. Even if that meant brewing an incredibly difficult potion, utterly pissed.
She tried to think back to the last classes she had and shuddered. It had to have been the Reditus potion. Commonly called Reversal potion, composed of an unholy mixture of sweet flowers and exceptionally disgusting innards of magical beasts. It was meant to reverse superficial harm, within a few minutes. It could be applied up to five days after the harm was done while remaining effective. She remembered that now.
Snape had been even more vindictive than usual in his relentless berating because it was his potion design. Harry groaned, she wanted to vomit again. How could she have forgotten something she'd been moaning about for the better part of last month? What had Seamus spiked that thrice-damned fire whiskey with?
'Oh my god,' Ron murmured in shocked recognition.
'What?' Hermione asked, in that tone of voice that implied that she was only dedicating a small amount of her attention towards him because she was concentrating.
They'd all lost the ties and the sweaters, by now, only sitting there their dress shirts, skirts and in Ron's case pants.
'You still have it!' Ron exclaimed pointing at her cleavage.
'Boobs?' Harry asked.
She sighed pathetically, inwardly cringing. Great job at deducting, drunk Harry.
'No,' Ron waved away, and Hermione's eyes snapped up, glaring at them both.
'What do you mean, I don't have boobs?' she asked irritated.
'You still have the time turner!' Ron exclaimed again and Harry's eyes snapped towards Hermione's cleavage, finding the little chain.
'I could have—' her thoughts immediately went to Cedric and she shuddered.
'You couldn't have,' Hermione interrupted. 'It's been deactivated. It's not working anymore. Dumbledore did it himself after our third year,' she hurried to say, as she shook her head. 'It's just a useless trinket, now. I kept it because of the memories.'
'Let's see it then!' Ron called. 'Merlin's pants, I still can't believe I missed out on that. I would have loved to know how that felt like,' he admitted sheepishly as he reached out for it, while Hermione pulled it over her head and held it out to him.
Sober Harry felt her heart drop in horror as she remembered seeing Hermione, know-it-all-extraordinaire, and by-the-book-doer-for-life, dangle the dangerous piece of jewelry over the cauldron. Surely not, she thought, in horror.
'Seriously? Be careful with that, there's still sand inside and everything,' Ron called out and grabbed the chain but missed the pendant, which sailed towards the potion, still dangling on its chain. Drunk Harry stumbled forward to catch it, hoping she could save it.
In a moment of panic, she used her incredible seeker reflexes to reach out for the pendant, at the same time as Ron hurled up the chain, that was still connected to it, and thus she slapped the small hourglass against the inside of cauldron. It burst immediately, sand seeping out of it and into the seething potion, even as her hand reached out in a desperate attempt to catch the shards or the sand or whatever, trying anything to make the situation better.
The potion roared up into a full boil before anyone could react, and a few splashes surged onto Harry's face, when she stumbled back and away from the angry bubbling concoction.
A few seconds nothing happened, besides Harry wiping at her face, trying to get the stuff away from her eyes, afraid that she might lose her sight, and spreading it on her forehead in mindless panic.
Hermione and Ron watched her do it, shocked still, wide-eyed, afraid and yet hopeful. Because maybe, just maybe, for once in their fucking life's, they'd get away with it.
After a few tense moments passed, Harry gathered her wits and smiled reluctantly, still unsure and afraid, but also increasingly optimistic.
She was just in the process of shoving herself back up and away from the ground near the cauldron when she suddenly felt something tug within her scar.
It grew in strength and intensity and after a moment, she could feel it drag so sharply at it, that her scar felt like it was on the verge of tearing open. She panicked but before she could ask for help or even articulate what was wrong with her the feeling intensified tenfold.
It was unlike any pain she'd ever felt, before, ran deeper, felt harsher, more finite.
It was as if something was ripping away at her very essence and she screamed bloody murder.
She saw Hermione stumble towards the door of the dorm and felt Ron try his best to hold her down so that she couldn't hurt herself while thrashing. Harry had more and more trouble breathing. The pain wasn't just in her scar, anymore. It ran through her nervous system with the vehemence of a wildfire, untamed and free, wreaking havoc everywhere at once, relentless in its persistence.
The push and pull were the actual worst part of it, but at least she felt the pressure from Ron's grip on her arms vanish, as her friend stared at him in unadulterated horror.
'Your arms!' he screamed at her, and Harry who was in the worst pain of her life, couldn't concentrate on anything anymore.
She would have liked to scream back, what's with my arms? but she couldn't even formulate the thought before the burning pressure distracted her again. Harry barely acknowledged Ron's tears, never mind the fact that she couldn't feel Ron's weight pressing her down, anymore, even though she should be able to, because up until then Ron had used his body weight to hold her in place, and he hadn't moved away.
She'd just stopped feeling him.
She tried to look at what was happening, but she couldn't. The pain had started cold and harsh and was now searing hot against her forehead. As if it was burning something away. When she felt the first waning of intensity, she was aware enough to hear her best friend's desperate calls.
'Stay with me. Don't—'
The pain shot through her once more, throbbed against her, pulsed. Harry knew the pulling would start again, felt her body rose to the challenge when Ron's voice cut through the haze of bone-deep terror.
'Harry! You're vanishing. You have to—'
Everything stopped.
No preamble.
No otherworldly experience.
No sensation.
Nothing.
Harry sat in the decrepit train station that looked like something out of a horror film and shook her head in faint trepidation. Her headache had receded since she'd lain down, but she knew that she needed to get out of there.
Grasping her wand, she steadied herself once more and walked towards the exit.
Walking out of the train station, she realized two things. The first one was, that she was in London. The second one was, that it wasn't her London.
Streets filled with rubble and debris greeted her. People hurried through it as if they were used to it. She took in a shuddering breath and tried to keep walking.
Sooner or later she'd probably find a wizard or see something that would trigger some kind of memory as to where or more importantly when she was, or so she hoped. She didn't make it far before a police officer saw her, but she was aware enough of her surroundings to duck down and hide before the man could brave the rubble and get to her.
Small mercies.
She frantically tried to figure out how to deal with this. Sadly, the only thing she remembered about time travel was Hermione's ominous warning from the third year and that certainly wasn't helping her any. Bad things happened to witches and wizards who meddled with time. Frowning, she could only hope that this, like all other magic, was more about intent, than accomplishing the actual deed.
When the third police officer noticed her and she barely dodged him by making a run for it, she had to grudgingly admit that she needed to change her appearance. The skirt from her school uniform was covered in dust and soot, as was the simple white dress shirt she'd tucked into it. Even though the uniform was a bit more conservative than most uniforms she'd seen, it still didn't look quite right for this time.
The white shirt fit a bit too tightly and the skirt was a bit shorter than what seemed to be the norm but other than that her clothes didn't look too different from the ones the people around her wore.
Walking through the streets she realized that she was garnering a bit too much attention. She would have to find Diagon Alley, soon. There she could easily transmute her clothes, without getting in trouble for underage magic.
The whole situation was more than a little precarious.
She took another sharp corner, in the hopes of miraculously seeing the Leaky Cauldron behind it, she was getting a bit desperate there. Harry had to step back quickly, when she found herself almost face to face with the police officer from before.
The burly old man immediately grabbed her by her arm, much like Vernon had in the past, and hurled her against the wall.
'How old are you?' he asked staring Harry down.
'Fifteen,' Harry answered through gritted teeth, aware that if she tried to make herself older, she'd probably just end up getting into more trouble.
'Thought so. Where are your parents?'
'Home,' Harry tried.
'Ahhh,' the police officer nodded. 'And is this home still standing?' he replied, dryly, examining Harry as she frowned up at him.
'What do you think?' Harry asked annoyed with the way absolutely nothing worked out for her today.
She slowly realized why the police officer had picked up on her and not the other teens, that were still lingering around. She was grim covered and a little bloody, from the cuts on her hand, running aimlessly around London.
Fuck. She must have been more out of it than she initially thought.
'I'll take you to Wools. Mrs. Cole will be unhappy about another mouth to feed, but she'll appreciate the cheap labor. They need a few more workers over there,' he told her as he hurled her away from London's busy streets in quick and decisive steps.
'What is Wools?' Harry asked stricken. She'd stopped trying to pull away when she realized just how much it took out of her to do it. By the time she managed it, she'd be ready to collapse.
'It's the orphanage,' the police officer shrugged, hand still placed securely on Harry's shoulder with just enough pressure to make sure she followed the older man's lead. She groaned. An orphanage. Of course.
Wools looked straight-up depressing. The only thing that was missing from the scene before her was a possessed nun or something.
She was still sickly and had thrown up once more, while the officer had tugged her along mercilessly. 'Probably smoke poisoned.' The officer said after examining her, while Harry just shut down. It wasn't a conscious decision, anymore. She was tired and exhausted and scraped up and she wanted the day to be over.
'Mrs. Cole?' The officer called as his heavy fist came down against the fragile wooden door.
'Tell me you don't have another one for me!' A stern sounding woman called back as she walked over to them.
She was a bit fuller than Harry would have expected anyone to be in times like this. She also looked to be a bit drunk, but her demeanor wasn't unkind when she mustered her.
'You made it out of the rubble?' She asked after a few moments passed.
She sounded like a woman who would have liked to be able to feel pity, still. Maybe she'd been someone who had been able to emphasize at some point in her life but lost the ability along the way and was now trying not to acknowledge its glaring absence in the face of tragedy.
Harry didn't mind that.
She minded a lot of other things, though, like her appearance in a time that was so obviously not her own, her uncertainty concerning the length of her stay, and the impending dread that came with the realization that the decrepit, half demolished train station might have been a better place for the night.
Then she realized they were waiting for her to respond. She nodded, still shocked, and tired, and done. Her head was hurting like hell.
'I think she's breathed in a bit too much smoke. She also keeps touching her head like she's in pain,' the police officer offered while taking a step back from her, as Harry looked up at him in surprise.
'She could have knocked her head on the ground,' Mrs. Cole murmured, as she reached for Harry's head, probably to feel for a bump, but Harry evaded her searching hand.
Mrs. Cole stared at her for another long moment, before she nodded. 'No touching, that's okay. Can you do it yourself? See if there's a bump?'
Harry nodded quickly and rubbed her hands through her thick red hair. She groaned when her fingers ghosted over what felt like quite a bit of a bump at the back of her head.
'There's a small one, on the back of my head,' she said, voice still hoarse from disuse. 'Probably from the impact,' Harry added thoughtfully. It must have been, she had been hurled through time.
Mrs. Cole nodded. 'We'll put you in the room with the babes. They cry every few hours anyway, so you'll wake with them. Maybe you'll even be able to help out, we'll see,' she said nodding to herself. Harry agreed easily. Concussions were no joke and she was not about to risk the consequences of sleeping uninterrupted with one.
'What's your name?' Mrs. Cole asked in that stern tone that always seemed to spurn an immediate response from Harry.
'Harry,' she answered, still a little wary. Realistically she knew she could probably tell them her real name. There was no way, that this woman would know anything about the Potter family. In addition to that, the name Potter wasn't exactly unusual for muggles. Never had been. It was also the only thing that still connected her to who she really was. She swallowed. She was stuck. Somewhere between here and there and maybe nowhere at all. Maybe this was all part of an elaborate illusion. Some fever dream, she experienced from the horrid concoction they'd brewed.
But what was if it wasn't?
What happened if this really was the past?
What if she could change the outcome? Knowing her life, she'd probably somehow end up making it worse.
She owed it to herself to try and preserve her timeline, without creating a paradox or something like that.
She was in a situation so detached from everything she'd ever known or cared about, that she probably could have gotten away with it. She didn't risk it, though.
'My name is Harry Evans. Everyone calls me Harry,' she said hoarsely, caught somewhere between grief and yearning, and Mrs. Cole nodded again.
She didn't lie about her first name, even if she wished she had.
At least she'd learned the reason she'd ended up with the name Harry, this summer.
Even if it was just because her father had drunkenly sworn a vow to Sirius, after losing a bet in their fourth year, which ended with them having to name their first-born heirs after their respective grandfathers.
Harry could be lucky, they hadn't specified that nicknames were out, or else she would have ended up being a Henry, instead. Apparently, her mom had thrown the fit of a lifetime when she found out.
'Alright, Harry, tomorrow we'll figure out your sleeping situation. Now, you should get cleaned up. Carla will get you some clothing and I'll show you where you can warm up some water. There'll be no food for you today, since we don't have enough rations, but we'll organize for food stamps for you by tomorrow,' Mrs. Cole explained, effectively disrupting Harry's train of thought and Harry felt her stomach turn.
Not in hunger, but dread. They were rationing food to this extent.
'Yes, of course,' she said tiredly, and Mrs. Cole looked relieved.
She saw a few of the kids from the orphanage on her way to the washing basin and the tub, that was located next to the kitchen. They looked a bit weary of her and the other teens that were there looked mean and sad and as if her arrival didn't change a thing, which to be fair, it probably wouldn't. After Mrs. Cole had shown her where she could warm the water up, she'd left Harry with Carla, who looked to be about Madam Pomfrey's age.
'I'll leave you to it,' Carla said simply, as she laid down a simple grey cotton skirt with a dark wool sweater and a pair of grey knee-high socks. Great, she thought, happily. At least she'd be able to keep her brown leather shoes. They were well-loved and exceptionally comfortable, so she was relieved when Claire didn't move to take them away.
The underwear was a bit different from what she was used to. It was just a simple white cotton camisole and a pair of white shorts that were held in place by an elastic band and rose up over the belly button and came down just over her mid-thighs. The uniform looked clean and as if it would fit her okay, which she was thankful for, even if she would have preferred the uniform the boys were wearing. She sighed as she sat down next to the tub and started scrubbing herself down with the water from the bucket.
After she got most of the grime off, she stepped inside the tub and picked up the bucket to let the warm water wash over her long hair. She did the last step in increments, hoping beyond hope, that she'd manage to braid her hair into submission, later. She'd never realized how much more they all should have been appreciating showers before she started the long and uncomfortable process of making do without one. Washing had one huge advantage, though. She felt somewhat alive again.
After quickly drying herself off, she slipped into the uniform and tucked her wand down her waistband, in the hopes that the non-elastic-band would hold it in place against her hip. It wasn't the best place for it, but she wasn't about to use her wand as a hairpin. Knowing her hair, it would probably react to it in ways that went beyond unflattering and ended up being straight-up tragic.
She'd have to take care not to let anyone see it, while she figured out how to get out of the orphanage. After that, she quickly washed her discarded clothes as best as she could inside the tub before she dumped the dirty liquid out and slipped outside to hang them up on the washing line. She had a feeling, that she would do well not to ask too many questions and be as independent as she could be, which were both things she was already familiar with, thanks to the Dursleys.
When she was done with hanging everything up and reflecting her shit fate in life, she stepped back inside and was promptly herded to the sleep room of the babies, by an increasingly stressed Claire. It looked like she was about ready to serve a late lunch when Harry had shown up and asked her where to go.
At first, she felt weird lying still in bed, next to four little cribs with babies who were in various states of wakefulness and chattered and cooed into the empty room, but then she realized how tired and exhausted she'd been since she'd first tried to make sense of what happened to her today.
Truthful to Mrs. Cole's prediction she was woken up every few hours by loud wailing, but she was in no condition to help care for them and it didn't seem like anyone truly expected her to, either.
Mrs. Cole didn't mind. She just stepped close, to see if Harry had really woken up and after a few moments of forced eye contact, she let her go back to sleep, while she cared for one baby after another.
When Harry woke up for the seventh time, she was greeted by a small tablet that held a piece of toast, an egg, and what looked like a glass of thinned out milk. Either way, she was grateful for it. She made the mandatory eye contact with Mrs. Cole, sat up, and started to eat without much preamble.
'You slept for a long time, it's almost noon,' Mrs. Cole noted.
'I must have hit my head harder than I realized,' she murmured between two bites of toast.
'Yes, which is why you won't have to do any chores, today. Those will start tomorrow. I already told your roommate that she would have to pick you up and show you around. She'll only be your roommate for two more weeks until Tom gets back from school, though. After that, we'll have to see how we can make this work, without putting anyone up in the attic,' she said nodding her head decisively. Harry looked at her in barely suppressed horror. She remembered the Dursley's attic, well.
They'd sent her up there once to collect some errand Christmas decoration, but she'd been so afraid that all the baubles on the tree had exploded before she even made it three stairs up the ladder. It had looked dingy, dark and cold up there and that was in the Dursley's nice, freshly renovated home. She could only imagine what the place would look like here. Not that she planned on staying long enough to find out.
'Alright.' Mrs. Cole mistook her silence for a yes, before calling for Mary, who was apparently her new roommate.
The girl was blonde, blue-eyed, and shy. She spoke quickly when she told her the rules, probably to try and cover up her lisp. Her hand movements looked erratic, and her eyes always ghosted over everything in the room before she stepped in behind her. She looked a bit haunted, but she hid it well.
Harry learned a lot in the next ten minutes. Meals were always held at the same time. Breakfast at seven, Lunch at noon and dinner at six o'clock. The chores were divided by the week. The only exception to this was baby duty and helping in the garden. Those were given to those deemed mature enough to be trusted with them. Mary also explained that they could leave the orphanage, as long as they showed up to do their chores and came back every night before curfew, which was at seven-thirty, sharp.
If you didn't come back before curfew you were in trouble. If you missed a meal, you missed the meal. There were no leftovers, to be had. If you skipped out on your chores, you were in trouble. If you backtalked, you were in trouble. Harry listened to Mary for as long as she could, before her thoughts started to drift off.
She could leave. These people were kind enough to help her, kinder than the Dursleys had been, in times so much harsher and colder than she'd ever known. However, she realized that if she wanted to go back to her time, she had to return to the wizarding world to search for help.
'You should introduce yourself to everyone,' Mary whispered, disrupting her thoughts. 'They don't like it when the new ones don't do that,' she quickly added, as if she really needed to make sure Harry understood the severity.
After she piled another 'You wouldn't want them to dislike you,' on top of that, Harry complied.
'I will, if you show me where they are,' Harry said shrugging.
'Don't mind Billy, okay?' Mary said. 'He can be a bit difficult,' she explained, and Harry groaned inwardly.
As if she gave a flying fuck about what Billy's problem was. She forced herself to smile, anyway, because she was the intruder here, and she already knew what it felt like not to be wanted and to be disdained by the people you shared a home with.
The room they entered looked almost as big as the kitchen, downstairs. Toys and books were strewn across the floor and people were talking over each other. Smaller kids tumbling about, brawling over the very limited number of toys, that were available for them, while the older ones were sitting by the window playing cards.
Harry quickly got the introduction over with, when she noticed people looking at them.
'Hello, nice to meet you, I'm Harry,' she said quickly and as confident as she could manage.
'Harry is a boy's name,' a boy that eerily reminded her of Perkins, argued.
'It could be short for Harriett?' a girl with dark brown hair, murmured, from somewhere behind Mary.
'It's just Harry,' she repeated, without any heat. It was what it was. She wasn't a big fan either.
A few moments, no one said anything and then the Perkins-look-alike, said, 'Name's Michael.' and just nodded at her. Thankfully the others followed his lead. She kept herself slightly behind Mary, while they did so.
They were staring at her freckles. It would have been annoying if she hadn't grown used to it over time. Everyone used to say, you look like your mother, but you have your father's eyes and well, her mother had freckles galore and fiery red hair, which was not exactly a plain combination. That combined with her dark brown eyes wasn't what people were used to either, they expected something a lot lighter, more piercing and a lot less warm.
She was used to the initial pause. Everything about her was a bit too much. Her hair too red, her skin too pale, her freckles too bountiful and dark. Evidently, her name alone did a lot to throw people off, too.
Thankfully, neither the kids nor the guys seemed particularly interested in her or her introduction, after the first awkward staring match, but that was more than fine with her. The rest of the day was spent making plans and sleeping and eating and recovering.
She would have to make the potion again and she had to try and find the material they made the sand for time turners out of. Harry sighed as she thought about what the fuck that could be. Rooming with Hermione had spoiled her. Even if she wouldn't let her straight up copy anything from her, she always shared her books and helped, where she could, especially when Harry felt like she hit a wall. Never mind Ron, who helped diffuse horrid situations like this with his sense of humor, and more often than not, actually knew of something helpful.
She groaned. Remembering them would only end in tears and she couldn't afford that.
'Our room is only a few to the side.' Mary added after a moment. 'The girls' room got too crowded, so we had to use it, even if we usually don't.' She told her this as she walked down the small corridor with purpose. As if she was defying something.
'Alright?' Harry asked.
'Yeah. It's still a bit weird,' she said after a moment. 'Even if he isn't here. It's like he's claimed it somehow. Mrs. Cole even called the priest to make sure there was nothing wrong with it before she told me to go sleep in it.'
Harry just stared at her for a moment. 'I'm sorry, what's supposed to be wrong with using it?'
Mary stared at her for a moment, before she just shook her head. 'It's Tom's room and sometimes weird things happen around him.'
'Things like what?' Harry asked, knowing the answer already.
'Things that don't make sense. We should get back to the others,' Mary answered in a clipped tone.
Harry stared at her for a moment. This Tom was away at boarding school, in times of food rationing and he'd obviously caused quite a ruckus to have made this much of a bad impression. Accidental magic could do that.
Fuck, they fucking went and called the priest on him. Thank Merlin, her aunt had never tried that special route of re-educating her.
She shuddered in apprehension.