As Harry struggled to keep his spirits up, Ron consistently made him forget his worries. While he appreciated Hermione's concern for his well-being, he appreciated Ron's efforts to improve his mood without talking at length about feelings.

At lunch one afternoon, after Harry had explained the time loop, he asked Ron, "Do you want to go somewhere?"

"You've got somewhere in mind?"

"London. We can take the Floo Network."

"Why not, if time is resetting tomorrow?"

Harry had no idea what they were to do, he just knew getting away and bringing them into a new situation would feel like an escape from the monotony of everything.

They went into every shop Harry had never visited before and he marveled at the magical goods with fresh amazement. He ordered them an extravagant dinner at a Muggle restaurant comprised of tiny courses that were immaculately presented in the center of gleaming china. With money to burn, he whipped up some disguises and booked them a suite at the Damarion Hotel. Apparently, it was the wizarding elite's preferred place to stay in England. Ron seemed to read nothing romantic into the day's activities, to Harry's immense relief.

Harry spread out on his magically soft bed and looked at Ron upside down. "If time was repeating, as in you kept waking up and it was the same day over and over again . . . what would you do?"

Ron's responses typically ran along the lines of eating a lot, playing Quidditch, and getting revenge on Malfoy. After he predictably listed these, Harry pressed, "Really, though. You get bored of all of that, you weren't expecting it to last more than a couple weeks, so what do you do?"

Ron flipped onto his back so he was oriented the same way as Harry. "This was quite fun, I'd do things like we did today. How much can you really do in twenty-four hours? Visit Charlie in Romania maybe, learn about dragons . . . What have you done?"

"Nothing much. Figured out what Malfoy was up to, practiced magic."

"What about the Horcruxes? Have you found out anything about them?"

"Er, not really." Why was he still bothering with Malfoy when he could have been searching for Horcruxes?

"It can't all be about that, though—going at one task for months on end, so I get why you haven't."

"Maybe I should find out the results of a few Muggle sporting events, put money on a team or a horse or something."

"Hey, if you do that, you better include me."

Harry laughed, then rolled onto his stomach. "Okay, I'll look into it. Thanks for coming with me today."

"No, thank you, mate, honestly." Ron rolled over, too, and propped his head up with his hand. "Best meal of my life. Just wish I could remember it tomorrow."

"Ron . . . your friendship means a lot to me."

"I know." Despite his embarrassment, he didn't look away.

"You can guess, but I never tell you, do I? I'm really, really lucky to have you as a friend. You're loyal, funny; you make it easier to deal with this, to deal with everything. Even though you won't remember this conversation, in the future I want to be there for you more."

"Thanks." Ron fidgeted. "You know, you're the first friend I had who my brothers weren't friends with first."

"Really?"

"Yeah." He paused. "When I was nine—no, ten, because it was the year before Hogwarts—I ran away from home."

Harry might have assumed this would be merely a funny childhood story if not for the hitch in Ron's voice and the lost look in his eyes, as though he were returning to the body of his younger self.

"It'd been a tough year. It was just me, Ginny, and my mum, and . . ." He made a sudden look of disgust. "It's so stupid. This is why I never said anything, compared to what you had to put up with at home—"

"I want you to tell me. It's not stupid. What's the point in pretending your childhood was perfect? That would make me feel worse!"

Ron nodded, grimacing again. "Alright then. So I was annoyed with my parents a lot as a kid. I think I was convinced my mum loved Ginny more. I'm throwing fits and generally being a pain in the arse. And when my brothers come back from Hogwarts, we immediately clash, they tell me off for acting like a baby, crack jokes, start pranking me even more than usual. Of course Ginny's the golden child, she's protected, she's dealing with none of it. It's hard to explain now, I'm already forgetting what exactly they did, how I felt."

"I understand what you're saying, though," said Harry.

"What I remember most is the day before I left. Oh—and I should say, that year made me realize just how worried my parents had been about money. So between everything, I felt guilty for burdening them."

Harry nodded. Maybe it was worse to feel like a burden to those you love rather than be told you're a burden by those who don't love you. No, deep down he saw the Dursleys as more than not loving him; he was told he was a burden by those who were supposed to love him.

"Fred and George told me I'd have to fight a troll to be sorted into a House."

"Oh, I remember you saying that when we were waiting to be sorted. I had no idea what to do if we had to use magic . . ."

"Exactly. So they made up this mad story about a kid sorted before them, and how she tried this spell but it didn't work, and the troll ate her. I believed them, even though it sounds obvious now that they were lying. For a week I had nightmares, until I said at dinner that I didn't want to go to Hogwarts because I didn't want to be killed. When my parents worked out why I thought I'd be in danger at Hogwarts—"

"To be fair, our first year you still almost got killed by a troll, not to mention Voldemort. And a giant three-headed dog."

Ron laughed. "Right, if I'd known that I definitely wouldn't have turned up."

"What was it Trelawney predicted?"

"Trelawney?" Ron blinked at him, unsure of where this was going.

"You're going to suffer but be very happy."

"Oh." His mouth twisted into a smile. "Looking back on what we've been through, I wouldn't want to do it again. The best moments, though . . . they've made it worthwhile. But where'd I leave off . . . oh, so Mum got upset at Fred and George, I was sobbing, and later the twins made fun of me for being so gullible."

Harry pictured Ron's face streaked with tears and was at once filled with compassion for him.

"That night, I packed up some clothes, some food, the savings I had, and took off on Charlie's old broom." He paused, looking a bit sheepish. "I got tired pretty quickly. The sun was rising when I stopped to eat the food I'd brought, a ways outside the town. I was walking down the road when my family found me. My brothers had to apologize and everything. I wasn't upset anymore, just glad they cared enough to find me. I dunno. It was a while ago, now."

Although not a revelation, Harry now better understood Ron whenever he felt out of place, undeserving, ashamed.

"How did you do it?" asked Ron.

"Do what?"

"You turned out alright."

"I don't know. You don't think I'm distant?"

"No?"

"I feel like you and Hermione know who you are better than I do."

Ron shook his head. "Nah, that's probably because you know us so well. There's plenty I'm unsure about."

But the time loop made Harry's lack of self-awareness and disconnect from others obvious. People either expected the same patterns from him or missed cues that something was off with him, and his friends often skirted around difficult conversations when they spent time together. Harry had grown too comfortable with his limited knowledge of himself, of others, of the world.

"How much of yourself do you think I don't know? If you had to put a percentage on it."

Ron yawned, too tired to clarify what Harry meant. "Er, five percent. It's not much."

They ordered room service and dove into a collection of candied fruit, hot fudge and ice cream, the Damarion's signature biscuits, and champagne.

". . . Okay, okay, how about this," began Harry after Ron retold one of his most infamous Lavender stories, "Top three girls in our year. Who'd you most want to date, not just based on looks?"

"Hang on, I have to think about this. If I had to choose . . . Lin Miller, Hermione—not that I would, it's only because we usually get on—and Mandy Brocklehurst, I suppose. It hardly matters, anyhow."

"Why not?"

"What have I got to offer? I'm not good-looking, and I'm not really smart or talented. Compared to you . . . I have no idea what Lavender saw in me."

"Lumos!" Harry looked at Ron in disbelief. "Don't be so hard on yourself. If fame helped that much, I'd have had a girlfriend by now, right?" Specifying "girlfriend" left his mouth bitter. "Ron, you're funny, you're loyal, you're a great Keeper, you're caring—"

"That's what you see. Other people don't see that."

"Other people? The minute 'other people' read something negative about me in the paper they thought I was dangerous, a liar. What do other people know?"

"That's different."

"Bullocks, Ron. Forget about them, forget about how you think you measure up to your brothers." Taking them both by surprise, Harry's voice caught. "I don't mean to embarrass you, it's just that out of everyone I could have met on the Hogwarts Express, I'm happy it was you."

Ron blinked a few times, raising a hand to partly block out the light as though it were the cause of his tears. "Yeah?"

"Yes. Lumos Minima!"

Able to see again, Ron picked up a biscuit and began to eat it, slowly, solemnly. "Fank you. I—"

"Mate," said Harry, laughing, "finish your biscuit."

"Mhm." He stuffed another his mouth for good measure, swallowed before speaking for once to ask, "Am I decent-looking, at least?"

Panic crept into Harry, slowed by the champagne. Why would he care what I say, does he think I can tell if blokes are attractive? "Oh. You really want my opinion?" When Ron nodded, he said,"Well then. If I . . . if I were a girl, I'd want to date you. Your height helps, don't you think? And the ginger thing is in your favor, too."

"That's reassuring. Once, the twins tried dying their hair brown. It backfired and made their hair glow neon for two weeks."

"Wow. It's a shame that didn't stick. So what would you say if the girl you're dating thinks she's not good-looking?"

"Obviously if I'm dating her, I'm attracted to her."

Harry wondered how that reasoning would go over with Hermione. "Er, right. Maybe think on that a bit more." There was more he could say to press Ron on the topic of Hermione, however, going further could spoil the day if he reacted badly.

So he decided against it and, yawning, suggested they go to sleep.

"You'll be okay, won't you?" whispered Ron in the dark.

"I'll be okay."

A few days later, Harry met up with Hermione to research the time loop. They quickly got distracted, though, and left the library to talk. Eventually, Harry told Hermione the story about Ron running away as a child, which spurred on the subject of belonging.

"One of the first signs I was a witch," said Hermione, pulling a lock of hair straight and letting it spring back, "was also the first time I remember someone being overtly racist. I was walking to the bus stop ahead of my parents, and this man standing outside of a shop called me a black . . . c-word." She winced. "I don't even like repeating it."

"What a dick."

"Yeah, my mum told him off, and the man tried to move toward her—he was getting angrier and angrier—but he couldn't move. His feet were glued to the ground.

"Word travels fast in my neighborhood, I'm sure the Ministry had no choice but to spin the incident rather than erase it. In the papers that week, it was written off as very strong cement that had hardened around the man's feet. What didn't make sense about that explanation was that he couldn't get his shoes off.

"Apparently, a number of women had reported him for harassment in the past. My parents also filed a complaint to the police; I don't know if they ever found out what happened to him afterward. They kept the newspaper clipping about it, and once they understood I was a witch it was a point of pride."

"Are there many people in London like that, compared to Surrey, do you reckon?"

"Are there many racist people in London? For starters, most people are good at hiding their racism. Spending the school years there, I was shielded from a lot of it. I attended a very diverse school and was too young to notice the subtle versions of prejudice." She thought for a moment. "Still, if given the proper chance, I'm sure people in Surrey would be the same, likely worse. I noticed it more with other students, the ones who were overlooked, left behind. Whereas I was studious, well-behaved, and the odd one out for other reasons.

"You know, when I was bullied first year, still adjusting to Hogwarts, I initially assumed other students didn't like me—at least in part—because I was black."

Harry ached with empathy for her. His first instinct was to tell her that wasn't the case, but what did he know? No one would ever have admitted it like they would have with blood status.

"It's funny, I think the reason I wasn't as affected by the blood purity prejudice as I could have been was because people focused on something I'd never learned to be ashamed of. My magic made me interesting, different, and to suddenly have to resent that . . . It was frustrating because it seemed so arbitrary. Racism is so rooted in culture, in the world, in the UK, and yet with this—people decided Muggleborns weren't equal."

Everything she said, Harry agreed with. What made him uncomfortable, however, was realizing how much thought she had put into it without ever confiding in him. Over the years, he hadn't considered how others may have suffered from forms of racism that differed from his own experiences. Why couldn't they have talked about this before?

"I get what you mean. For me, magic helped me escape my cousin and his gang. It helped me . . . I dunno, you know how Purebloods like Malfoy have this built-in confidence? Until recently Malfoy never doubted himself, questioned his own superiority—"

"Right, Malfoy's identity is the only thing making him feel like he has value. It isn't a gift to him, to any Pureblood, really—more like a right they never doubt. So as soon as it's threatened, they lash out." She was becoming more sure of her train of thought. "They have nothing to offer apart from what they take for granted. Faced with Muggleborns, they see magic as a resource they need to hoard for themselves instead of as a shared and diverse experience."

"Exactly! Exactly, Hermione, that's such a good way to put it. Dudley and his gang had that same confidence. Or maybe a better way to say it is they acted like they were better than others because really, they knew they were completely ordinary." He paused, trying to remember his train of thought. "And . . . the thing is, I knew the way I looked impacted how they treated me. The inexplicable things that happened around me kept me from thinking I was worth somehow less than they were. I'm not saying it wasn't hard, because at times it was bloody difficult, but feeling different in a way beyond my race saved me."

"And considering how famous the Potters are, I can't imagine people would judge you for your race at Hogwarts."

"As the Boy Who Lived, it could be hard to tell why people loathed me. Was Umbridge racist or just cruel? And what about Draco—er, Malfoy, do you think he's racist? Do think people at this school are racist?"

"Maybe to all three."

They spent another couple hours deconstructing race in both of the worlds in which they existed. Hermione recommended a book to him called New Worlds: The History of Muggle Colonialism and Wizarding Society, 1300-1970. Maybe one day he would get around to reading it, but truthfully, he thought the weight of history would crush him.

Having spent time with both Ron and Hermione, Harry was ready to pursue the idea that had been gnawing at him since Ron brought it up: he ought to search for the Horcruxes. Leaving school to go to Diagon Alley was one thing, traveling the country to hunt down pieces of Voldemort's soul when he had hardly any leads was another. From what Dumbledore hypothesized, the Horcruxes included Slytherin's locket, Hufflepuff's cup, something owned by Ravenclaw or Gryffindor, and possibly Nagini.

He decided to start by figuring out the uncertain Horcrux. If there was anyone who may know about an artifact of Ravenclaw's, it was Luna.

"Luna, I was wondering if you've heard of an object that the founder of Ravenclaw owned or created. It would have been special, valuable, and not something that you could see in a museum or in Dumbledore's office."

"Oh, interesting question. Yes, there's the lost diadem of Rowena Ravenclaw."

"It's lost? When did it go missing? And, er, what's a diadem, exactly?"

"It's a sort of tiara, and it went missing centuries ago."

"Right, 'lost.' Are there any stories about where it could be? Or anyone who could know?"

"There is the Grey Lady, the Ghost of Ravenclaw House. If you asked her, she might be able to help. She's quite shy, though she'll talk to Ravenclaws. If she knew you are my friend, she may help you."

"Right, and where could I find her?" After asking this, Harry supposed it would be easier to just use the Marauder's Map.

"Oh, anywhere, really. She likes reading and studying, so perhaps a library. If you ask a ghost, they may be able to point her out to you."

Harry thanked Luna and half-walked, half-jogged toward Gryffindor Tower. A tiara. A tiara . . . had he seen a tiara anywhere? On his way to the common room, he noticed some movement on the wall; the door to the Room of Requirement had materialized.

Was the Grey Lady there, or the diadem? He opened the door, picturing a chair with a crown perched on top of a velvet pillow.

Instead, he found the Room of Hidden Things.

A memory from the day before the loop struck him. "Oh—wait—I remember!" He took off down the main drag, eyes peeled for a familiar alleyway. "Accio diadem!" Nothing happened, so he ran into the alley marked by a stuffed troll and slowed down. Was it right or left at the Vanishing Cabinet that Malfoy had been working to fix? After going right first, he then went left, breath catching as he saw the acid-damaged cupboard.

Between the cupboard and a wig stand was a tiara discolored from time gone unpolished. Engraved along its side were the words "Wit beyond measure is man's greatest treasure."

Harry picked it up and closed his eyes, waiting to feel a heartbeat, or another sign that it was what he was looking for. He thought he heard a subtle whispering, but his scar didn't hurt.

Wasn't it too easy? Surely if Voldemort had wanted to protect the diadem it would be cursed or better hidden.

The surest way to find out if it was a Horcrux was to bring it to Dumbledore. Tucking the diadem into his robes, Harry hurried out of the Room of Hidden Things and down the shortest path he knew to get to the Headmaster's Tower.

The gargoyle gave way to the password "Shock-o-Choc." Even before he got to Dumbledore's office, a smile split across Harry's face. When was the last time he had felt a rush of satisfaction like this? Perhaps focusing on securing his freedom beyond the loop would free him in a different way.

"Good evening, Harry, I was—"

"Writing a letter?"

"Yes, in fact."

"Sorry, sir, I should explain everything to you first."

As he rushed through a summary of the past few months, Dumbledore's eyebrows arched higher and higher.

". . . which made me think I should look for Horcruxes."

"Is that . . . in your hand . . . ?"

Harry handed him the diadem, feeling the weight of it leave him at once.

Dumbledore winced when he touched it with his burnt hand. "It is. Where did you find this?"

"In the Room of Hidden Things."

"Ah." Dumbledore studied the diadem for a long moment. "You recall the memory I showed you in which Voldemort applies to be professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts . . . I believe he could have hidden the diadem in Hogwarts that night."

"So he knew about the room?"

"He must have discovered it as a student. I myself have never required such a room. It is usually used by a certain type of individual, the people whose circumstances require secrecy that they are unable to create independently."

"Right, it was where Dumbledore's Army met. The only other people I know of who've used it are Malfoy and Trelawney."

"Hm." Dumbledore's eyes fell upon the diadem again.

"Sir, we can't destroy it."

"Why not?"

"Because what if it makes the time loop end?" Harry could hardly believe he was advocating to continue the loop. "I should find the others first."

Dumbledore studied Harry before speaking. "How long have you been suspended in time?"

"A few months. I only recently started looking for Horcruxes."

"And you are unaware of the locket's location?"

"Yeah, I've yet to find it. The cup as well, I still have a ways to go."

Dumbledore nodded and stroked his beard. "Come to me again once you have any new information." Then he smiled. "We are now closer to our goal. Well done, Harry."

With the diadem in Dumbledore's possession for the time being, Harry used the Marauder's Map to track down the Grey Lady.

She was young, with waist-length hair, and if he knew anything from observing Malfoy, her haughty pride suggested a noble background. Looking at her more closely, he knew he had passed her but had never given her much thought.

"Grey Lady?"

She glanced at him, then away, continuing to float down the corridor.

"Hang on, you're the ghost of Ravenclaw House, aren't you?"

"That is correct." She slowed her pace so he could walk next to her.

"I found the lost diadem."

She froze and looked at him, eyes wide. "How?"

Harry was taken aback by the urgency in her stare. "It's in Hogwarts. Someone hid it in the castle."

"Someone . . . and do you know who hid it?"

"It has to be Voldemort—Tom Riddle—I just have no idea how he got it, or how he put it there."

"So you have failed enough exams to think the diadem will only help you."

"What have exams got to do with it? No, I'm trying to stop Voldemort, he put a piece of his soul in it so he'd be impossible to kill."

Helena's serene face twisted. "The diadem belonged to my mother." They were alone, and Harry could tell she would not confess this unless he was the only one to hear.

"Your mother was Rowena Ravenclaw?"

"Yes. Knowing that such a terrible wizard warped a family heirloom . . ."

"A family heirloom that makes you smarter?"

Helena Ravenclaw shook her head, as though preparing to explain a simple concept to a child. "It bestows wisdom. That is why I stole the diadem." Her voice had dropped to a whisper. "My mother concealed my betrayal from the other founders of Hogwarts, pretending she still possessed it. When my mother neared death, she sent someone to bring me to her, for closure. The man had loved me for years, although I did not return his affections.

"The Baron tracked me to the forest in where I was hiding with the diadem. When I refused to return with him, he became violent. He had always been quick to anger. Furious at my refusal, jealous of my freedom, he stabbed me."

"You said the Baron, do you mean—?"

"The Bloody Baron, yes." She lifted the cloak she wore over her dress to reveal a dark wound in her chest, right over her heart. "Once he came to his senses, he was overcome with remorse. With the weapon he used to take my life, he took his own. To this day, he wears chains as an act of penitence, as he should."

"Where was this? Did it happen near the castle, since you're here now?"

"I was hiding in Albania. I returned to Britain after my mother died, apparently from a broken heart. She knew she had caused my death, and that it was impossible for me to see her. She never knew I returned as a ghost. Only after two centuries or so—after everyone who knew me and their children had died—did I return to Britain, and to Hogwarts. The Baron followed me, and ever since, we have kept our identities a secret. Now, he lives with remorse for his transgressions against me."

"I'm sorry. That's awful."

"Yes, it is. Now, I have told you far too much . . . needlessly dwelling on my past distracts me." She drifted away, leaving him alone in the corridor.

Had the Bloody Baron cast the curse? Could a ghost do such a thing? Or maybe after killing the woman he loved, he regretted it so much that he tried to reverse time, and when he failed, he ended his life. By using Sectumsempra, Harry could have imitated the stabbing and triggered the loop.

With a shout of triumph, Harry ran to track down the Bloody Baron. As the ghost rounded the corner by the Slytherin dormitory, Harry said, "Excuse me, I need to ask you something."

"Why are you sneaking around the dungeons, Gryffindor?"

"I found out that the Grey Lady is Helena Ravenclaw, and that you killed her."

The Bloody Baron stared at him, stony expression fracturing.

"So I wanted to know, did you ever try to cast a curse to reverse time? So you could take it back?"

"No. Even if such a spell existed, I would have chosen to pay for my sin." "Then . . . how is time screwed up? I've been living the same day over and over again."

"You thought of me because you also hurt the person you love?"

"No! That's not—I don't love him, I don't even like—" Harry had let the pronoun slip out accidentally, but figured it may pass unnoticed. "But why would someone make time reverse if they weren't trying to undo a mistake?"

"Not every ghost is present because of regret. Most have unfinished business, the kind that will always remain unfinished, trapping them among mortals."

"So . . . you're saying . . . ?"

"You are mortal. There may be unfinished business that has trapped you in time. I cannot move on, but perhaps you can . . ."

"Wait—don't go—I still don't understand."

"Do not tell anyone about this," the Bloody Baron said, then sunk into the floor.

As though watching himself from above, Harry crouched down onto the ground, pressing his hands on the stone surface through which the Baron had disappeared. After at least a dozen weeks and too many dead ends to remember, he was done getting his hopes up.