When Forgotten is Found

Harry watched as Ron stuffed the last dumpling in his mouth and chomped down with a revolting squish sound. An hour before, they had visited the kitchens and made it back just before fifth-year curfew, and Dobby made sure they left with full pockets—though Harry just gave away the candies he didn't feel like eating to the rest of the students in the common room. Hermione, however, didn't go with them. She had been laying on the floor by the fireplace since before they even left, taking notes from her transfiguration textbook.

Ron placed the empty dish on the table and stood up. He made a show of huffing at his fullness, gripping his stomach, then said, "I'm off. See you two in the morning."

They bid him farewell and he disappeared up the stairs to the boy's dorm. The very second the door closed, Hermione launched up to her feet and sat down on the coffee table across from Harry with her nostrils flared.

"So?" she asked, crossing her arms.

"Er—What?" Harry said, genuinely bewildered. The way Hermione spoke made it seem like they'd planned on discussing something when Ron left, but he had no memory of doing so. "What are you... What?"

She scooted so close to him that Harry felt his knee brush against hers, and she leaned in seriously. "Are you going to tell me where you've been sneaking off to for the last two nights?"

So, she did see me, Harry thought. For the last two nights, Harry had waited until the dead of night, when the only conscious person in Gryffindor tower was Hermione, who studied quietly on the couch by the fire, then snuck out of the common room under the security of his invisibility cloak. The first night he made it halfway out of the portrait hole before it creaked loudly, causing the studious girl to let out a startled yelp. Harry pulled his leg over as quickly as he could while still keeping it concealed under the cloak and just managed to shut the portrait when he heard footsteps rush towards him from behind the Fat Lady. The painting shot open once more, revealing the new seventh-floor painting: Suspicious Hermione.

The next night, Harry found Hermione lying right in front of the portrait hole. He would have thought her to be guarding it, had she not been copying bits of text from a large tome. She was pushing down quite hard on the paper with her quill and scrunching her face together, so he figured if he was quiet enough, she might not even notice him. He slowly worked his way around her, taking his time with each step so that he walked silently without the floors creaking beneath him. He pushed the portrait open slower than last time, lifted one of his legs over the side, and started to pull the other one up when Hermione's head spun around to peer at the hole in the wall. At the sight of Hermione's laser-trained eyes, Harry forgot that he was hidden under his father's cloak and fell backwards onto the corridor floor. He worked his way back onto his feet and under the cloak to see Hermione climbing out.

Harry stood in silence a few feet away from her—his best friend. He wondered for a moment if he should just rip off the cloak and tell her what he was up to, but he knew that she wouldn't approve—and, because she's Hermione, put an end to it. He couldn't take that chance. After a moment of suspiciously glaring down the seemingly empty corridor, Hermione sighed, straightened her skirt, and climbed back through the portrait hole.

"I saw your shoe when you fell, Harry," Hermione said in a hissing whisper, bringing Harry back to the present. He could tell she was more concerned than angry with him, which made him even more guilty about not just telling her what he was up to in the first place. "Don't try to deny it, I know your shoes—you only have a few pairs. So, what have you been up to?"

Harry gazed around the common room for a moment in case anyone was close enough to hear. It was past ten, so there were plenty of people still awake and chatting or doing homework, and Harry wasn't sure whether or not it was safe to speak in front of the other Gryffindors about the D.A. Any one of them could tell Umbridge and get them all in serious trouble—including the ones that were already in the club. Harry was content to see that the only people in listening range, were focusing hard on their schoolwork by the window.

Harry sighed and quietly said, "The room where we met for the D.A. meeting. I've been, well, testing it."

"Testing it," said Hermione. "What do you mean?"

Harry bit his cheek. She was clearly going to find out whether he told her or not. He leaned in even closer and whispered. "There's this room... It shows up if you think about hiding. It's huge—giant even. It's filled with loads of things. Things people have... thrown away or hid, I guess."

"So," said Hermione curiously. "You've been filtering through trash instead of sleeping."

Harry laughed to himself for a moment. He didn't realize how hard it was going to be to tell her. He didn't understand; it was always easy to talk to Hermione—he told her everything. Was this really that different? After a moment of looking at each other in silence, Hermione reached down and took hold of Harry's hand in between both of hers.

"Harry?" she said. "What is it?"

"Maybe..." Harry muttered. "Maybe you should just see it for yourself."

Hermione squeezed his hand, and he returned the pressure gratefully. "Okay," she said simply.

Harry sat by Hermione for the next few hours on the couch in front of the fire while she continued her excessive note-taking. When everyone had gone to bed, and the nighttime October wind could be heard whirring on the windowsill, Harry said that he'd be right back to retrieve the cloak. As he stood, Hermione held him by the wrist. The concerned look made its way back onto her face as she gazed into his eyes, and he didn't have to ask what she was trying to say.

"I won't sneak past you," he whispered. She smiled and let him go.

Harry emerged from the boy's dormitory door moments later with the cloak stuffed underneath his sweater "Got it," Harry said, pulling the cloak out.

In the corridor, Hermione joined him beneath the fabric and even though she was shorter than him, it was a struggle to keep them both concealed at the same time. After only a few steps of crouching and desperately pulling the fabric so that it covered their feet, they decided to just move as close as possible and keep their knees bent. Every time they took a step, their legs scraped against each other uncomfortably.

"A bit annoying, isn't it?" said Hermione, shifting her body as they walked to the Room of Requirements.

"Could be worse," said Harry. "At least no one's pelting us with curses. Try to focus on something else."

"Like what?"

"Anything. Ask me about something."

There was silence for a while before Hermione finally said, "Cho Chang."

"What?"

"I saw the way she way she was looking at you during the D.A. meeting."

"Is... that a question?"

"I mean, do you still like her? Do you think it'll affect your teaching?"

"Teaching?" Harry snorted. "Well, probably not. We don't really talk that much."

"Yeah... But you do like her?"

"Maybe. I'm not really sure, Hermione. Honestly."

"Hmm," said Hermione. Harry couldn't help but notice that her walking pace quickened ever so slightly. "Your turn."

"Were taking turns?" asked Harry.

"You don't have anything you'd like to ask me? Nothing at all?"

"Well, when you put it like that... There has been something I've been meaning to ask you since we're talking about this sort of thing already." Harry's heart rate quickened, and he worried she might be able to hear it since they were so close.

"Go on," Hermione said. Harry could tell by the sound of the voice that she was grinning.

"Last year—after the ball—you said something," said Harry. "You were arguing with Ron about, well I'm not sure what you were arguing about, really. But you told him that next time he wanted to go with you, he should just ask you sooner." Harry hoped he had said enough to elicit a response from her, but he was met with a jarring silence. "So, I was just wondering. I was just curious if you... Do you like him?"

"Of course, I like him," said Hermione, as they arrived at the corridor that the Room of Requirement was on. "He's our friend. Though he does bug me sometimes."

Harry struggled to dispel the smile that began to grow on his face.

The pair stopped in front of the wall that they knew that the Room of Requirement would appear, and Harry reminded Hermione to wish for a place to hide before they both bowed their heads in silence. He worked his brain to its limits trying to focus on hiding after what he'd just heard Hermione say, but his thoughts betrayed him. Little memories of her and Ron arguing that had once made him nervous were vacating their homes and moving to the oceanside towns of his brain, which tingled with delight with every flashing image. He wished that the light-headed feeling could stay forever, but soon, he thought, Hermione would be angry with him.

The sound of grinding stone grew louder and louder as the outline of a sturdy door snaked its way around the spot where dark oak soon displaced the empty space it traced, and two large handles appeared midway up from the ground. Harry reached out from beneath the cloak and pulled. Once they had the door shut behind them, Harry slid the cloak off of them and watched Hermione gaze around the cathedral-sized room for the first time. Old raggedy items stood like towers and hills around them; copied homework, books from the restricted section, chairs with gum on the undersides, and expensive jewelry that seemed to have no business there at all.

Once she'd taken in as much as her senses could manage, her eyes shot to Harry's. "What is this place," she asked with a curious smile.

"Like I said," Harry shrugged. "The Room of Hidden Things. And that includes us, technically."

Hermione's face grew serious. She crossed her arms and tilted her head slightly. "Right. Now, what is it you need to show me?"

Harry led Hermione through the paths between the junk piles he had gotten so used to traversing. "Don't be mad, Hermione," he said as they arrived in between a busted piano and a bullfrog sculpture made of moldy cheese. A large canvas encased something tall and rectangular. Hermione stood in front of it while Harry walked over to its side and tugged at the canvas, which slid off at the slightest touch and fell faster and faster until it landed with a loud flapping sound. "It's called the Mirror of Erised."

He chewed on the inside of his lip as he watched her expression go from mild curiosity to nothing at all. Her eyes had become glued to the mirror and she watched transfixed until a grin appeared on her face and spread from ear to ear. "It isn't real," said Harry. "Whatever you're seeing. This was the mirror from the chamber at the end of first year. The one that I was able to get the stone from."

"The one that Dumbledore warned you about," she said, her grin beginning to fail as she watched the surface of the mirror. "I don't understand. What's so bad about it?"

"It shows your—er—most inner desire—or something like that, but that's it. It only shows you what you want to see. People waste away staring at it and forget about their lives, because, when they see what it shows them, they forget that they don't actually have it."

Harry noticed that Hermione's cheeks were starting to grow red as she gazed into the mirror. Suddenly, she shot him a worried look. "You—you can't see what I'm seeing, can you?" she stuttered.

"Er—no, it's different for everyone. Why?"

Hermione cleared her throat and straightened her shirt. "I—no reason. What do you see, then?"

Harry raised his eyebrows and joined her in front of the mirror. He wiped a few layers of dust off of the stand and peered into the mirror, steeling himself. Just beyond the glass, a few feet away, he sat at the kitchen table at Grimaud Place. An instantly recognizable pair of green sparkling eyes were set on top of a wide smile in front of him, and next to her, Sirius and his father were laughing about something. Sitting next to Harry, Hermione rested her head on his shoulder, and on his other side, Ron was chatting happily with Cedric Diggory, who was still alive.

Harry took a deep breath. "I used to see my whole family—or I did when I was a first-year—but now I... There are a few less people. My parents are still there, but so is Sirius, you, Ron, and..." Harry shut his eyes and balled his fists. He took a few more breaths before letting his head sag and shakily saying, "And Cedric."

He felt Hermione place her hand on his back and he pulled his head back up to look at her. Before he could even say a word, she wrapped him into a tight hug—tighter than she had ever hugged him before.

Maybe I won't need to explain, Harry hoped, on the verge of tears, as he returned Hermione's tight embrace. He failed Cedric. If it weren't for Harry, Amos Diggory would still have his son. Cedric would still be alive. Harry knew that if Hermione were to make him explain himself, he wouldn't be able to hold it together for another second longer.

"I'm not mad, Harry," whispered Hermione. And with that, Harry let his face fall into the crook of her warm neck, and he held her even tighter. "I get why you've been coming here, now."

Of course, she wasn't mad. Of course, she understood. This was Hermione Granger. How could he have been so stupid? If anyone were to understand Harry's chaotic thinking, it was Hermione. Harry let her go and wiped his watering eyes with the palms of his hands, and when he looked back into the mirror, Hermione took hold of his hand and squeezed it.

"Hermione?" Harry asked, returning the pressure.

"Yes?"

"Will you help me destroy it?"