Chapter 3 – Revelations, Retaliations, Reintroductions, Reaffirmations, and a Strawberry

A tired Albus Dumbledore tossed and turned restlessly as he tried to sleep, unable to drift off in what he had always thought was a very comfortable bed. The barrage of events through the last couple of days, however, would not let him find the peace he needed to rest his 100+ year old bones. Harry's suspect entrance into the Triwizard Tournament had been a body blow. After the stress and strain of Harry's first three years at Hogwarts, combined with the debacle that had come the night of the Quidditch World Cup, Albus had very much hoped to give the young man a restful year where he could simply enjoy his studies and watch what would hopefully be exciting but safe (well, compared to previous tournaments) exhibitions of intellect, bravery, and of course magic. It was one of the reasons why he had pushed so forcefully for the rule only allowing of-age participants; given what Harry had already accomplished by fourteen he wasn't entirely sure that the Goblet would pick anyone else as the Hogwarts Champion should he put his name in the running. Of course, in retrospect Albus should have known that Harry would never want the kind of notoriety being chosen would bring, and somewhere deep down that he wouldn't yet admit to he also knew that he should have expected his best laid plans to, as the Muggles say, go tits up. Harry's name coming out of the Goblet, and the subsequent reaction of nearly everyone in attendance, was only the tip of the trouble iceberg, however. Sunday morning he had gone to warm his late morning tea and discovered something even more puzzling, disconcerting, and, if he was honest with himself, borderline terrifying.

He was no longer the master of the Elder Wand.

The vaunted Deathstick had been his for nearly 50 years, won from his former closest friend and partner, the Dark Wizard Gellert Grindelwald. Aside from Gellert himself, who had spent the intervening years locked in Nurmengard Prison, no one was privy to that information, and Albus had always intended for it to stay that way until his death, hopefully breaking the power and the curse that the Hallow held. It was one of the reasons why he had taken to the sidelines so much during the first war; he could not risk the Elder Wand falling into the enemy's hands, particularly Voldemort's. Should Tom have taken mastery of it, with his already prodigious strength, knowledge, and talent, it would have spelled disaster. Even without it he had almost succeeded, stopped only by the loving sacrifice of Lily Potter for her infant son.

In between fielding Floo calls from the Ministry, mostly complaints about the debacle that had happened on Halloween, he had racked his brain trying to figure out how he had been stripped of mastery over the fabled wand. As far as he knew, the only way to lose the wand's allegiance was to be defeated in martial conflict, and unless senility had finally started taking hold he certainly hadn't gotten into any duels since Saturday night (though there had been one or two close calls based on some of the conversations he'd had through the Floo). He admitted to himself, however, that the true nature of the Peverell wand was a mystery; it was possible some other force was at work that had seen him no longer in command of the Deathstick. He had tried to go to sleep Sunday evening but his mind would not stop creating and discounting possibilities as to what might have happened, and so Monday morning found him no more rested than when he had laid down his head.

As the headmaster prepared for the coming day, he did manage to make one decision, though. Regardless of the circumstances, the original goal of keeping the Elder Wand from another's hand was still both viable and necessary in his eyes. He came down the stairs from his quarters to his office and wove an intricate set of symbols in the air with (no longer) his wand in front of the case that held the fabled Sword of Gryffindor. As he finished the display tilted out of the way, revealing a small alcove with a single item; a long, thin box. Withdrawing it reverently, he sat at his desk and opened it. There, just as he'd left it, was his first wand, the one that had chosen him in the Summer of 1892 before he had left for Hogwarts as an 11-year-old boy. Though more than a century had now passed you wouldn't know it to behold the item; its highly polished surface gleamed in the morning sunlight as it had the day Gerbold Ollivander, Garrick's grandfather, had placed it in his hand. He took the wand from the box and immediately felt the warmth of it, like reuniting with a long-lost friend. Albus smiled as he placed the wand into the pocket of his robes before placing the Elder Wand in its place within the box on the table. Closing it once again, he replaced the box in the hidden space and re-wove his protection spells to ensure that it would take someone exceedingly determined, knowledgeable, and clever to gain access to the dangerous artifact.

Or so he believed.

{-}

As soon as curfew was lifted Monday morning Harry and Hermione found themselves in the same place they had been until just before curfew started the previous evening; a secluded corner of the Library pouring over different books. Hermione was convinced that she could find a way for him to withdraw from the tournament, and so she was currently engrossed in The Binding Magic of Oaths, Vows, Pacts, and Contracts. For his part Harry was perusing interestedly through The Big Book of BOOM!, a useful if childishly titled book that had different high power, large area of effect, or a combination thereof, spells. Most of them were combat oriented, but there were a few for things like mining or building demolition that might also prove to be quite handy. You never know when you might need to drop a building on someone Harry thought to himself as he studied the wand movements for Aedificium Destruere. Since all Harry was interested in was what a spell did and how to cast it (theory would do him no good against a dragon, or Voldemort for that matter), it was more up his alley than the cerebral read Hermione had in front of her. It also helped that the author appeared to really enjoy blowing stuff up; though the name was wrong he couldn't help but wonder if he was somehow related to a certain set of redheaded twins with a similar penchant.

As the breakfast hour approached Hermione nearly slammed the book shut in frustration. "You'd think there'd be something in there about the Goblet of Fire, since it creates magical contracts, but there's nothing," she said in her rarely used 'Oh Books Why Have You Forsaken Me' tone.

"Anything good at all?" Harry asked, marking his place in his own tome before closing it. Hermione hated it when her books failed her, and she tended to get . . . well . . . bitchy about it if you didn't head her off. Having her change gears to describe what was there allowed her to go off on an intellectual tangent that helped sooth the savage Hermione.

"Oh, there's plenty," she replied. "I was fascinated by the section on using blood magic as a binder, though it appears it has come to be used less and less as things like Unbreakable Vows came to prominence, not to mention there simply being better bookkeeping to make sure people don't renege on a deal. Contracts signed with Blood Quills appear to be the only type still in common usage." Harry's right eye twitched slightly at the mention of the hated implements, and he subconsciously rubbed the back of his hand where I must not tell lies had been carved on the hand of his older self. "But nothing that can get you out of the tournament," she finished dejectedly and sunk her chin into her chest.

Harry nodded, knowing that she wouldn't find anything; if she had, he would have found out about it the first go-round. He hated making her spin her wheels like that, but to steer here away would arouse suspicion. Besides, Thandie had wanted him to get a look at whatever book and this was the easiest way to figure out which one he was supposed to grab. He stood, grabbing the small pile of books on the table before walking around the table and lifting her chin up with his off-hand. She looked up and he smiled at her, making sure she knew he did not blame her (or the books) for failing to find him an out. "I want to check a couple of these out to keep going over, so I'll put the rest back on my way to see Madam Pince. I'll meet you up front?"

"Sure, Harry," Hermione said with a small return smile, and she began to roll up her note-taking parchments and other stationery. Harry quickly put the books he wasn't keeping back, holding onto Binding Magic and, of course, BOOM!. After checking them out with the Librarian he stuffed both into his bookbag before catching up to Hermione at the doors to the Library. Together, they headed down to the Great Hall and Harry's first interaction with the student body since his name had come out of the Goblet.

More than three years removed from the previous time he had done this, for the most part Harry had only vague recollections of specific events. What he could recall, though, was that the few weeks before the First Task, in his learned and humble opinion, sucked hot donkey bollocks. With the exception of Hermione the entire rest of the school either hated him, thought he was a cheat, was ambivalent towards him, or some combination thereof. As the two of them walked into the Great Hall, nearly all conversation ceased as heads turned toward the Gryffindor Punching Bag that was Harry Potter. He made a point to avoid looking at any particular person, and thankfully that meant that The Bill didn't come due with him standing there being gawked at. He unconsciously grabbed Hermione's hand and moved them both quickly to the closest end of the Gryffindor table; the faster they were in and ate the faster he could get the hell out of there and avoid any undo complications.

He almost made it.

He'd just shoved the last of a scone in his mouth after telling Hermione he would see her at Herbology, and was proceeding toward the doors when the very last person he wanted to encounter right then reared his perfectly coifed blond ferrety head.

"There you are, Potter," drawled Draco Malfoy. "We all thought you'd pissed yourself in fear and run off." He and the two golems that normally followed in his wake shared a loud, fake laugh at the comment, and as Harry kept walking out Malfoy continued. "What's the matter? Afraid to show your face now that you've cheated your way into the tournament? Realized that you're going to be nothing but a pathetic embarrassment in front of a world audience?" People closest to them at the house tables had turned to see, though as per usual none of the staff were making a move to interfere.

Harry stopped and half-turned, performing a quick visual appraisal at the strutting Slytherin that stood there practically preening in self-satisfaction. The Bill came due; the image of a pale and heavily bleeding Draco Malfoy lying on a bathroom floor, his blood pouring out of him from several long cuts and mixing with the water than was still pouring out of a broken toilet, floated in front of Harry's eyes. For a moment Harry felt his stomach drop again as it had when the incident had actually occurred; at the time he couldn't bring himself to believe that he very likely had just killed someone. There had been so much blood; how had a seemingly simple schoolyard grudge escalated to a near-death experience?

As the milliseconds passed and the memory cleared, however, Harry came to a realization. First off, Draco had been about to hit him with an Unforgiveable Curse when Harry had hit him with that Sectumsempra. Second, if Draco had died that day he wouldn't have been able to fix the Vanishing Cabinet that brought the Death Eaters into Hogwarts; Hagrid wouldn't have had his hut burned down, Bill Weasley wouldn't have been mauled by Greyback and, most importantly, Dumbledore wouldn't have been killed that night. Maybe the old man could have given Harry more than vague clues and roundabout riddles to start his hunt. Maybe if Dumbledore had lived a bit longer the Ministry wouldn't have toppled like dominoes in a hurricane once Voldemort moved to take it over. Maybe he, Ron, and Hermione wouldn't have had to go on the run for almost a year, facing all of the shit that they'd had to go through. Maybes upon maybes upon maybes.

Draco had facilitated those maybes not coming to pass. He had lived, and continued with his plans, and had helped cause a hell of a lot of the troubles that Harry had gone through in the year before he'd been sent back. He had done it out of fear, sure, but it was a fear that he needn't have had if he'd just taken Dumbledore up on his offer of mercy. But he'd been a coward, and Dumbledore had died, and Britain had fallen into darkness. That belief, that Draco was a catalyst for much of the evil that had plagued his life before, was all Harry needed in order for The Bill of Draco Malfoy to be forever paid in his eyes.

Fuck this guy with a giant purple dick Harry thought to himself.

With a quiet snort that was part derision and part dismissal, Harry turned back and continued his way out of the Great Hall.

"I'm talking to you, Potter!" Draco roared, not used to being ignored by his chosen quarry, and he carried on after Harry as the other boy moved into the Entrance Hall. Crabbe and Goyle followed in his wake, and most of the other students suddenly rose from their benches, hoping to get front row seats for the (seemingly) inevitable confrontation. Draco, of course, saw none of this, having tunnel-visioned on Harry and his complete disregard for a properly directed insult. He finally caught up to his target as they were about to reach the main doors to the castle. "You think you're so high and mighty, don't you? Think you're somehow better than the rest of us now? Well I've got some news for you, Potter. You're nothing; a weak, unwanted half-blood orphan who isn't even worthy enough to shine the shoes of those of us with proper breeding." Seeing Harry still hadn't taken the bait, and finally noticing that a decent number of people were witnessing his failure, he fired one last salvo. "Enjoy what time you have left, Potter, because I'm going to bet heavily that you die horribly during the First Task, whimpering like a little bitch for your worthless Mudblood whore of a mother."

That brought Harry up short as his foot was about to take the first step down to the lawns. He could hear his blood pounding in his ears at the insult to his mum; it was so loud that he didn't hear the gasps from the assembled crowd at the vulgar and derogatory verbal attack against a woman who was generally regarded as both a war hero and a brilliant witch. He could feel The Monster rear up in his chest, wanting nothing more than to turn around and rend Draco into ferret pâté. It was a tempting proposition.

A younger Harry would have risen to the bait: would have turned and fired the first curse in retribution for Draco defaming Lily Potter, guaranteeing himself punishment and Malfoy the victory. He turned and looked back properly now, and upon seeing Hermione nearly frantic as she tried desperately to get to him through the crowd he asked himself what he thought she would do, or perhaps more accurately what would she want him to do. Hermione was a genius and a bibliophile; words, both written and spoken, were her weapon of choice, and she could wield them as fiercely as any wand when she wanted to. Not that she was a slouch with a wand either. Or a fist, as Draco himself had found out in Third Year. She always hated when Harry went off without thinking; she had this thing where she would say 'use your words' when he was so angry that he couldn't formulate a thought, like he was a five-year-old throwing a tantrum. Which, in retrospect, hadn't been that far from the truth. The him-from-before would get pissed when she did that; this Harry knew that they might have been some of the wisest words he'd ever heard.

Of course, that didn't mean he couldn't have some fun with it.

Harry turned, dropped his bag at the entrance doors, and walked over to the center of the throng of students that now held a supremely smug Draco. There was a logjam at the doors to the Great Hall, and Harry could hear a couple of the professors trying to work their way through the crowd to prevent an escalation. Typical he thought. When Draco is spouting his bullshit to anyone who will listen they act like nothing's going on. But one tiny inkling that I might yank out his small intestine through his nasal cavity in front of our international guests and they look to break it up.

The Slytherin instigator, for his part, believed that he couldn't lose here; everyone hated Potter right now, so he figured he could get away with saying literally anything and not face retribution. Even if he had possibly gone just a bit over the top with the comment about his dead mother it was fine; she was only a Mudblood anyway, and the opportunity to cow, humiliate, or discredit Potter when he was most vulnerable was too good to pass up. If Potter attacked him, he won and Potter fell even further from his pedestal. If he responded weakly, he still won as he would use it to showcase Potter as slow-witted and stupid. If he called for a teacher Draco could paint him as a little baby who needed a professor to save him. It was perfect; manna from heaven, or so he thought.

Harry saw Hermione struggling to get to him as he walked up to Draco, but she was still having trouble getting through people who wanted the best view possible when things kicked off and kept shoving her, and others who were jockeying for better spots, back into the crowd. He knew that she was looking to protect him from himself, just like she had with the Firebolt in Third Year and in trying to convince him not to go to the Ministry in Fifth; given his history that was an understandable reaction to the current situation. Her genuine and selfless concern for him, no matter how big of an idiot he was being, made him appreciate and care for her just a little bit more. Enough mushy crap, there's ferret to roast. Metaphorically speaking, unfortunately. Harry stopped mere inches from Draco and looked the other boy dead in the eyes. His head tilted left then right, as if examining a puzzle. And when Harry finally spoke it was at a normal volume, but because of the hush over the crowd he was heard by the entire group. "Listen you limp-dicked inbred oxygen thief. Even by the standards of my life the last couple of days have been a shit show, and I just don't have the patience nor the inclination to deal with the bigoted asinine stupidity you try to pass off as witty repartee that constantly spews out of that cock holster on your face. So why don't you take Tweedle-dipshit and Tweedle-dumbass here," Harry said, indicating Crabbe and Goyle in turn, "find a nice quiet space and play an exciting game of Hide and Go Fuck Yourself. Okay?" Seeing the dumbfounded look on Malfoy's face, Harry simply patted him on the shoulder twice and said, "Good talk, buddy," before turning and heading out of the castle, picking up his bag along the way.

He only made it as far as the bottom step before Hermione appeared at his side, a look that seemed part admonishment, part disbelief, and part pride on her face. They walked for a time, exchanging brief furtive glances, before she broke the silence. "I really should wash your mouth out," she said to him, and as he looked over he could see her twisting her wand in her hand while trying to hide a smirk. "Such language."

"Awww Hermione, I thought you'd be proud of me. After all, I used my words," Harry replied, and he couldn't help but smile at the look she gave him; mouth open and a look that was part shock and part 'Oh no you didn't' on her face.

"What am I going to do about you and this cheeky streak you seem to have developed?" Hermione finally asked, shaking her head and trying to look stern; it was hard when the corners of her mouth kept turning up as she fought a smile.

She'd fallen right into it, and it was too good of an opportunity to pass up on a double entendre. "Well, Mistress, if I'm being a bad boy you could always try giving me a spanking."

"Harry James!" she scolded as he started laughing and took off toward the greenhouses, an also mirthful Hermione hot on his heals, spewing half-hearted admonitions at him.

{-}

Harry liked Wednesdays. They had the practical portion of Astronomy Tuesday nights, and so the first period on Wednesdays was left open for the Fourth Year Gryffindors so they could catch up on sleep if they needed to. His only class of the day was a single period of Charms and then he was free again the rest of the day. Harry and Hermione had taken the opportunity of the free morning period to visit the kitchens again; Hermione because she was still trying to wrap her brain around the mindset of house elves and Harry because he needed to 'find out' a particular piece of information in a way that didn't make Hermione suspicious, and since the elves had told him once it made sense for them to tell him again. He shook himself back from his musings as Hermione asked the same question for perhaps the twelfth time since Sunday.

"But why would anyone want to be a servant?" she'd almost whined to Jammy, the oldest, and thus most senior, elf in the castle.

"Why is wizards and witches not wanting to serve?" Jammy responded easily, which had been her response the first eleven times as well.

"Because it's wrong!" Hermione replied emphatically.

"Why?" Jammy asked calmly.

"Because no sentient being should be enslaved!"

"Why?"

"Because you should be able to choose what you want to do with your life."

"Yes," Jammy said, and Hermione brightened, thinking she'd finally made a breakthrough. It didn't last long. "We's choose to serve." Hermione groaned and dropped her head onto the table with a loud thud. Harry looked at Jammy and had to do a double-take when he saw what could only be a small smirk on the elf's face. If he didn't know better, he could have sworn that Jammy was just fucking with Hermione now.

"Jammy," Harry started, pulling them out of the spiraling conversation that had still not gotten Hermione the answers that she wanted. "I was wondering if you could help me with something."

"Anything, sir."

"I need a place to train for the tournament. Someplace out of the way and hidden, since I don't want other people to see what I'll be practicing. Do you know of a place like that?"

Jammy smiled. "Oh, yes indeed sir. Yous can be using the Come and Go Room." Hermione's head shot up at the mention.

"Hogwarts: A History doesn't say anything about a Come and Go Room."

"Doesn't mention house elves either, does it?" Harry quipped. Hermione gave him a dirty look.

The elf just shrugged. "That's what the elfs call it. It's on the seventh floor in the corridor with the tapestry of the wizard that be trying to teach the trolls to dance."

"I know that corridor," Harry said. "There's no door there," he finished, trying to keep up appearances.

"Oh, the room only be showing up when you ask for it, that's why the elfs be calling it the Come and Go Room. Yous has to walks back and forth in front of the wall across from the dancing trolls three times and ask for whats type of room yous need. Then the door be showing up and yous can go inside."

"Are you sure, Jammy?" Hermione asked. "That sounds . . . implausible."

"No, it sounds like magic," Harry jibed, and Hermione stuck her tongue out at him. "Thank you for the information, Jammy. I'm sure it will come in handy."

"Yous being welcome, sir. But it almost being time for us to begin gettings lunch ready."

"Of course, Jammy. We'll let you get back to work."

As the two teens left the kitchens Hermione looked forlorn. "I just can't seem to convince them that they shouldn't be slaves," she said morosely.

"Hermione, it's their culture, their psychology, something that's been an integral part of their race probably for centuries," Harry responded as they walked up the stairs. "Humans can't stand being slaves; elves can't stand being free. It's just how they're wired, it would seem. And, just like you'll find maybe one human in a million who actually might want to be a slave, in this case you get Dobby. You're making the mistake of assigning human values to non-humans." Hermione kept her head down as she processed what Harry was saying. As they reached the Entrance Hall and the bell rang signaling the morning break, she blew out a long breath.

"That all makes a lot of sense," she admitted. Another long sigh followed. "I suppose you're right, Harry. I just . . . I hope that they're all treated as well as the ones here seem to be."

"I'm sure they're not," Harry stated matter-of-factly, thinking of Kreacher, and continuing quickly at Hermione's appalled look (since he wasn't supposed to know about any other house elves) he explained. "Well, we already know about Dobby. Think about what other families own house elves for the most part. Old Purebloods, like the Malfoys and the Blacks. Sure, the Longbottoms have one as well, but aren't most of the old families . . . well . . . evil?"

"About half of the Sacred Twenty-Eight are considered Dark families," Hermione responded, digging back into the incredible memory of hers. "Of the rest, the Gaunts don't exist anymore; the last one I think died in Azkaban a while ago. The Prewetts died out in Britain when Mrs. Weasley's brothers were killed in the First War. There are a couple of what would probably be neutral families, like the Crouches, who we know didn't mistreat but certainly didn't seem to care about Winky, and the Greengrasses, who I don't really know but I've heard they have more progressive views on Muggles and Muggleborn than the Dark families."

"Right. So maybe, instead of looking for freedom for the elves, which they don't seem to want, you should be trying to make sure they're treated well." Hermione considered Harry's words as they continued walking, and he figured his tasks for the morning both a success; he'd found out about the Room of Requirement and he'd turned Hermione toward a path with S.P.E.W. that might actually have a snowball's chance in Hell of accomplishing something.

{-}

After they'd gone to Charms and lunch Hermione had Arithmancy, and since Harry had promised her he wouldn't explore the Come and Go Room without her and had no desire to work on homework he was wandering aimlessly throughout the castle. Doing so brought him in contact with a person he couldn't believe he'd forgotten about, and made a point to avoid such an egregious oversight in the future. If anyone aside from Hermione would believe he hadn't entered himself in the Tournament, it was the person in front of him.

"Hello, Harry Potter," came a melodic voice attached to long blond hair and what he knew were big bright silvery eyes, though he currently couldn't see them. The girl was standing on a bench in an alcove with her head pressed against the window, as if she was trying to figure out what it would be like to be a part of the castle looking down upon the grounds. Nothing in her posture indicated that she was startled by his approach, just like she had somehow known who was behind her by some power that Harry couldn't grasp. Still, he couldn't help but smile.

"Hello, Luna Lovegood," he answered as he walked up to stand near her. She spun immediately and before he could react smacked both of her hands hard against the sides of his face and held his head steady with them, staring down at him as if he were a particularly entertaining but elusive puzzle. Harry's eyes got wide as his cheeks stung and Luna moved her head around, examining him from multiple angles.

"How do you know who I am?" she finally asked.

"How do you know who I am?" he responded immediately, his brain still trying to catch up with what was happening to him.

"Everyone knows who you are, Harry Potter" Luna answered. "But no one knows who I am," she whispered, no trace of her usual airiness present for once.

Harry's vision was filled with memories of Luna; a girl sitting alone on the train. Singed and scratched but determined in the Department of Mysteries. Searching the hallways for her stolen property that had been taken by bullying housemates. Dirty, battered, and bruised in the basement of Malfoy Manor. He didn't know if he was breaking some cosmic rule or how he would explain what he was about to do if someone asked, but he knew what he needed to say. "I do," he said firmly as his hands reached up to take hers gently. "You're Luna Lovegood. You're a Third Year Ravenclaw. You live in a house that looks like a chess rook. Your father Xenophilius owns and edits The Quibbler. Your mother Pandora passed away when you were nine. You miss her every day." He stared softly into the girl's eyes, which despite their 'permanently surprised' appearance were now wider than he'd ever seen them. He moved her hands from his face and onto his shoulders and held his hands up to her hips, as it seemed as if a simple breath could push her over. "You believe in creatures even more fantastic than the ones Newt Scamander found when he traveled the world; creatures so incredible that, to the rest of us, they seem unbelievable. I can't tell you if I believe in them too, Luna, but what I do know is that I believe in you." That seemed to be the girl's breaking point, and he caught her as her legs gave out. He sat her gently on the bench and knelt in front of her, her hands still on his shoulders. "You have friends, Luna Lovegood. Friends who care about you. Friends that will defend you. Friends that will fight for you." He more gently replicated her opening action by placing his hands on her cheeks. "You. Are. Not. Alone."

"Friends . . ." she whispered as tears filled her eyes. In the three years he had known her previously, in all of the shit that she had gone through, Harry had never seen so much as a single tear from her. Now they flowed like a river as her eyes continued to dart around his face; even with the apparent emotional overload she was still trying to figure out the seeming enigma in front of her. Just like a Ravenclaw Harry thought to himself. She stopped and pulled her head back slightly. "Who are you?"

Harry smiled. "You said it yourself. I'm Harry Potter. And I'm your friend." He moved his hands to her elbows and pulled lightly, and she went without resistance, wrapping her arms around Harry and hugging him for all she was worth.

"Hello, my friend," she whispered and, in another first, Harry heard Luna giggle as her head rested on his shoulder.

{-}

Harry and Hermione took their now customary place at the very end of the Gryffindor table Thursday morning and, again as had become their habit, began quickly filling their plates with the intention of escaping the stares and none-too-subtle whispers as soon as possible. This morning, though, threw an unexpected but welcome spanner in the works as Luna came over from the Ravenclaw table and sat down next to Harry. Hermione's brow furrowed in confusion, as Harry hadn't mentioned his impromptu heart-to-heart with the lithe little Ravenclaw. He quickly swallowed his bite of eggs before speaking. "Hermione Granger, this is my friend Luna Lovegood. Luna, this is my best friend Hermione."

"Hello, Hermione Granger," Luna began as she began picking all of the blueberries out of the fruit salad on the table. "It would seem that for once the Wrackspurts have decided to be helpful and told Harry all about me. I'm very glad they did; it's nice to have a friend."

Hermione blinked several times rapidly, trying to process what she'd been told. "Hello, Luna, it's very nice to meet you," she said, remembering her manners. "I'm sorry . . . Wrackspurts?"

"Oh yes. Normally they just make your brain go all fuzzy, but I have a newly formed theory based on my meeting Harry yesterday. It would seem that if a swarm of them buzz through your ears long enough they actually pick up some information about you. If they then swarm another person they can pass that information along. It's very fascinating, really; Daddy didn't know that they could do that. He's even going to print a special issue so that we can be the first people to report on it."

Hermione continued to blink and her head twitched slightly a few times before she turned to Harry, who attempted to explain. "Luna and her father are rather . . . unique and . . . unconventional magizoologists. They have documented a bunch of new creatures but are having trouble getting traction because everyone considers Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them the end-all, be-all guide to magical creatures." Harry looked intently at Hermione, trying to convey his thoughts of Just go with it. Thankfully she seemed to understand.

"I . . . see . . ." Hermione said cautiously. "That sounds . . . really fascinating Luna. Are you thinking about making a career out of it?"

"Perhaps," the blond answered, popping a few more blueberries into her mouth. "It would be a lot of travel and take me away from Daddy a lot, though I believe it would be very rewarding in the long run. By I have a number of years before I have to decide on things like that."

"Very true," Hermione responded, seemingly surprised at the well thought out response from someone who seemed so . . . something. "Can I take from you sitting here that you also believe that Harry didn't enter himself into the Tournament?"

"Of course I believe him. He's my friend; if he says he didn't do it, then he didn't do it."

"Wish some other people thought that way," Harry grumbled, shooting an angry glance down the table.

Only to fight the urge to reel back in shock as Luna unceremoniously shoved a strawberry in his slightly open mouth. "You shouldn't mumble aspersions about other people, Harry, it attracts umgubular slashkilters. Thankfully they're repelled by red foods, so you should be safe for now."

Harry just nodded his head and chewed on his strawberry. Hermione looked as if a Dementor had just goosed her at the display.

Luna popped the last blueberry from the bowl in front of her into her mouth and then looked at the rest of the fruit present with a forlorn look on her face. It morphed into a smile when Harry Summoned another bowl of fruit from farther down the table and she began eating all the blueberries again. Hermione's look at him was answered only with a smile. The older girl's eyes moved back and forth between the two a moment longer before, with a sigh and a shrug, she returned to her own breakfast.

{-}

Harry and Hermione spent most of that weekend in the Room of Requirement where, after Hermione's repeated comments about the magic that must have been necessary to create the construct, they got down to the business of working to prepare for the 'unknown' First Task. Hermione was quick with her praise as Harry, 'amazingly,' was able to perform a good number of the spells on their list after only a few 'failed' attempts; of course, she didn't know that the spells he'd gotten down quickly were the ones he already knew. Harry, for his part, felt like a fraud for deceiving Hermione like that, but was also very proud of her because, even without the 2+ years of further magical education he had, she was able to cast many of those same spells after a bit of practice as well.

He was also finding it increasingly difficult to keep his thoughts on the task at hand. It being a weekend they were in street clothes instead of their uniforms, and as the training session on Sunday had progressed to practice dueling Hermione had shed her jumper. The thin pink t-shirt underneath had then begun to cling to her as they both perspired from their efforts, and Harry was having a very hard time keeping his gaze from lingering. Once or twice he was sure he'd been caught, only for Hermione to not make mention of anything and continue with the lessons.

The week he'd spent alone with Hermione, except for the few instances where Luna had joined them either for meals or in the Library, had cemented something deeply into his brain. That night in the Forest of Dean, when Ron had returned and destroyed the Horcrux in the Locket, both boys had seen the ethereal representations of Harry and Hermione entwine with one another and share a passionate kiss. Harry, in order to placate Ron, had told the other boy that it was a lie presented by the Horcrux to deceive him and drive a wedge between them. Harry had stated emphatically that he'd always loved Hermione like a sister.

He could finally admit to himself that his statement was, if not before certainly now, unquestionably and unequivocally a steaming crock of shit.

He'd had a thing for Hermione since right about this time the first go-round, when she had stood by his side and solidified a permanent place in his life and his heart. But he was so socially awkward when it came to the fairer sex, so completely clueless about life, the universe, and everything, mostly because of his upbringing, that he hadn't even been able to properly qualify how he felt. And if The Sisters were to be believed having the Horcrux along for the ride hadn't helped. He'd felt himself entranced by women like Cho, Ginny, and to a lesser extent Fleur, latching onto the idea that infatuation and physical attraction must also mean emotional attraction. Not that Hermione wasn't pretty; her appearance at the Ball next month would prove that beyond any doubt. She just usually hid her potential underneath her bushy hair, baggy robes, and mountain of books. But those other three took the effort and had been/were/would be (goddamned time travel) truly breathtaking, and stupid him-from-before hadn't bothered to delve any deeper into the (admittedly shallow) pool of emotion within himself to try and consider things more carefully. Now, with the benefit of hindsight and free of the Horcrux, Harry could feel the deep-rooted bond that already existed between himself and Hermione. The Monster, who before had prowled with need for others, now seemed dead set on Miss Granger as his chosen prey. Harry had already decided that he agreed with the assessment, but had also decided that their friendship was too important to him to just jump whole-hog into asking her to be his girlfriend. Little gestures. Test the waters. Don't push. Communicate. 'Slow and steady wins the race,' or so the story had said. The Monster, in response, had called him a pussy. Harry had then accused The Monster of being an uncouth, horny, alpha male prick.

Yes, he was fighting with himself. No, he wasn't entirely weirded out by that. Yes, he figured that wasn't healthy. No, he wasn't going to do anything about it.

And so, as they decided to call the session to a close on Sunday Harry drew on his Gryffindor courage and walked over to where Hermione was collecting the books they had been sifting through for spells to practice. "Hermione, can we sit and talk for a bit?" he tentatively began.

"Of course, Harry," she answered, taking a seat at the small table, with Harry pulling his own chair to face her. "What's on your mind? Think of something we should be practicing?"

"This isn't about the Tournament, or our homework, or anything like that." Harry took a deep breath before continuing. "Hermione . . . I want to . . . I think . . . feel . . . gah, why the hell is this so difficult?" he said in an exasperated tone as his head tilted toward the ceiling.

"Language, Harry," Hermione softly chided as she reached out and took his hands in hers, causing Harry to turn his gaze back down to her. "Harry, whatever it is that's bothering you, you know you can tell me. I'm happy to listen and help if I can."

"And that's just it, Hermione," he responded as he gazed at their linked hands. "You've always been there to listen. Always been there to help, even if I was too stupid to realize or accept. You've been everything I've needed you to be, but I can't help but . . . wonder if you would consider being . . . more. . ."

This had Hermione sitting up straight in her chair, a look that was part curiosity, part caution, and maybe, Harry prayed, part hope, on her face. "What are you saying, Harry?"

Harry ran his thumbs over the back of her hands, which were still in his. "The first Hogsmeade visit is the weekend after next. I was wondering if maybe . . . you'd like to go . . . with me," he finished, as if that part was not blatantly obvious.

Hermione could only sit there, stunned. She wasn't afraid to admit to herself that, like a lot of girls at Hogwarts, she'd carried a small torch for Harry Potter. The fact that he was her best friend had helped to keep that flame lit but she'd kept it low, knowing that how he'd been raised would likely have stunted his emotional growth and kept him from being able to properly express himself. Since Halloween, though, she'd seen a side of Harry that she'd never experienced before, and with it being just the two of them most of the time she couldn't help but take notice. He seemed more sure of himself, more mature, and was even responding to her in ways that could even be interpreted as . . . dare she say it . . . flirtatious. Hermione had even intentionally instigated several back-and-forths, just to make sure she wasn't imagining things. She'd noticed how he had glanced at her as they had sparred, and even added an occasional wiggle here or jiggle there just to gauge his reaction, a reaction which had made her feel attractive and powerful. She could also admit to herself that every time he called her 'Mistress' and gave her that smirk it did very weird things to certain parts of both her physical and emotional self.

Hermione had already told herself that she liked this new, more confident and expressive Harry, and now she had encountered the next evolution of that expressiveness, and it was targeted, it would seem, at her. Her, Hermione Granger, with her wild hair and too-big front teeth, had drawn the eye of her best friend. Her very cute, apparently finally coming into his own best friend. How do I feel about that? she asked herself. She looked over at him, seeing his scared but hopeful expression as he fidgeted, waiting to see if she accepted his offer.

Pretty gosh darn good was the response, and a small smile finally crept onto her face. "I'd really like that, Harry," she finally said, and couldn't help but be entranced by the relieved yet happy smile he gave her.

"Oh. Well . . . brilliant. It's a date, then. It is a date, right?"

Hermine chuckled. "Yes, Harry, it's definitely a date."

"Brilliant," he whispered again, and Hermione then outright laughed at the distant, self-satisfied look that came across his face.

A/N: It occurred to me at some point that Luna would probably have never bought in to what the rest of the school thought because . . . well, because she's Luna. And I just kept seeing that mural in her bedroom and couldn't resist.

I pretty much wrote this entire chapter around Harry's rant at Draco in the Entrance Hall. There was a point for about a week and a half where that rant was the only part of this chapter that was written, and I kept trying to wrap text around it and failing miserably. Not the best way to write, but it was an interesting exercise.

As always, thanks for your follows, favorites, views, and reviews. 6/24/19