Harry was more tired then he had ever been in his entire life. He'd thought Wood's quidditch schedules were mental, but now, he just looked back at his younger self and laughed—a few hours flying about the quidditch pitch was nothing compared to the hours he now spent learning Defense against the Dark Arts.
Moody had taught him how to remove bones—Moody had procured a fairly large amount of actual human skeletons to do so, something Harry had decided was best not to question where they came from—and had now moved on to a range of stunning spells that did more than knock out your opponent. Some made the opponent's blood boil, another caused internal bleeding—and all were fatal if not treated in time. One produced a purple light that looked suspiciously like the spell Crouch Jr. had used on Neville.
And when Harry wasn't training with Moody, he was training with his friends. Moody had told him it was a good idea to learn how to cast spells nonverbally—"You need all the advantages you can get in a fight, Potter, and if your opponent doesn't know what's coming, they don't know how to stop it," he'd insisted—and since Fleur was proficient enough to use nonverbal spells casually at the breakfast table, she'd taken to teaching Harry and Cedric (like Harry, Cedric had had a fairly inconsistent education in this particular subject, since Quirrell and Lockhart had been mostly useless).
Harry was starting to get the hang of it. The other day, he'd successfully summoned Hermione's quill nonverbally during History of Magic, which had earned him a look from her that was equal parts exasperation, admiration and joy. It was an unusual combination, but one that was very typical of Hermione, and he'd been rather pleased with himself after.
He still had a lot of work to do though before he was sure he could replicate that in a combat situation—it's one thing to do it in a class so boring everyone but Hermione had at some point succumbed to sleep (and in Seamus' case, it was just about every class) and quite another when you were being attacked by someone trying to kill you.
And if it weren't for that thought—that knowledge that this tournament wasn't a game but some sick part of Voldemort's plan for him—despite the grueling practices, despite the long hours, despite the fact that he was constantly sore and tired, Harry would've felt good.
He remembered what it had been like when he'd first gotten onto a broom and realized that this was something he was good at—people weren't staring at him because he had a scar or a famous name or because he was like the snake behind the glass at the zoo, an oddity to be gawked at… they were looking at him because he was competent, possibly even excellent at something. It was proof that he belonged here at Hogwarts. And from the surprised and impressed looks on Viktor, Cedric and Fleur's faces whenever they trained—Neville and Hermione also looked impressed, but never surprised—he supposed this must be something he was pretty good at too.
Had it not been for the looming threat, Harry supposed he would've thoroughly enjoyed his lessons.
But there was the looming threat, and he was increasingly feeling it every moment of the day. Whether he was training or in classes or eating meals or in the quiet moments when he first woke up, certain that he'd had a dream that was upsetting, but which he couldn't quite remember, there was always that tension, that knot in his stomach. It was his constant companion.
He just needed to make it through the task, and then hope like hell Sirius would be free by summer.
On Thursday night, in the last week of May, he made his way downstairs. Professor McGonagall had told him after Transfiguration that all of the champions were to meet with Ludo Bagman on the quidditch pitch at 9 p.m.
As he crossed the entrance hall, he ran into Cedric and they walked outside together. Neither of them said much; they were both feeling the weight of the task, and they'd spent so much time talking and theorizing about the third task, and now it was finally time to find out.
They crossed the dark lawn to the Quidditch stadium, through a gap in the stands, and then Cedric stopped dead in his tracks.
"What have they done to it?" he asked indignantly.
The pitch was gone, and in its place were hedges, twisting and winding in every direction… almost like a maze. Harry felt his heart grow a little lighter, his body tingling with anticipation.
"Hello there!" a cheerful voice called out.
It was Ludo Bagman, standing with Viktor and Fleur.
As Harry and Cedric made their way over, Bagman spread his arms out wide. "Well, what do you think?" he asked happily, chattering on about how well the hedges were growing and how they'd be twenty feet high in a month.
"Now, I can imagine you can guess what we're making here?" he asked.
"A maze," Viktor answered.
Bagman smiled widely, nodding vigorously at Viktor. At the confirmation that Harry's hunch about the hedges had been right—that Hermione had been right about the third task all along—Harry felt the weight lift off him, and he let out a short, involuntary laugh, matching Bagman's grin.
"It's quite straightforward," Bagman said. "The Triwizard Cup will be placed in the center of the maze and the first to touch it will receive full marks. There will be obstacles, of course—spells and magical creatures and the like.
"The champions will enter the maze in order of their points," he added, grinning widely at Harry, who was currently in first place. "Should be fun, eh?"
The champions nodded politely, but inside, Harry felt relief course through him, followed by glee. He'd never doubted Hermione—he'd never had reason to—but she had been right and now they had the proof.
He was vaguely aware of Bagman suggesting they all head up to the castle, and traipsing out of the maze with the others. Fleur and Viktor broke away to head toward their respective lodgings, leaving Harry with Cedric and Bagman.
But, to be honest, Harry wasn't paying all that much attention. The third task was an obstacle course, and it was the best news he'd gotten in what felt like forever. He'd started this tournament desperately alone, with only Hermione, mostly certain that the tasks might actually kill him.
But she'd been by his side the whole time, coaching him, cajoling him, researching for him. And because of his brilliant, stubborn, fiercely loyal best friend, he didn't just have a month to train for a challenge he was woefully unprepared for—he'd already been preparing for ages.
He had to tell her.
He stood up straighter, shocked it had taken this long for him to come to this conclusion. Of course he had to tell her. She'd toiled for hours in the library for him, meticulously researching every past tournament to figure out what he'd be facing—she had to know now.
Harry grinned and sprinted for the castle, leaving a mildly confused Bagman and Cedric in his wake. His heart was pounding, his arms and legs pushing themselves to the limit as he raced up the stone steps, through the entrance hall and up the stairs.
Hermione had been right, he felt lighter than air and all he knew was it was monumentally important to tell her. He headed for the library—she'd needed some books for a Transfiguration essay and he had no doubt that she'd gotten lost in there.
He skidded to a halt in front of the library doors, banging them open perhaps a bit too loudly in his haste to find his friend, earning a glare from Madam Pince that he readily ignored, and then craned his neck, working his way through the tables and stacks, searching for her.
And then he saw her—his best friend, the person he owed everything to. She was a few desks away, hovering over her parchment, three open books surrounding her on the table. Her bag was resting by her feet, slightly askew, books tumbling out of it. Her warm brown eyes were completely absorbed by whatever she was reading, attentive and intelligent and practically glittering with excitement because there was nothing about learning that didn't appeal to her. Her curls seemed wilder than usual, her fingers were smudged with ink and her robes were slightly rumpled from having been sitting at the table for so long. She was tapping her quill against her lips, like she was trying to solve a puzzle, or figure out the exact right word or phrase to use in her essay.
He felt a rush of affection so strong it nearly knocked him over. He was grateful for her, yes—for her friendship, for everything she'd done for him—but it was more than that. He'd been alone his whole life, but he hadn't been from the second they'd become friends.
He stood there watching her, following the movements of her quill—he had an idle thought that it was from the set he'd bought her for Christmas—as it brushed lightly against her lips, drawing his attention there. He couldn't look away.
He'd thought she looked pretty at the Yule Ball, with her hair done up and her freckles dusting her nose, and he'd thought her beautiful when they entered the secret garden, her face alight with pleasure and enchantment, as every worry she had faded away, but here in this library, with a stack of books and parchment and ink and looking every bit the clever, detail-oriented, tenacious witch he'd known and depended on and needed for years, she was quintessentially Hermione and he was captivated.
And just like that, something shifted inside him. This was Hermione in her purest form, and even though he'd seen her in exactly this position a hundred—ten thousand—times before, it was like he was seeing her for the first time.
She'd sat in that chair poring over books for him because she thought he was worth it. He'd never had someone who believed in him or who stood by him quite like her.
And as he watched her pause her tapping—she bit her bottom lip lightly, her eyes gleaming victoriously as she solved whatever riddle she had been pondering and set out to scribble furiously, tidily, on her parchment—he felt his heart pounding faster and a sudden, undeniable desire coursing through him: He wanted to kiss her.
As if she could somehow sense his presence, Hermione chose that moment to look up, her face scanning the tables around her, until her eyes fell on him. She smiled warmly, a faint pink rising up amongst her freckles as her curious eyes studied him. She stood, moving quickly toward him, her eyes never leaving his, and he felt himself being drawn closer to her.
"Harry?" she asked inquisitively. "What is it? What's wrong?"
"N—nothing," he stuttered after a moment, his voice sounding squeaky and unnatural, though Hermione didn't seem to notice.
He shook his head slightly; he'd come here for a reason. "The exact opposite in fact," he added, clearing his throat, sounding a bit more like himself. "Bagman's just told us the third task. You were right, Hermione—it's a maze!"
Her entire face transformed, her smile radiant, her eyes elated.
"That's amazing!" she cried, launching herself into his arms. He caught her easily—he was quite used to this by now—but the sensations he was feeling were altogether new. Instinctively, he curled his fingers through the ends of her hair, reveling in the softness of her curls.
It was an obvious reality and he didn't know how it had escaped him for so long: He fancied Hermione—and he didn't have a clue what to do about it.
Harry hardly slept at all that night, his thoughts for once not fixated on Voldemort, but instead on Hermione. He wasn't sure how he managed to make it out of that library—they'd walked back to Gryffindor Tower together, and they must have talked about something, but he didn't have a clue what. He was too busy trying to act normal.
Months ago, he'd thought his stomach had done somersaults anytime he caught sight of Cho, but he was absolutely wrong about that. Those were no somersaults; they were barely belly flops. Or maybe that was being too harsh, but what he was feeling now felt more like doing corkscrews at top speed on his firebolt for the first time—nerve-wracking and exhilarating and absolutely the best feeling in the world.
Of course, you also look a bit like an idiot when your face is grinning like you've just been racing your broom when in reality you've just had a slightly brisk walk from the fourth floor with your best friend. Harry was shocked Hermione hadn't thought there was something quite off with him.
He didn't fare much better the next day. The champions all convened for breakfast, and they decided they could come up with some sort of system by which they shot symbols into the sky if they got into trouble (it reminded Harry a bit of the Dark Mark, but he figured as long as the symbol wasn't a skeleton and a snake, it wasn't hurting anyone). Neville theorized that the hedges would be magically fortified so you couldn't blast through them with any simple spells, but the group—Hermione especially—came up with a list of spells that would help them cut through the hedges even if the professors had enhanced them.
But while Harry took part in the discussion, he also spent an inordinate amount of time watching Hermione's hair move around as she gestured excitedly, deciding that her curls were almost like a maze themselves.
Then there'd been History of Magic, where Hermione once again tapped her quill against her lips—how had he never noticed how often she did that?— and Harry once again summoned it nonverbally, feeling a thrill of victory for a multitude of reasons when it flew into his hands. Hermione glared at him, her head tilted as if to say, "Really? Again?" but he could also see the pride in her eyes, and when she snatched it back from him, he felt a spark as their fingers touched, and he figured her momentary ire was worth it.
By Saturday, he realized that he'd hardly thought about Voldemort at all, which was good on the one hand, since thinking about someone wanting to kill you wasn't pleasant, and bad on the other hand, since when someone wants to kill you, it's probably best to stay focused on avoiding that.
He needed help. He needed advice.
He woke Neville early, careful not to wake Ron—even if they were friends again, there was no magic in the universe that could compel Harry to take advice about Hermione from Ron—and dragged Neville to an empty classroom before breakfast.
"What's this all about?" Neville asked sleepily, still looking a bit rumpled as he slouched at a desk.
Harry paced around a bit. "You know things about girls," he said, almost a bit desperately. "You're the one who told me you had to talk to a girl and know her before you fancied her."
Neville sat up a little straighter and looked a bit more alert. "Been getting to know a girl then, have you?" he asked. "Anyone in particular?"
Neville was grinning widely, a mirthful look in his eyes.
"You know," Harry said. It was a statement as much as a question.
Neville laughed. "I only fancied the girl for years, Harry," he said. "I think I know what it looks like on someone."
Harry's stomach dropped and he looked at Neville uncomfortably. "But you—"
Neville shook his head. "I told you months ago I didn't see her that way anymore," he swore, "and I wouldn't lie about that."
Harry felt lighter—he wasn't sure what he was going to do, but if Neville fancied her too that would make things all the more complicated.
"I'm just glad you finally figured it out," Neville said incredulously, shaking his head.
Harry felt a bit irritated. "Well, you could've said something," he muttered.
Neville eyed him skeptically. "Oh, and how would that have worked out?" he asked, launching into an easy smile. "You're a bit stubborn in case you haven't noticed. It's something you had to figure out for yourself."
Harry supposed he had been stubborn. Sirius had asked him ages ago why Hermione was so important, and he'd steadfastly refused to think about the answer, like he had some sort of mental block on it.
Harry dropped down in the empty desk across from Neville.
"So," Neville asked, "what are you going to do now?"
What was he going to do about it? He liked her, and he liked this feeling, but he'd never wanted things to change.
"I don't know," Harry said glumly. "I don't even know if she'd feel the same."
Neville looked at him like he was a hopeless idiot. "I really don't think that's going to be a problem," he said.
Maybe, Harry thought, but it was more than that. Up until three years ago, he hadn't even had friends, and he was still learning how to do that. He knew next to nothing about being in a relationship with someone and he was absolutely certain that he'd mess it all up if he tried. And he couldn't mess up his friendship with Hermione; it was too important.
"But… I'd be rubbish at it," Harry blurted out. "I haven't got the first clue about girls."
"You seem to do all right understanding Hermione specifically," Neville reasoned.
"And if I mess it all up?" Harry asked, staring intently down at his hands, carefully avoiding Neville's gaze. "And then she doesn't even want to be friends anymore? I don't want anything to change."
He was being stubborn again, he knew, and probably a bit fatalistic—definitely a bit dramatic—but Harry'd learned very early on to expect the worst.
Neville seemed to ponder what he said, thinking hard. "Well, on the first point, I'm not sure Hermione knows how to not be your friend," he countered. "And as for things changing—hasn't it already? I mean, is the friendship you have now the same as it was a year ago? Or even six months ago?"
Well, no. He and Hermione had been sitting in a classroom not unlike this one just a few weeks ago when he'd realized that Ron's abandonment had changed things for the better—he was closer to both Neville and Hermione. And wasn't he the one who'd been okay—happy and grateful, even—that his friendship with her had changed that much?
"I suppose it has changed," Harry agreed.
"And you want to kiss her, right?" Neville asked, taking Harry by surprise.
"What?"
"When you see her, do you think about kissing her?" Neville asked again.
Harry knew his face was burning red. "Well, that's sort of the point when you fancy a girl, isn't it?" he muttered.
Neville smiled. "What I mean is, even if you did nothing about it your friendship would still be different," he said. "Because you never wanted to do that before and now you do. The way I see it, hanging around her all the time wanting to kiss her—and not doing it—could be risking the friendship just as much as doing something about it would. I mean, eventually she'd have to notice that you're acting differently. Hermione's pretty perceptive, you know."
Did he ever. Especially when it came to him.
And he supposed Neville was right. He didn't know much about feelings, but he didn't think the ones he was having now would just go away the way his crush on Cho did. And he couldn't exactly be friends with Hermione for the next few years, tracing the direction of her curls with his eyes and feeling like he was barreling down the quidditch pitch during every lesson they sat next to each other. He had to do something.
He looked up at Neville, feeling resolute. "Right," Harry said, nodding. "So what do I do then? How do I tell her? And how do I…"
He trailed off, not quite wanting to ask his friend how you go about kissing a girl.
"Blimey, Harry, I don't know that part," Neville said, his eyes wide. He looked as out of his depth as Harry was.
What Harry needed was advice—from someone older, someone wiser, someone who had snogged a girl once or twice before.
Dear Snuffles,
Things are going well here. We've just found out that the third task will be a maze—so we've been preparing for the right thing all along!
I've been training really hard—the other champions are really helping me with my spells. Fleur's been training me to duel nonverbally, and Viktor knows quite a bit about African magical creatures (he played a few matches there on the way to the World Cup).
And Moody says that I've taken to my lessons "moderately" well, which Hermione reckons must be high praise coming from someone like him.
Speaking of Hermione, there was something I was wondering about. If you had a friend who was a girl, how would you go about finding out if, perhaps, she'd prefer to be more than friends?
I hope you're doing well and I will write as soon as I can if I find out anything more about the task.
Harry
Harry sent the letter off with one of the school barn owls feeling quite pleased with himself. He'd asked the question he needed—but he didn't think it sounded too anxious. Now he just had to wait for a response.
He didn't have to wait long.
On Sunday afternoon, he awoke from a nap—he'd spent the morning dueling Cedric, successfully lobbing five nonverbal spells at him and deflecting three of Cedric's—to a very large weight on his chest. Blearily, he opened his eyes and though his vision was blurred, he could see two very large eyes staring back at him.
"Dobby?" Harry croaked, reaching for his glasses.
"Hello, Harry Potter!" he squeaked excitedly, leaning in closer. "Harry Potter's friend is wanting me to deliver this to you!"
He was waving around a letter happily.
"He says it is most important that this gets to Harry Potter quickly, and Dobby is wanting to help!"
Harry jolted up. It must be from Sirius.
"Thanks, Dobby!" he said gratefully, taking the letter from him. He was about to open it, but paused—probably best not to share this information with Dobby.
"How is he doing?" Harry asked.
"Very well, sir!" Dobby exclaimed. "He is a good and kind wizard—not that Dobby expects any less from someone who is friends with Harry Potter! He likes Dobby's puddings especially!"
Harry grinned. "And how are you?" Harry asked. "And Winky?"
Dobby's ears drooped. "Harry Potter is very kind to ask, and Dobby is very happy here at Hogwarts. Professor Dumbledore is a very good master," he said, but then his voice dropped to a whisper, "but Winky is not doing so well. She drinks all the time and hardly does work. She still thinks Mr. Crouch is her master. The other elves do not like having her around."
Dobby shuddered a bit, and Harry felt a pang of guilt. He and the others had wanted so much to investigate the house elf bond, but they'd gotten sidetracked by the third task. He resolved that as soon as it was over, that would be their top priority.
Dobby stayed a little while longer, and then with a pop, he was gone. Harry tore into the letter.
Harry,
I'm glad to hear your training is going well, and that you've got such impeccable taste in witches.
Your father was always a fan of the direct route when it came to asking out a girl he fancied—namely your mum—though he didn't always go about it in the best way, asking her out very publicly in the great hall or the common room.
The first thing Harry thought was that this was some new tidbit of information about his parents—his dad had fancied his mum first. The second thing he thought was his dad was a bit of an idiot when he was a teenager.
Harry couldn't imagine asking any girl out—even Hermione—in front of a crowd. And forget about kissing her. For the past year, the entire world had thought it was entitled to every detail of Harry's private life, but whatever happened between him and Hermione, it should be just for them. Everyone else could go hang.
While his strategy might not have been the best, I do generally think the direct route is a solid approach… especially when you're already friends with the girl. They like honesty. At least, that's what eventually worked for your dad. The day Lily said yes to a date, he told me that she'd thought he was making a bit of a joke of it all those other times, carrying on in front of others. "Apparently," he said, "all you've got to do is be honest with a girl about your feelings, and she likes that."
But if you're too nervous for that, there's always more subtle ways—carrying her books, touching her arm when you're talking to her, complimenting her, and then seeing how she reacts.
Harry complimented Hermione a fair bit—she was brilliant—but he wasn't sure if she'd ever had any particular reaction to it.
Your mum told me once that clever girls often get complimented for being clever—and while she preferred hearing she was clever or compassionate or kind more than anything else because those were the qualities she liked best about herself—it didn't hurt to hear that she was pretty, too, every once in awhile.
Harry had to stop reading for a moment, feeling eternally grateful for Sirius. He wasn't just giving Harry his own advice—in a strange way, it was like Harry was getting to talk about these things with his own parents.
Reading between the lines of your question a bit, I'd say that when it comes to kissing a girl for the first time, don't worry about being perfect—if the girl is someone you care about and she feels the same way back, it will be…and besides, half the fun is practicing. However, I have found that the Minting Spell is a very useful one to know (all you have to do is point your wand at your mouth, and the incantation is "Mint Me.")
Let me know how things go, continue your training and write me if anything feels amiss at Hogwarts.
—S
P.S. Hermione was right about Moody. I spent years in the Order with the man, and the nicest compliment I ever heard him pay to someone (your father, in fact) was "Competent job, Potter."
Harry pondered Sirius' words for a while. He wasn't sure he could just come out and say something… but carrying Hermione's books and telling her she looked pretty, that was definitely something he could try.
Hermione Granger was perhaps the most confounding witch Harry had ever met.
Over the next few weeks, he tried to follow Sirius' advice.
One morning he told her that her hair looked pretty. She blushed furiously, smoothing her hands over her curls, but gave him an incredulous look, reminding him that her hair "was absolutely ridiculous."
He didn't think it was ridiculous at all.
He tried carrying her bookbag, and he thought she seemed grateful for it, but then she'd launch into a new litany of spells she found to help him in the maze—like Point Me, a spell that would act as a compass—and then he felt a bit stupid that she was spending hours researching for him even now and all he was doing for her was carrying a book or two. (Well, twelve. Hermione had a lot of books.)
He tried tapping her on the arm when he was talking to her, or brushing his knee against hers when they were sitting next to each other in the great hall, and even though they'd seemed to fall into that sort of behavior following the incident with Crouch and especially at Wiggentree Manor, he usually felt her stiffen, and then she immediately launched into new plans for training.
And he had no clue what any of it meant. Sometimes she seemed to smile, and sometimes she blushed, but then she'd become completely focused on the task at hand—namely, preparing for the tournament.
And, obviously, he was grateful for that—and Harry was still focused on the tournament and his training too—but he wished he understood what it all meant.
And then something happened that took Harry's mind off Hermione—and the tournament and Voldemort—completely.
Breakfast was halfway over when the usual swarm of owls swooped in, delivering everyone's mail. Harry didn't get anything this particular day, but Hermione got her usual delivery from the Daily Prophet.
She opened the front page and immediately frowned. "Oh!" she cried.
Harry sat up straighter, instantly alert.
"What is it?" he asked, leaning closer to her to get a better look. The front page article was another Rita Skeeter original. Harry expected to see his name, but instead he saw: 'A Nightmare for Fudge': Was Sirius Black framed?
Harry closed his eyes. More than anything, he wanted the truth to come out, but who knew what kind of spin Skeeter had put on it. He scanned through the article.
She knew almost everything—how Moody had named Pettigrew as one of his attackers, how there was an investigation to determine if Sirius had been framed by Pettigrew all those years ago, how Harry had testified on Sirius' behalf, how Pettigrew was an animagus.
The department refused to comment on any potential ongoing investigations, though a source close to the Minister reported that any talk of Black being innocent was "rubbish" and all was a ploy by Albus Dumbledore to seize control of the Ministry—and the headmaster is using his influence over the Boy Who Lived to manipulate Potter into helping.
A source close to Dumbledore scoffed at the idea that the headmaster is gunning for the Minister for Magic job: "As if Dumbledore would ever want it," he retorted scornfully.
So is Albus Dumbledore vying for power and using the Boy Who Lived to do it? Or is Black innocent, another victim of a woefully inept Ministry?
Thirteen years ago, Minister for Magic Cornelius Fudge was Junior Minister in the Department of Magical Catastrophes, and was one of the first on the scene when Black was arrested. In his report of the incident he wrote, "Black is mad…. Absolutely mad. The nutter deserves worse than Azkaban."
And, of course, the still-missing Barty Crouch Sr.—the father of Pettigrew's supposed partner in crime—was the Ministry official who rushed Black's sentencing through without a proper trial.
A source close to a high-ranking Ministry official said that once all of this came out, it'd "be a nightmare for Fudge!"
Harry, Hermione, Neville and Ron all stared at each other, completely silent. Harry had no idea if this was a good thing for Sirius or not, but he could feel the hall start to go silent, conversation lowering to a hushed whisper. People were talking about him again.
He turned to Hermione, searching her eyes. "What does this mean?" he asked.
She shook her head. "I don't know," she said. "Honestly, it comes off looking worse for Fudge, doesn't it? But who knows what people will believe?"
"How do you think she found out?" Ron asked.
"Well, she clearly has sources at the Ministry," Neville answered. "She's covered it for years, so she's got to have moles."
Except some of it had felt oddly familiar. Hermione was frowning too, and Harry could tell she was thinking the same thing.
"Ron," she said slowly, "I think you might be the source close to the high-ranking official."
Ron's head snapped up, and he glared at Hermione, completely affronted. "I haven't talked to her!" he said hotly. "I would never—"
"No, no," Hermione interrupted impatiently, shaking her head. "Don't you remember? At Hagrid's? 'A nightmare for Fudge' were your exact words."
Harry studied the paper more closely. "Yeah," he said. "And this bit here—as if Dumbledore would ever want it—Hagrid said that."
"So, she was listening to us again?" Neville asked. "But how?"
Hermione bit her lip, her face screwed up in concentration. "Well, the window was open," she said.
"So what?" Ron asked. "You think she was hanging around outside?"
But they didn't get much time to debate the possibilities because by now everyone seemed to be very interested in their conversation, silently staring at their plates as if they were the most extraordinary things in the world.
"Come on," Harry muttered. "Let's go."
The rest of the day continued like that. Dean was the only one to ask him straight out if Sirius Black was really innocent, to which Harry answered honestly.
"Wow," Dean said. "I wasn't sure if it was just that Skeeter woman exaggerating some more about you."
But he seemed to take Harry at his word, bolstering Harry's confidence that maybe others would too.
Everyone else mostly just whispered around him, but it all came to a head in his last class of the day—Potions.
Snape had been crueler than usual lately. He'd clearly been informed about the investigation into his teaching, and had taken to berating Hermione specifically, chastising her for cutting her roots poorly (they were the neatest in the class) and giving her extra homework for it (shows what he knew—Hermione liked homework). But Hermione had taken it all in stride, reminding them that if her plan worked they'd only have to deal with this behavior for a little while longer.
But when Snape swept into class and saw the Daily Prophet on Pansy Parkinson's desk, he went deathly silent, his face arranging itself in a rage-filled mask Harry hadn't seen since that night in the Shrieking Shack when Snape had been completely deranged.
"Put that rubbish away, Miss Parkinson," he sneered. "Lies like that have no place in a classroom."
Pansy moved to put the paper away, but Harry felt something inside him snap. Snape looked as unhinged as he did that night, and Harry remembered how helpless he felt watching Pettigrew get away, having to let him get away a second time when they went back in time, all because Snape had refused to listen to them.
"What lies?" he asked. "Sirius was framed by Pettigrew."
The rest of the class watched them with bated breath. Draco Malfoy leaned forward gleefully.
Snape turned to him, his eyes cold. "Ah, Mr. Potter," he said. "Desperate for a bit more attention, are you? Sirius Black was a Death Eater who murdered more than a dozen people. There's ample evidence of that."
Harry's hands clenched, enraged that this man was calling Sirius a Death Eater. "Well, you'd know all about being a Death Eater, wouldn't you, Professor?" he asked. "Tell me, how does one conjure the Dark Mark?"
The room was eerily silent, except for Lavender, who gasped.
"Detention, Mr. Potter," Snape bit out, a vicious smile on his face.
But Harry wasn't done. "You can give me all the detentions in the world, but that won't change the fact that Sirius is innocent, and soon everyone will know that," he insisted. "You would've known that too, a year ago, if—"
"If what?" Snape spat, moving closer to Harry. "If you and your meddling know-it-all fan club hadn't interfered? You all should've been expelled for that."
Harry felt his anger rising as Snape moved closer and closer to him.
"Well, if you hadn't been so pathetic, letting some schoolyard grudge get in the way, we wouldn't have had to do anything!" he yelled, standing up. "But it was more important to you to rush Sirius to the dementors so he could have his soul sucked out than to find out the truth!"
"The truth," Snape snarled, "is that Sirius Black is and has always been a violent menace capable of murder, and anyone who doesn't believe that belongs in St. Mungo's Ward for the Incurably Insane with the other addle-brained nitwits who drool more than they—"
But Harry never learned what they did or didn't do because there was a shout and a loud bang, and then Snape sailed across the room, hitting the stone wall with a sickening crunch before sliding ungracefully to the floor.
Harry's heart was pounding and there was a very loud throbbing in his ears, and he almost would've thought he'd done it with accidental magic, but when he looked to the right he saw Neville standing beside him, arm outstretched and wand shaking, his face contorted in rage.
Neville had finally mastered the banishing charm.
The entire class was silent, momentarily stunned by what had just happened.
Finally, Ron broke them from their stupor. "That was bloody brilliant," he said, awed.
And then Malfoy laughed. "Longbottom, you're going to get expelled for that for sure," he crowed.
Seamus, Parvati and Ron all told him where he could shove it.
Ignoring Malfoy, Harry moved briskly to the front of the room to see how bad it was for Neville.
"Is he…?" Hermione asked uncertainly.
Harry crouched down. Snape's arm was bent in a disturbing manner and he was completely unconscious, but he appeared to be breathing.
"He's fine," Harry announced.
"Too bad," Ron muttered.
And then the classroom erupted into chaos, the Slytherins shouting and jeering at Neville—who still seemed to be mostly shocked by what he had done—and the Gryffindors fighting back. Harry looked helplessly at Hermione, who was trying to cajole Neville into lowering his wand. He returned to the desk to help her.
"He said—" Neville muttered, clearly still stunned.
"I know," Hermione said soothingly, gently pushing his arm down.
"It was a brilliant hit," Harry added. "Flitwick would've given you top marks."
Neville laughed a bit hysterically at the absurdity of the situation, but before he could say anything more, Professor McGonagall stormed into the room.
"I could hear you all from the great hall," she admonished them. "What—"
She saw Professor Snape lying on the floor, and yelped a bit, looking completely flummoxed.
"What is going on here?" she demanded. "How did this happen?"
"Longbottom did it," Malfoy practically yelled. "Just attacked Professor Snape out of nowhere."
"It's true," Pansy added quickly. "We all saw it!"
"It's not!" Harry yelled back. "He was provoked!"
And then the class erupted into shouting again.
"Silence!" Professor McGonagall said, not quite shouting, but still managing to be louder than everyone anyway. She surveyed the class. "The Slytherins will return to their common room at once."
"But surely, Professor, he's got to be expelled for this," Malfoy said arrogantly.
Professor McGonagall gave him a withering stare. "And when was it, Mr. Malfoy, that you were named headmaster and are therefore now in charge of expulsions?" she asked dismissively. "I assure you, as deputy headmistress and head of Gryffindor house, I know a bit more about this than you. You may go."
The Slytherins grumbled as they collected their things.
When they'd gone, Professor McGonagall surveyed the Gryffindors coolly, sizing them up.
"Ms. Brown," she said. "Explain."
And Lavender did, relaying every detail, every word to Professor McGonagall—she couldn't have chosen a better Gryffindor to question. "So, you see, Professor, it wasn't Neville's fault," Lavender ended breathlessly. "Snape said those things about… and, well, everyone knows about Neville's parents!"
Professor McGonagall seemed to consider Neville. "I'm going to take Professor Snape to the hospital wing. Mr. Longbottom, please wait for me in my office. The rest of you return to the common room," she said, in a voice that brokered no room for discussion.
But it was Dean Thomas who had an odd look on his face and didn't move with the rest of them. "Is it true?" he asked. "Was Snape a Death Eater?"
Professor McGonagall hesitated, but Hermione turned to him. "Yes," she answered, and the pair exchanged a look that reminded Harry how different Hogwarts and the wizarding world at large were for them.
No one said a word as they headed out of the dungeons. When Neville broke off from the larger group to go to Professor McGonagall's office, Harry and Hermione went with him, steering him on either side.
"I'm going to be expelled," he whispered, his face completely terrified.
"You're not going to be expelled," Hermione insisted. "Malfoy doesn't know what he's talking about."
"We do stuff like this all the time," Harry added, "and we've never been expelled."
"I attacked a teacher," Neville whimpered.
"You attacked Snape," Harry corrected. "And you were provoked."
"He's already under investigation," Hermione pointed out.
"We attacked him just last year, and we weren't expelled. And Hermione set him on fire once," Harry added helpfully.
"Dumbledore will understand," Hermione asserted, as they reached the office and sat Neville in the chair.
But then Neville's eyes widened like he'd just thought of something, and he groaned, putting his head in his hands. "My gran," he moaned. "When she finds out…"
Harry and Hermione looked helplessly at each other. Neville's gran had sent him a howler for his behavior before—when he'd lost the list of passwords to Gryffindor Tower—but Harry wasn't sure how she would react to this.
When Professor McGonagall entered the room, Harry and Hermione were still standing on either side of Neville, their arms crossed and their faces defiant, like silent sentinels.
Professor McGonagall looked exasperated. "I wasn't aware there were three Mr. Longbottoms," she said.
"It's not his fault, Professor," Harry said.
"I told you Professor Snape was a bully," Hermione added.
Professor McGonagall surveyed them. "I've heard what you have to say, but I do need to talk to Mr. Longbottom alone," she said. "Return to Gryffindor Tower."
Harry and Hermione looked at Neville, who nodded miserably at them, and they reluctantly left. They made it as far as the end of the corridor. Hermione slid down the wall, watching Professor McGonagall's closed door, and Harry sat next to her.
She was twisting her hands around nervously, and Harry took one in his to calm her, even as he felt his heart racing faster at her touch.
"You don't think she'll expel him, do you?" she asked anxiously.
Desperately wanting to make her feel better—and himself, to tell the truth—Harry tried to rationalize it. "She would've gotten Dumbledore if she was going to do that, right?" Harry asked.
Hermione nodded, looking a little less uncertain, but they both sat in silence for what felt like an eternity, before the door opened and Neville shuffled out. When Professor McGonagall saw them sitting there, she shot them a look that was equal parts exasperation and pride.
They didn't dawdle, moving quickly back toward Gryffindor Tower.
"How'd it go?" Harry asked, as soon as they were out of earshot.
"Not bad," Neville said, clearly relieved. "No expulsion—just loads of detention."
Harry was certainly pleased about that, but he couldn't help but worry what would happen the next time they had Potions. He fervently wished Hermione's plan would work—otherwise Neville was in for an even more miserable time next year.
Neville's mood seemed lighter when they reached Gryffindor Tower, and it got even better when they opened the portrait hole to shouts and cheers and a standing ovation from the entire house. Word of Neville's deed had spread, and Fred and George had managed to procure a veritable feast from the kitchens.
"Brilliant!" Fred gushed, clapping Neville on the back, an admiring look on his face, as George and Lee set off fireworks.
"Honestly, Neville, that was great," Ron added, beaming. "Best Potions class ever!"
And Neville, who'd never had a Gryffindor party in his honor before, quickly forgot any distress he'd been feeling an hour ago and even his worry of what his gran would say on the matter.
As it turns out, Neville didn't have to worry about what his gran would say. He didn't receive a howler—nor any sort of admonishment. Instead, he got a short, succinct letter from her—"Well done" she'd written—and an entire case of chocolate frogs, which he shared with the rest of the Gryffindor table. Snape, who was out of the hospital wing fairly quickly, looked on angrily from his perch at the staff table.
Harry worried what their next Potions class would bring, but he needn't have. When they showed up, they found Professor Sprout there along with Professor Snape—supposedly because the potion they were working on needed the leaves from a freshly cut venomous tentacula, but Harry suspected she was there to diffuse any tensions. In any case, Professor Sprout didn't leave, claiming she loved to see Herbology brought to life in practice in Potions class. Snape was on better behavior than he ever had been, and Neville received the first compliment in Potions from a teacher that he'd ever gotten when Professor Sprout praised his knowledge about the interaction between the leaves and dittany.
Life returned to normal for a few days after Neville attacked Snape—training and trying (and failing) to interpret Hermione's reactions to his overtures—all the while the threat of the third task loomed larger. And then, impossibly, it was the night before the third task.
They pretended like everything was normal at dinner. Ron gave them a play by play of the match he'd won in chess club, Neville raved about how good the potatoes were, and Hermione rambled on about her Ancient Runes lesson. Harry ate his dinner quietly, trying not to think about the next day.
At the end of the meal, Hermione turned to Harry, her eyes fretful even as she tried to look calm. "Do you want to go train some more?" she asked. "We can go to Professor McGonagall's classroom and practice your jinxes."
But Harry didn't want to train. If he didn't know it now, he doubted he would by tomorrow. What he really wanted was to grab his firebolt and fly at top speed, forgetting everything he had to face tomorrow. But even just a walk outside would probably do him some good.
"I think I want to just go for a walk," he answered honestly. "Clear my head a bit."
"Oh," Hermione said, looking a bit like she wanted to argue, like she didn't want to waste any moment of time that could be spent practicing. "All right."
And then Harry realized that he didn't want to be alone at all.
"Do you want to come?" he blurted.
Hermione blinked once and then grinned. "Sure," she said, turning to Ron and Neville expectantly.
Harry liked his friends very much, but he fervently didn't want them to come along this time.
Neville read his expression perfectly because he quickly said, "No thanks. Lavender and Parvati offered to help with the Divination homework."
Ron's ears perked up at that. Lavender and Parvati thoroughly liked Divination and took any chance they got to practice it—so doing homework with them usually meant getting them to read your tea leaves or your palm and do all the work for you.
"Yeah, I should probably get going on the assignment, too," he said, grinning at Hermione for the first time in ages. "Homework's vitally important, eh, Hermione?"
Hermione looked very much like she wanted to roll her eyes—she knew exactly why he wanted to work with Lavender and Parvati—but in the spirit of renewed friendship, she held her tongue.
"Have fun," she said drily, as she and Harry stood to make their way outside.
He was very aware of her presence next to him, and he felt his heart pounding, certain she could hear it too.
They circled the lake at sunset, the lake where the judges had rightly declared Hermione the person he'd miss most in the world, the lake they had circled that cold day in November when this all began, when she was the only one to believe in him.
But it wasn't cold this day. It was June and it was warm, with a slight breeze wafting the aroma of flowers from Professor Sprout's private greenhouse their way. The sun was setting, shimmering on the lake, a painting of gold and orange and pink.
They stood beside a tree, silent, taking in the breathtaking view. Sighing, Hermione leaned against Harry, reminding him of when she'd done the same thing at the Yule Ball—how had he not seen it then? How did he not realize what he was feeling?
But it was like she said—the Yule Ball had been a fantasy, and Harry preferred reality: bushy-haired Hermione with ink smudges on her fingers.
He felt the weight of her, the softness of her hair brushing against him, and he took a deep breath and did the thing he should have done that clear December night: He entwined his fingers in hers, moving his thumb in soft circles, reveling in the now-familiar thrill he got whenever he touched Hermione.
He felt her still, felt her breath hitch at his ministrations and hope rose in his heart. Was her reaction what he thought? Or was it wishful thinking on his part?
He shifted so he could look at her, watched as she raised her head to do the same. There was a question in her eyes, but something else, too, something Harry thought could be reflected in his own.
"Harry?"
And then he knew what he had to do. Maybe the gravity of what he'd be facing the next day brought him some clarity, but he knew he shouldn't have spent the past few weeks hinting at anything—he was rubbish at reading signs and should've just been direct from the start.
Harry wasn't someone who was used to words—he'd been taught from an early age to be silent, to make himself inconspicuous, and he always did until anger got the best of him and words rose out of him like an eruption he couldn't stop. But while he might not be good with words, Harry was a person of action.
It didn't matter that he didn't really know what he was doing—when had that ever stopped him anyway?
Grateful that he'd practiced the Minting Spell nonverbally when he'd finished his dinner, he tilted his head, slowly leaning closer to her, and he saw the question in her eyes clear up as her eyelids fluttered closed. And as he closed his, he felt her breath on his lips, tantalizingly close. He edged forward a bit, their lips coming together in the lightest of touches, no more pressure than the feel of the feather of her quill.
It felt electric, crackling out from his lips down to his fingertips. He opened his eyes and shifted back to look at her—did she feel it too?
Her eyes were still closed, but he felt her pulse in the hand he still held; it was beating as fast as his.
Her eyes opened, warm brown meeting green, and there was a gleam there Harry had never seen before. She grinned a little—half a smile, really—and suddenly her free hand was in his hair, pulling him back to her, her lips an open invitation that Harry gladly accepted.
She was bold and assertive, and Harry didn't know much about kissing, but he found he rather liked that. Their lips met more forcefully this time, a solid pressure that coursed the electricity all the way down to his toes.
This was no friendship. This was something so much better.