After the troll incident, Hermione Granger joined Harry in the library most days.

She didn't talk much anymore. Ronald Weasley said she'd been hit on the head and it had made her go loony, but Harry wasn't so sure. He'd been called loony lots even though he wasn't stupid.

"I like how you're quiet," Harry told her on Thursday as they packed away their books. "It's like you're giving me space to talk. Not many people do that."

Then they parted ways, her to the Hospital Wing and him to Flitwick's office.

"How are you feeling today Harry?" Flitwick began.

As usual, he didn't really know. It was hard to tell most of the time, unless someone asked. Harry took a moment to think about what was happening inside his chest, just like the Charms master had taught him. Today it was one of the emotions he didn't feel so often, all fluttery and strange. "Worried," Harry decided upon examining the cold sweat on his palms.

At this point his special counsellors would have interrupted with some inane question.

Flitwick just waited.

Harry really liked that about him. His train of thought chugged along with a contented rumbling. "Hermione is very sad. She listens too much when Ronald Weasley says mean things."

Flitwick's face wasn't doing much of anything; Harry wasn't sure what to make of it.

"How do you know she's sad?"

"She told me." Obviously. How else did anyone know anything, besides reading or being told?

"Harry," Flitwick said very gently, "Miss Granger can't talk. Something was hurt in her head and the healers haven't figured out how to fix her yet."

People, Harry reminded himself calmly, were idiots. "You don't have to talk to me like I'm a child. Was it like a brain aneurysm, then?" He had done a lot of research about blood pressure after the time Vernon's head had turned purple.

"I'm sorry, Harry, but I'm not going to discuss the details of Miss Grangers medical condition with you, just like I would never discuss yours with anyone else."

"Liar." The word jumped out without his meaning to have said it. "I mean," Harry added, the his tongue tripping with his haste, "You talk to Aunt Petunia about me all the time."

"I'm sorry, Harry," was all Flitwick said.

It was concise, logical, and to the point. He liked that about the professor—there was no faffing about. "That's alright."

Flitwick was smiling now, his mustache bristling gloriously. "Nevertheless, it remains true that Miss Granger can read, but not write or speak. Therefore, she won't have told you about her sadness. Will you tell me how you know?"

Harry hadn't realised she couldn't talk at all. But she communicated with everything else, like how she'd sit next to him even though she hadn't liked him before. Sadness was written on her shoulder blades, in the way she held her head, how she switched between sighs of frustration and of melancholy. "I just know," he decided to say. "Like I know Fluffy's right head likes playing tug but his middle head likes sleeping."

"Are you comparing Hermione to a cerberus?" Flitwick said with strong disapproval. "Harry, how do you know about Fluffy?"

What followed was a very long lecture about inappropriate usage of the unlocking charm—or at least that was how the lecture started, Harry didn't actually bother listening to the rest. He'd decided if Hermione wasn't able to speak, maybe he could teach her about listening.

xoxox

"Come on," Harry whispered urgently, gathering James' cloak up so they wouldn't trip over the hem. "Filch always comes this way around nine."

Hermione followed wordlessly. Her body language said Eagerness but her face was a perfect copy of Aunt Petunia's Stern Look. Harry just hurried up the stairs to the astronomy tower. Both of them were panting when they reached the top.

The cushioning charm for the floor and locking charm for the door were easy enough to cast. Hermione was staring at his wand, but Harry gestured towards the stars. "Look," he said, letting himself fall to the ground as the cloak puddled midnight around him. "Listen. They make you seem small in comparison, but they can be constant companions if you let them. The stars will never let you feel alone."

She sat down beside him, her head tilted skyward. Harry could see the scar that ran all the way from her neckline to her brow.

"Do you know the stories? Can you see Sirius?"

Hermione shook her head no. Despite the three astronomy classes they'd already had, she was still a blank slate.

Harry thought she was perfect. "Look there," he began, pointing. "Ursa Minor is always easy to spot, and there's Orion's belt. You can go in quadrants from the Huntsman. Their positions are always changing relative to us because of the way the Earth is hurtling through space, except for Sirius. That one is actually a set of binary stars and it moves consistently in the same 365-day orbit alongside us. The ancient Egyptians believed her a goddess whose rising heralded the flooding of the Nile. The Greeks thought he brought wilt and would weaken men.

"It's the exact same star in two cultures that existed around the same time. Even though they saw the same thing they interpreted it very differently. Something can be a blessing or a curse depending on your perspective."

Harry looked at her as he paused for breath. She was smiling, and he smiled back hesitantly. Hermione pointed up in the direction of Leo.

"The lion," Harry explained, "is made of nine main stars and six lesser stars. The bright one in the middle is Regulus, the king. In the legends it was a monstrous beast which Hercules wrestled to death, and afterwards Zeus threw the lion into the stars.

"But to us he represents Gryffindor's own lion, on the back of which Godric himself used to ride into battle. The beast fell in a fight against a mighty dragon, and in his grief Godric cast a spell to memorialise his brave companion. Salazar Slytherin, unwilling to be outdone, put up his water snake in the constellation right next to it."

Harry let the silence grow between them, thinking of the right way to say things, as the truth and without metaphors.

"There's a thousand different ways you can tell a story, Hermione," he told her. "Just because Ronald Weasley says it happened one way doesn't mean his version is right. I bet there's a version of this story where you, Ronald and I are the best of friends, running around all year solving mysteries. But this is our version of things. With magic, we can make the world be however we want."

Someone cleared their throat right next to the classroom door.

Harry squeaked, his heart already racing.

"That was well said," the voice said. It sounded like McGonagall's.

But the shoes were Nymphadora's, flecked with potion stains and dirt. Relief hit Harry like a bludger; he slumped back into the cushioned floor. "Oh, thank Merlin," he breathed.

Not-McGonagall's hair melted into pink. "How do you always know, Harry?" she whined.

Hermione's brows were all furrowed in evident confusion.

"This is not McGonagall," Harry introduced. "Nymphadora Tonks is here to get her potions NEWT so she can be an auror."

He considered the benefits of making a list of not-McGonagalls. Was there really any point to it, though, if there was only one real deputy Headmistress?

"I'm here because you both should be in bed," Nymphadora said. "Ten points from Gryffindor by the way. And five points to Gryffindor for demonstrating such an excellent grasp of Astronomy. Each." She led them all the way back to the portrait of the Fat Lady. "Good night Harry, Hermione."

It would end up taking a month for Hermione to relearn to write, and almost a year before she could talk again. But it took only a moment—stretched over cushioning charms on the Astronomy tower floor—for her to make a friend.

xoxox

Dear Aunt Petunia, Harry began—and then he stopped.

He didn't know which words he was looking for.

I've stopped missing number four, Privet Drive as much as I used to. Those weren't kind words, though. Flitwick said he shouldn't say things that might hurt someone if he didn't need to.

Hermione's a freak, like me. She doesn't talk much. No, that was too pitiful.

I'm doing very well in my classes, though sometimes there's a disconnect between when I say the spell and what comes out, so the magic doesn't flow properly. Professor Flitwick says I should try nonverbal casting like Hermione is learning. That wasn't right either; Aunt Petunia had never been interested in magical things.

Why haven't you asked me to come back home over the Christmas break? Merlin no, he didn't want to say that.

The words stared back at him from the page, black on white.

I don't understand.

Harry ripped the letter in half and cast an Incendio for good measure.

Dear Aunt Petunia, he tried again.

I wish you, Dudley and Uncle Vernon a merry Christmas and a happy New Year.

Sincerely,

Harry

The next day, almost the whole school left to spend the holidays with their families. The common room was entirely overrun by left-over Weasleys, so Hermione and Harry retreated to the library.

After lunch, Nymphadora collected them with a kind smile to show them the Hufflepuff common room. Harry had snuck in there before with James and Sirius, but it looked even warmer during the day with its overgrown earthiness. Neville would have loved it, if he hadn't been home with his mum and gran for the holiday.

Side by side with Hermione, Harry sank into the overstuffed armchairs by the crackling fire. Nymphadora left them to spend the afternoon huddled behind comforting books with hot drinks cradled in their hands.

He didn't know about Hermione, but none of it made the cold in his belly any lesser.

She was reading, as usual, but when Harry tried that his eyes would just move over the page without anything reaching him. For once, Harry wasn't the one who had let someone down—he'd been trying not to think about the Dursleys all week, but his mind kept circling back to them like a fly to carrion. A great deal of Dursley-related disappointment curled heavily in his gut.

After dinner on Christmas Eve Harry accompanied Nymphadora to the Astronomy Tower. They lay on their backs nestled between cushioning and warming charms, watching time pass.

"My mother's called Andromeda," Nymphadora offered, squinting in the wrong direction.

Harry pointed. "With sixteen stars she's one of the biggest constellations. In the ancient myths she was princess of Aethiopia until her father tried to sacrifice her to a monster. The hero Perseus made her queen of Greece instead. I looked up the Black family tree, Andromeda is the only one who broke the naming tradition."

"Is that why you insist on calling me Nymphadora, even though I've told you I like Tonks?"

"I like your name, it's wonderful. She was very wise to name you after change, instead of something as unreachable as a star."

Nymphadora morphed herself so she was looking back at Harry with his own face. The green eyes didn't look so startling out under the night sky as they did every morning in the mirror. As he watched, she transformed her nose into a pig's snout.

"What's it like?" he asked.

"What's what like?"

Admittedly, he could have said that better. "What's it like being anyone? You can be a boy or a girl, look like me or even be not-McGonagall." He floundered for a long moment, searching for the right words. The stars stared back, offering no answers. "I mean, how can you be two people at once and still be yourself?"

His friend smiled at him, and the stars smiled at him. "I don't know that one either, Harry. I think that's one of those things everyone has to figure out for themselves when they're ready. For now I'll just keep trying versions of myself on for size until I find one that fits."

Harry nodded—as if he understood—because he didn't want her to think he was stupid. Nymphadora was so kind, and clever. She never made him feel like he was less.

Neither of them said much more after that, but it was alright.

"Happy Christmas," Nymphadora whispered as clouds began to put out the stars, one by one, like a Nox.

"Thanks. Happy Christmas to you too."

xoxox

On Christmas morning Harry awoke to a stack of gifts piled at the foot of his bed.

He didn't actually recall having gone to bed. This was the morning's first point of confusion.

The second was that Hermione had perched herself on Neville's neat covers. She was holding something in one hand.

Harry put on his glasses to check. Yes, it was definitely Hermione, who had woken him by tossing…socks? At least they were freshly laundered girl-socks, nothing like Vernon's woolly monstrosities. He threw the socks that had landed on his blankets back at her.

Hermione grinned and waved.

In the next bed Ronald let out another snore and rolled over in his sleep, his pet garden gnome Scabby snoring just as loudly from its place on the boy's pillow. Following Hermione's gesturing, Harry cast a silent levitation spell on his presents and followed her to the common room.

Percy Weasley greeted them with a stiff nod and a "Happy Christmas, Harry."

There was a small pile of parcels already sitting by the best armchairs. Harry sat down beside Hermione so that they could enjoy the act of shredding wrapping paper, together.

"You'd be an excellent nest-maker," Harry told her, admiring the colourful ribbons. Would it be strange to keep them?

He only half-noticed Hermione's befuddled look. His gifts had all been sweets and books, but he'd saved the largest for last. It was very light and the paper it bore was adorned with familiar writing.

For Harry Potter, from Aunt Petunia

His hands trembled slightly as he curled a finger under the checkered paper. Slowly, almost reverently, he tore it down the side.

It was a cage. A decent-sized cage with enough space for a thick layer of bedding. There was a plastic running wheel in the corner and a metal drip bottle.

Had Aunt Petunia figured out he used to be a rat?

No, that was ludicrous. She couldn't possibly know, and even if she did this wouldn't be her way of letting him know.

Was that why she hadn't told him to come spend Christmas break with the family?

Doubt gnawed at his insides.

"Uah," Hermione said.

Harry's eyes snapped up to her face. She had scrunched up her brows but she didn't look to be in pain.

She pushed her muggle notebook into his hands.

"What's that?" Hermione's writing said.

Harry shrugged. "It's a cage, like for a rat."

It was impossible to miss the way Hermione rolled her eyes in response. Harry had been learning a lot about how to determine her thoughts from her expressions. At that moment her face was saying, "What else can you tell me?"

"I don't know. Aunt Petunia sent it for Christmas." Then he remembered the note with its sharp lettering. He scrabbled for it.

Dear Harry,

Since you've been doing so well at Hogwarts I thought it best you stay there over the holiday. I will miss your help with the Christmas baking but I do believe it's for the best.

After extensive talks with Professor Flitwick I have decided a pet is a good idea for your development. You must take care of your new rat by yourself but can ask a prefect or teacher for help whenever you need it. You will be accompanied to a nearby shop to choose your own rat. You may not choose a scorpion, spider or anything other than a single small rodent.

Thank you for your well-wishes. I hope you and your friends at the castle also have a lovely Christmas.

Your Aunt Petunia

Harry stared and stared at the words until he was sure he'd read them ten times over.

When Hermione reached out he let her gentle hands take the letter from him.

Had Aunt Petunia never considered asking him what he wanted? Harry couldn't figure out what he felt, just that it was an uncomfortable pressure sitting heavily on his heart.

"Are you crying Harry?" Ronald Weasley's voice cut into his thoughts.

Hermione stood up hotly, placing herself between Harry and the rest of the common room like a human patronus.

It just made Harry cry harder. He hugged himself and started rocking, hating that he was being reduced to this by a letter, by a rat, by his friend standing up to a bully for him. Would it have been too much to ask for him to be normal, with a normal family and a normal life?

But that wouldn't have been enough either, he knew. He'd already lived a normal life, and that had gone to Hades.

His thoughts kept spiraling, even though he just wanted them to stop, to leave him alone. He pinched himself, hard, though that never helped much.

Then Flitwick came in. "Oh dear," Harry heard the half-man say, the words reverberating around him like they were very distant even when Flitwick was standing right next to him.

Harry flinched away, his body filled to the brim with shame.

"It's alright, Harry. Take your time. I've sent the Weasleys on to breakfast so it's just us and Miss Granger now. Can she stay?"

For a moment a memory flashed up, some stupid teacher mocking him. "I don't know Harry, can you go to the bathroom? " He'd wet himself then and the whole class had watched, laughing.

Flitwick was still talking distantly. "Miss Granger, perhaps you should go back to your dorm for a minute—"

"No," Harry choked. She should stay and see how messed up he was. It was only fair she knew what she was getting into, being his friend.

Were they even still friends?

"Harry," Flitwick's voice said, "How about we focus on breathing. In and out, there we go. Pop your mouth open for me please."

Suddenly there was something cold on his tongue. Harry stopped rocking.

He pushed it around his mouth, feeling the way it clicked against his teeth. It was bizarre. Harry sucked, was that ice? Water was puddling around the rounded cube. Yes, ice, he determined. Harry opened his eyes.

"Oh good, you're back with us," Professor Flitwick said cheerily, as if nothing had happened. Hermione was smiling too, even though she didn't have to. Harry wondered what he'd done to deserve her loyalty, for all that they were lions.

Not that he was really a proper Gryffindor anyway.

Flitwick was still there. "How about we have a quick spot of breakfast here and then head down to Hogsmeade right after?"

Right. Because he had to pick out his rat.

It wasn't even that he didn't want a pet, and a rat would make a lovely companion—he just felt so helpless. Like everyone else was living his life for him already, regardless of what Harry himself thought about it.

There was a question in the quirk of Flitwick's eyebrows, but the half-man seemed unbothered waiting for a response. Harry's respect for his professor grew even further. "I'd like that," Harry decided. "May Hermione please come with?"

Bundled up in warming charms, cloaks, and scarves, the three of them made their way to Hogsmeade. They even managed to dodge the Weasleys' messy snowball fight.

After a few seconds worth of deep thought, Harry picked out a patchy gray-and-brown piebald that looked almost exactly like Wormtail had.

"Are you sure you don't want one of these?" the shopkeep asked, directing him towards a group of sleek black mice that were primping themselves—even part-human Wormtail had never done something so unnatural.

"I want this one," Harry confirmed. "I shall call her Ratty and she shall be mine and she shall be my Ratty."

xoxox

I've been talked into sharing some of my works in progress, so those will be going up on my ao3 account sometime in the future, too. Please keep spreading the word on reddit etc, Peter's story is still suffering from unpopular-character syndrome. Thank you for all your support. I delight in every review.