CHAPTER VII: Drawing Closer, If Not Conclusions

Nothing quite exemplified the sudden shift in Harry's priorities than this year's exams. In that, they came and went, and he hardly noticed. No longer did he see them as an anxiety-inducing gauntlet, a potentially insurmountable barrier between him and a successful career. Now, it was just sitting in a room for two and a half hours, writing everything he could remember, regardless of whether his answers were correct. Harry was sure he'd get a ribbing from Hermione later about the whole ordeal. So, at least he could look forward to that.

The time away from studying was hardly wasted, though. Indeed, Harry believed that the activities that had replaced it held far higher value than his N.E.W.T.s could ever hope to possess. The Headmaster himself had given special permission to him, Hermione and Ron for extended, extra-curricular studies (or, as Ron put it, Saving-the-World class) in which the three of them, aided by Dumbledore, spoke extensively of their plans for the next few months. Everything for battle training, strategy, politics and the Order were discussed.

Every shred of intelligence that Dumbledore had gathered about the Horcruxes was shared - every clue he had found, every lead he had followed - all piled into daily sessions in the evenings and mornings. They spent all free periods tutoring with the Headmaster, which meant that revising was quietly shunted into the background. Ron barely minded, sharing Harry's disenfranchisement with the trivial nature of a grading system in terms of measuring one's abilities or worth (though not in that many words). Hermione, however, struggled slightly with the shift in focus, citing the sanctity of her perfect grade average.

Of course, in typical Hermione fashion, she decided that training for the Horcrux hunt and revising for intensive exams at the same time with minimal breaks or sleep was entirely possible - that is, until Harry locked her in the Room of Requirement with only a bed for company. When he opened the doors five minutes later, Hermione was already fast asleep, and a lesson about the virtues of rest had been learned.

So, it was with little confidence that Harry entered the Great Hall on the day of his first exam. He had briefly glimpsed his textbooks and notes before entering (offering an honest, if feeble attempt at preparation). Still, he was under no illusion that he was mentally equipped for the coming task. So, Harry could only imagine his surprise when, as he closed the final page of the final exam, he felt a sense of anti-climax befall him.

They were… easy.

Or rather, not easy per se, but more simple. Without the build-up, anxiety, or stakes, all that was left were questions on a sheet of paper and time enough to answer them. All the nervous energy that might have led him to over-think, or second guess himself, or forget basic theory trying to remember everything else, simply didn't exist. Maybe his newly-found nihilism had its uses after all.

So, the first year of N.E.W.T.s came to an end with all the ceremony of a bill. Maybe not all hope was lost in this world after all.

Hermione seemed to be sharing in his delight, though maybe not for the same reasons as he had in mind.

"What did you think about that last page?" he heard her ask, trying and failing to mask her enjoyment of the exam season. "Honestly, it was almost juvenile. I know the Ministry is desperate to recruit new Aurors, but still, they could have implemented some challenge."

Harry turned to her and blinked.

"Last page?"

"You know, page 10? The one with the question on Centaurs?"

His eyes widened to the size of saucers.

"There was a page 10?"

Hermione's eyes widened, mirroring his own, and her face suddenly became pale. Her mouth opened, imitating a fish on dry land. She was about to launch into a hysterical tirade when she noticed the corners of Harry's lips turning upwards. Her shocked expression turned into heated chagrin, and Harry grinned like a cat that had caught the canary.

"Harry!" she admonished, smacking his elbow.

"Gotcha," he laughed.

"That's not funny."

"It is, Miss Granger." He tilted his head, eyeing her. "You know it is."

"No, it's not," she grumbled, turning up her nose, refusing to look at him any longer.

"I can see you smiling," she heard from her side.

"You see nothing."

Harry merely laughed, threading his arm through hers.

He didn't mean to get Hermione riled up so often. It just so happened that he immensely enjoyed when she was. It wasn't anger, exactly - Harry hated seeing Hermione angry, that meant she had been hurt in some way. This was something else. It was fun, cheeky, challenging, like a tennis match or a duel. It never devolved into an argument, but there was something there, just beneath the surface — a spark threatening to erupt. Into what, Harry didn't know, but he enjoyed skirting the edge, daring it to reveal itself.

"Besides, it's not as if these exams matter to me at the moment," he reasoned. "If all goes to plan… I won't be here next year."

"No, but they might be useful later on," she replied, finally deciding that he deserved to be looked at again. "After Hogwarts, when you want to get a job."

"Yeah," nodded half-heartedly, "after Hogwarts…"

Hermione glanced at him, noticing how his eyes had fallen to the cracks on the floor.

"Because you are going to survive this, Harry," she urged, gripping his hand. "You are."

Harry looked unconvinced but nodded anyway.

"If you say so."

Hermione frowned, quickly deciding to change the subject before the mood became unsalvageable.

"What do you want to do, Harry?" she asked, as the pair emerged from the walls of the castle, out into the open air. "When you graduate?"

"I really don't know…" He took a moment to think, his brow creasing. "I hadn't thought that far."

"You could become an Auror," Hermione offered, to which Harry scoffed.

"I didn't get the grades for an Auror."

Hermione scoffed right back.

"You've fought Voldemort and lived to tell the tale. Several times," she reminded him. "I'm sure that makes you more than qualified."

To that, he shrugged, conceding if only to stop talking. He lead them over to an empty patch of grass, taking in the way the sun crested over the tops of the mountains on the far side of the Black Lake.

"Honestly," he murmured after a long, contemplative pause, "I'm not sure if I even want to be an Auror."

Hermione glanced at him, frowning in confusion.

"What do you mean? I thought-"

"I used to," he clarified, "but now that I think about it… I'm not sure I want to chase dark wizards for the rest of my life. I know it sounds selfish, but-"

"Harry," she smiled, patting his hand, "it's not selfish to want a bit of peace. Not after everything you've done. If that is what you want."

Harry's gaze fell into the middle distance, and a faint hint of a smile lit up on his face. Behind his eyes, Hermione could see the cogs turning, dreaming up something beautiful. His face adopted a peaceful expression, unlike anything she had seen before; as if he were in a deep sleep.

"I've always wanted to be a father," he admitted, his cheeks reddening slightly as the words came tumbling out.

Hermione paused. The image of it, Harry and fatherhood, came together so very swiftly. She couldn't help picturing an older Harry - taller, wiser, beaming - sitting beside a couple of young children, holding them tight in a warm embrace.

"You'd be a good father," she told him and meant every word.

Harry's countenance shifted as he was suddenly, deeply moved.

"Thank you, Hermione," he croaked. "That means a lot to me."

"Though," Hermione added quickly, "it does take two."

Harry let out a bark of laughter.

"I am aware."

"Anyone in mind?" she probed. "I think Ginny's single."

"I don't Ginny's an option anymore," he cringed.

"How come? You never did tell me what happened with her."

Harry's face darkened, his grip on her arm tightening in something akin to frustration.

"She said that she could only picture me being happy… chasing Voldemort."

Hermione gasped.

"She didn't!"

"She did," Harry asserted, his tone nearly as scandalised as her own.

Hermione stared at him, then just past his shoulder. She shook her head, her hair flailing around her face like a mane.

"That little cow!"

Harry jumped at her sudden outburst.

"Christ, Hermione!"

"Well, she is!" she doubled-down. "You know she came to me for advice, with how to make you notice her. I thought… I thought she'd be good for you."

"She did mention that." Harry decided as he stroked her arm, that leading the conversation towards the secluded shore of the lake was the best course of action. "Your advice worked, by the way. I'm starting to think you know more about me than I do."

Hermione smiled dangerously, gazing out onto the water's edge.

"I'm thorough."

"I'm sure you are."

"Well, evidently, I'm not thorough enough." She sighed. "I'm sorry, Harry, I had no idea she was like that. I thought she genuinely liked you for you."

"I think in some ways she did," he pondered. "She just didn't know who I was, not as well as she thought she did."

"It's an easy mistake to make." She continued before he could protest. "Harry, no matter what you think of yourself, you are a hero. Everyone knows that."

"But I don't want to be."

"Who does? Everyone wants to be famous, everyone wants to be strong, but few people want to be a hero."

Harry blinked, his eyebrows disappearing behind his fringe.

"You should have been a philosopher," he meagrely offered.

Hermione grinned, leaning her head against his shoulder.

"Who says I'm not?"

"Touché."

The evening air bristled against them, prompting Hermione to move closer, inserting herself into Harry's side where it was warmest. If Harry minded her proximity, he didn't show it, choosing to remain focused on the landscape. Hermione closed her eyes, listening to his breathing, and she smiled when, eventually, his arm found her back, unconsciously beckoning her closer still.

Moments like these - still, peaceful, precious - were becoming all the rarer nowadays. It was a good day if Harry could wake up and go to bed without a panic attack in between. She wasn't sure if Harry was getting better or becoming accustomed to the prospect of constant paranoia. For the sake of her sanity, she liked to presume the latter. If it were up to her, his whole life would be made up of these moments, away from the war, the Ministry, maybe even Hogwarts. If that was what it took to keep him safe…

It was a treacherous thought. An exciting one. One that she could never hope to follow; that Harry would never go down, not while the Wizarding World needed his help. Not that it deserved it.

The resentment threatened to consume her, and so Hermione promptly flushed it from her head.

"That's enough sidetracking," she chirped, leaning back to address Harry properly. "Tell me, now that Ginny's out of the picture, who else is on your radar?"

Harry responded with a dumbfounded expression.

"Who are you, and what have you done with Hermione Granger?"

"What? I can gossip," Hermione argued. "Besides, I have a vested interest."

"Oh, really?"

"Mmhmm," she nodded. "Now spill!"

"I don't know, Hermione," Harry sighed. "I've been a bit busy at the moment."

"You're a teenage boy, Harry. You always have enough time for that."

Harry smiled, lowering his head in an attempt to hide his blush.

"Alright, I might have been checking out a few girls."

"Ooh!" Hermione sang, shuffling closer with a mischievous grin. Harry's blush blossomed into a crimson glow.

"Shut up."

"Aww, he's blushing!" Hermione cooed. "Come on then; before curfew would be nice."

"Susan Bones," Harry replied flippantly.

"Susan? But you've hardly shared two words with her…" Hermione stopped and sighed wearily. "You just like her for her chest, don't you?"

Harry shrugged.

"How could I not?"

"You know, there's more to a woman than…" Hermione gestured wildly around her chest area, "that!"

"I know, I know. It just so happens that Susan has more of…" Harry copied her gestures, "that than any other girl in the castle."

"What did I expect?"

"What did you expect?"

"I don't know - something with more substance."

"You want substance? Alright, Luna's nice."

"Luna?" Hermione scoffed which drew a stony stare from Harry.

"What's wrong with Luna?"

"Nothing," Hermione quickly amended, "Nothing. She's just a bit…"

"If you say 'loony' we're going to have a problem."

"No, of course not! She's just… not quite there."

"Well, you don't have to worry about that, because I think she's only got eyes for Neville."

"You think so?"

"I don't know. Call it instinct."

"I think Hannah already called the shots on that one."

"Hannah? Really?"

"You haven't noticed? She stares at him like how Ron stares at a ham sandwich."

Harry exploded into peals of laughter, and Hermione swiftly followed.

"Speaking of which," Harry managed to eke out once he had finally calmed down, "who is this mysterious girl that Ron seems so obsessed with nowadays?"

"I don't know, Harry."

"Can I get that in writing?" Harry smirked, receiving a swift slap on the arm.

"Prat. It could be anyone. I'm not even sure she exists."

"Can you imagine if it was someone like Daphne Greengrass?"

"Why? Would you be jealous?"

"Not really. I don't know that much about her."

"She's pretty."

"Yeah," Harry nodded, "but there's more to a relationship than looks."

Hermione hummed, turning to the horizon and gazing at it down her upturned nose.

"Except with Susan Bones, evidently," she said primly.

"Okay," Harry chuckled, "you pressured me into that answer. Besides, I was half-joking anyway."

"Then give me an honest answer!"

"Luna was an honest answer!"

Hermione sighed wearily, rolling her eyes at him affectionately.

"Honestly, it's like pulling teeth with you, Harry."

"Well, my options are quite limited, Hermione."

"How?"

"Well… well, look at me!" Harry argued, gesturing to himself. "I'm not exactly a looker, am I?"

"Yes, you are, Harry."

"I look a twig with skin."

"That's called being lean. Trust me, I've seen thin, and you're not it."

"I'm not that handsome, either."

"Tell that to the dozens of girls who stare at you behind your back."

"That's only because-"

"No, it's not. We've all seen you in Quidditch trousers, Harry."

She stopped when she noticed Harry's absent expression. He seemed to have shut down, only providing a weak, "Oh…" as a reaction. Other than, he remained silent, staring off into space.

"Hello?" she called, snapping her fingers in front of his face. "Earth to Harry?"

He blinked, shaking his head slightly.

"Sorry, just… spaced out."

She nudged him, right in the ribs, causing him to cry out as she poked his funny bone.

"Don't let it go to your head, mister," she warned, her smile defusing what little authority she tried to push.

"Wouldn't dream of it," he grinned. Then he nudged her in return. "How about you, Hermione?"

"Hmm?"

"Who are you interested in?"

Hermione paused, her brow furrowing as if he had just said something very improper.

"Now, I really don't think-"

"Come on!" Harry exclaimed.

"Harry," she begged.

"You can't press me on this for so long and not expect me to ask the same question," he argued. "There's got to be someone."

"Well…" Her sentence faded away, lost in the midst of deep contemplation. Harry could only stare as her gaze hardened. Her bottom lip became trapped in between her teeth, and she began chewing away as her musings overtook her. Eventually, she decided upon something, eyeing him anxiously. "Well, there might be one…"

But then she stopped, her mouth snapping shut. She froze as if suddenly remembering where she was.

"Hermione?" Harry called softly. She didn't answer.

Without another word, Hermione lay her head on his shoulder, looking out onto the lake. Harry, having learned not to question Hermione long ago, didn't dispute it. As confused as he might be - and boy was he confused - he knew not to prod. If she didn't want him to know, then it wasn't his place to pry it out of her. No matter how much he desired the answer.

Hermione spoke barely a word for the rest of their time together, but Harry could swear that her grip on his arm was even tighter than it was before. At least Harry could take solace in the irony that, despite having a female as his best friend for more than a few years now, the female species remained a complete mystery to him.

Unbeknownst to him, Hermione took great solace in that fact as well.


If someone had told Harry that today's session of Saving-the-World class had recruited a new member, he might have been excited. Then he found out who exactly that new member was.

Dumbledore told Harry extensively about the nature of his relationship with Snape, that of a double agent and spymaster, loyal to the cause of the light. Harry, however, struggled to see it that way. He knew that eventually, he would have to engage with the man on some level if they were to win the coming war, but Snape… Snape was the last person Harry ever wanted to work with, especially after finding out the truth.

Because Severus Snape wasn't just Harry's least favourite teacher anymore, or an everyday nuisance - a vile, rude, unbearable pain that tormented Harry's curriculum. He was so much more than that now.

Severus Snape was the man whose choices lead to the death of his parents, along with ten long years of neglect and abuse. It was his fault that Harry had to live in a dingy cupboard, without love or comfort or so much as a hug for the longest time. It was because of him that Harry would never be able to hug his mum and dad, never listen to them say that they loved him, or ever share in the happiness that so many other children took for granted. Because of Snape, Harry's childhood had been irrevocably ruined, and he was expected to just supposed to work with him now? To let it all go without so much as an apology? To just ignore all the pain and torment that this… this bastard had caused him and move on, just like that?

If Harry were a lesser man, he might have hexed the greasy Potions Master where he stood. He might have finally tested out some of the new tricks that Dumbledore had taught, maybe add in some of Snape's own that he created under the guise of the Half-Blood Prince.

But now wasn't the time. They had a war to plan, and frankly, he had already spent far too much time wallowing in self-pity. All the energy Harry once had for this sort of thing had passed long ago. Now he was just tired - too tired to waste time being angry at a man who didn't deserve the effort. Snape was pathetic, yes, but very soon he was going to be the most valuable ally they had.

As Headmaster of Hogwarts, Snape would have access to the one item they needed the most: the sword of Gryffindor. Dumbledore explained that, due to its exposure to Basilisk venom (a memory that earned an anxious glare from Hermione), it now held the ability to destroy Horcruxes, harnessing the corrosive power of the venom to its advantage. The sooner they were able to secure the Founder's weapon, the better, and with Snape acting as its guard, it would hopefully be in their hands before long. Dumbledore had initially planned to leave it to them in his will, but complications with the sword's status as a relic meant that it wasn't his to give.

'His will.'

Harry still had trouble processing the idea that Dumbledore would soon no longer be around to help them, to lend them support or advice when they needed it. Despite all that the older man had done - forcing him to stay with the Dursleys; refusing to explain or adequately prepare him for the oncoming war; the lies and deception at every turn - Harry couldn't help the grief that he knew was creeping upon him. Even after everything Albus had done, he was still Harry's mentor.

Which meant Harry needed to focus on these final, vital few lessons.

So far, he thought he was doing well. Dumbledore had only shown him a few of his many tricks, but he had picked them all up very quickly. Perhaps the most exciting new technique was silent casting, something that came to him almost naturally. As Dumbledore explained, the act of announcing a spell was more of a focusing technique than a requirement. Maybe it was something to do with how often he found himself arguing with the voices in his head, internalising his problems rather than letting them out, meant that his inner voice was strong enough to focus his magic. Harry decided not to let that particular fact reach Hermione's ears.

Besides that, Dumbledore's lessons had been far different than what he expected. Contrary to what Harry had imagined, his syllabus didn't contain a multitude of powerful, unknown spells that defied the laws of magic. No, if anything the spells Dumbledore chose to teach him were far more elementary. It was how they were used that surprised him the most. Such as using the sticking charm to walk up walls, or maximising the Lumos charm to blind opponents or combining the Notice-Me-Not charm with quick bursts of transfiguration, changing the terrain right under their feet. Simple, effective spells used in ways that no one could expect. It some ways it made sense. If one could block the killing curse with something as mundane as a levitated obstacle, then why bother trying to learn an overpowered shield spell that would just leave you tired and vulnerable afterwards?

And that was the principle that ran throughout most of Harry's training: easy-to-learn spells implemented in unique ways. It was so simple; it was genius.

Beyond these sessions, Dumbledore had also been filling Harry in on the specifics of Magical politics, mapping out the ways that Tom had probably already begun to seize power in the Ministry. Harry was no fan of politics before, but now, after learning more about the nature of power than he ever wanted to know, he could safely say he despised the topic. Dumbledore, amusingly, shared his exact sentiments.

It got to a point where he knew more about the Ministry than Ron did - but, of course, Hermione still ran circles around him in that department. With this new knowledge, it allowed them to explore opportunities that they never thought possible. It also exposed just how much they hadn't thought of. For example, all the talk of venturing around the country helped them realise that they had no plan for how they were going to do it.

Dumbledore suggested they set up a permanent base of operations, somewhere that could act as a safe house. Harry presumed that they would use 12 Grimmauld Place, however with Dumbledore soon to be dead, and the Fidelus Charm being tied to him as Secret-Keeper, that meant that the building wasn't going to be secure for very long. (Once a Secret-Keeper dies, everyone else who was shared the location become a Secret-Keeper, meaning that everyone in the Order - including Mundungus Fletcher - would be able to share the house's location, Hermione explained off-handedly.) They needed somewhere new, somewhere only they knew about.

Hermione propositioned the use of an expanded tent, a home that they could take with them, however, she conceded that it wasn't the answer for a permanent base. Maybe for away missions, but nothing more substantial than that. Regardless, none of them wanted to live in a tent for months on end. Besides that, a tent was much harder to equip and defend, not like a proper building, so not only would they be down to the bare essentials but also they would be more vulnerable to a surprise attack. Not only that, but they would be ultimately cut off from Hogwarts, and their one ally who had any chance of retaining power in the new regime that was rapidly approaching.

So, they needed a place that was abandoned, rarely visited (if at all), isolated, yet close and connected to Hogwarts. Somewhere in Hogsmeade seemed to be the obvious answer.

Dumbledore proposed the Hog's Head, explaining that he knew the owner very well and could easily pull a few strings to ensure them a hiding spot. However, that produced its own problems. Hogsmeade certainly wasn't airtight. If the Death Eaters got word and decided to scour the place, they wouldn't have many houses to search. That and the frequent visitors that lodged in the establishment meant that the old hotel was too dangerous to be considered a permanent base.

Ron suggested they pitch up in the recently abandoned Zonko's in the heart of Hogsmeade, but that idea also had flaws. Being in the heart of the village meant that coming and going with any sort of secrecy was hardly going to be easy. Worse, if they made any noise, suspicions from neighbours would expose them before long.

That was when Harry suggested the Shrieking Shack. The smile that he earned from Hermione had him grinning for the rest of the evening.

It wasn't long before Dumbledore sent a troop of house-elves to renovate the building, and Harry could relax, knowing they had a base of operations for the following year. The simple prospect of having somewhere safe, secure and secret they could retreat to if it all went to hell, made the future look at least a little brighter.

If only Harry's present had the gift of such clarity.


Hermione was a mystery at the best of times, but nowadays, she had adopted a distant quality. Whenever she thought he wasn't looking, she'd spend her time staring at him, as if breaking him down in her head. As soon as he turned her way, she would try to pretend she had been looking elsewhere, but the distinct flick of her bushy hair told all. It was a phenomenon that was becoming more and more common. Harry almost thought that he had something on his cheek the first few times - maybe a stray glob of jam from breakfast - but every time he checked, he found nothing.

It took far longer than it should have for Harry to consider that it was him she was interested in. But why? Was she judging him? Did she have her doubts about him? About the mission?

No, Harry scolded himself. If Hermione had any doubts, she wouldn't be here with him, planning every step of their journey. It wasn't like her to only get cold feet now. She had assured him, promised him, that she was with him no matter what. Harry knew it was only fair, after everything that she had done for him, that he trusted Hermione's word.

What could be troubling her, then? Because it was evident that something was on her mind. Maybe it was this person that she liked, the one she refused to tell him about. The one that, for some reason, Harry felt a great deal of disdain for, without even knowing who they were.

They probably deserved it, Harry reasoned, although he was never entirely certain why.

In any case, he needed help figuring it out. Maybe there something obvious that he had missed. Maybe there was something in the grapevine that had passed him by. He hoped not. If he couldn't pick up on mild playground gossip, what hope was he going to be on the run, surviving day to day on nothing but whispers?

Harry wanted to be happy for Hermione; he really did. He knew he should be pleased that she was branching out, making new friends… but something about this whole ordeal didn't sit well with him. What if it was someone who wanted to hurt her? What if they were trying to get to him through her?

Neither seemed likely, but then again, what was plausible anymore? Chance and coincidence seemed to love him.

The thought preyed on Harry for at least a couple of days before he felt desperate enough to seek help. If he needed to see the obvious, there was one person he could certainly get an answer out of.

"Ron?" Harry asked one evening from the other side of his old chessboard. Ron moved his knight, placing it deliberately in its new square, and looked up.

"Yeah?"

"I think Hermione likes someone."

Instead of answering, the redhead merely stared at him, looking thoroughly unimpressed.

"Really?" Ron murmured with just a hint of sarcasm. Harry frowned, moving his pawn forward a square.

"You know who it is?"

Ron guffawed, moving his rook to take the pawn. He stopped when he noticed that Harry wasn't laughing along with him, and his face dropped.

"Seriously?" he asked as if Harry had forgotten the colour of an orange. "Oh, come on, Harry. It's obvious."

"Is it?" Harry argued. Ron sighed.

"You really don't know?" he asked rhetorically, looking at him like a hunter would a wounded deer.

Harry shook his head.

"No."

The redhead slumped in his seat, staring at the ceiling in disbelief.

"And people think I'm the dim one. Honestly!"

"Look," Harry urged, "just tell me who it is!"

"Well," Ron replied, still gazing up at the ceiling, "it's someone she spends a lot of time with."

"She hasn't been spending time with anyone; she's been too busy helping me."

"Oh, really?" he pondered aloud.

"Yes! Unless she's been meeting someone in her free time…"

"I'd say she has," Ron grinned. Harry glanced at him.

"Really?"

"Yep."

Ron sat up, rubbing his hands together.

"Okay," he began, as Harry leaned forward as not to miss a word, "you know him. You know him very well. And yes, she likes him. Proper likes him. Even when we were sort-of going out, she liked him. The two of them are inseparable."

"Okay," Harry replied, nodding as he mentally noted it all down, "but who is he?"

Ron was about to answer, when a thought struck him, like a joke he had suddenly remembered. He looked at Harry then to the chessboard, then back again.

"You know what?" he said, a smirk adorning his freckled face. "I think you can figure this one out."

"What?" Harry protested. "But-"

"And while you do that," he continued, unabashed by Harry's sputtering, "I'm going to bed."

Ron toppled the king piece with a flick of his finger, letting it roll into the centre of the board. Then he stood and began to head for the stairs to the dormitories. He stopped and turned, just before disappearing.

"Oh, and when you do figure it out," he called, suddenly sobering himself, gazing at his friend intensely, "don't hurt her. Because I will kill you if you do."

It was as if Ron was staring right through him. Harry knew, just from the way his eyes glistened in the firelight, that he was deadly serious. All he could do was nod hurriedly in response. Ron smiled.

"Alright," he said cheerily, "have fun."

With that, Ron ascended the steps, leaving Harry to simmer further in his confusion, still no closer to an answer.

And the worst part was that he couldn't ask Hermione for help.


The doors to the Room of Requirement slowly moulded into shape. Light flooded into the dusty old chamber, and the silhouette of Draco Malfoy stepped inside. The door sunk away as quietly as it had materialised, and the teenager was alone.

Immediately, his eyes went past the piles of forgotten chairs, tables, parchments, drawers and countless other antiques, landing on the one item that mattered the most. The Vanishing Cabinet, standing in all of its glory. His ace in the hole; his ticket into the good graces of Lord Voldemort himself. Dumbledore had never suspected a thing. No one did.

This old, unkept room was perhaps Draco's most significant discovery, holding many treasures that he had only ever dreamed of. There were artefacts in this room that held secrets beyond even his understanding. Months of hiding in this space with his Blood Traitors and Mudbloods and Potter didn't know half of what the room was capable of. He had no idea what Draco was planning.

Draco knew that Potter was spying on him; the Gryffindor was hardly subtle, hardly the master of stealth and subterfuge that Draco was. It was but a small obstacle in his plans. Of course, the previous attempts at assassinating the Headmaster had gone awry, one of them by Potter's meddling hand, but that was neither here nor there.

The cabinet was all Draco needed. It would suit his needs nicely. An entire year's worth of hard work and intensive maintenance, all coming together ever-so-nicely. Very soon, Hogwarts would be without its precious, muggle-loving Headmaster. Finally, Draco thought, he would take his place alongside his father in Voldemort's inner circle.

At long last, he would feel the pride of his family, of the most powerful families in the Wizarding World. They will all know what the name of Malfoy truly meant.

Draco waved his wand over the cabinet - back to front, side to side, inside and out. Not a crack, nor a stain. The cabinet was in pristine condition, exactly how he left it not two weeks ago. And the enchantments were still very much…

Gone.

Draco thoughts came crashing to a halt. He waved his wand again.

Nothing. Not a spark, nor a blink.

He paled. He checked again — still nought. And once more, with shaking hands and rapidly shallowing breath. It all read the same.

The cabinet was empty, in more ways than one. It was dead. Nothing more than an ordinary cabinet.

"No," Draco whispered faintly, grabbing a nearby teacup and throwing it into the cabinet. He slammed the door, waited a few seconds, and opened. The fragmented pieces lay there, taunting him, right where they were but moments ago. Draco slammed the door again, opened it, and was met with the same result. He kicked the cabinet, as hard as he could.

It scarcely even wobbled.

Draco cried for the first time in a long, long time. The cruel, red eyes of the Dark Lord stared at him in his mind's eye, chilling him to the bone just as they did when he first met the Dark Lord in person. Dread clasped his body in a tight fist and refused to let go. His perfect, platinum hair was now dishevelled from the cold sweat that swiftly permeated his skin.

He stumbled out of the Room of Requirement, far less composed than when he entered. Without a moment to lose, Draco began walking hurriedly down the hallway, towards the only man he could trust.

And Harry Potter - perched behind a nearby pillar, having seen everything - waited until Draco had passed far beyond the seventh-floor corridor, before quickly making his way towards Dumbledore's office.