ihopeour

by alissa.mellie

d

2. 2

She's antsy, the way she always is, lately.

It's both better and worse, away from home; on the one hand, being away from the house is soothing, a change; on the other, she works so hard to keep it together around her brother and Sofia that she can't help but fall apart the second she's away from them and can actually let herself feel.

Cedric meets her at Grimmauld Place, because these days neither she nor Harry is allowed to go anywhere alone.

The beauty of the Fidelius and Grimmauld being in a muggle neighborhood is that they don't have to disguise themselves, though as soldiers they can't help but be on guard.

They chat aimlessly as they walk up the street; they could apparate, but—it's nice, being able to stroll instead of hurry, for once.

(To not have to be constantly on edge, watching everyone around them look over their shoulder.)

"How's sixth year treating you? Prefect duties going okay?" Cedric smiles knowingly. "You gunning for Head Girl?"

"Oh god, no," she bursts out laughing, chest feeling light for the first moment all of break. "I have far too much on my plate already, and besides that, I've broken far too many rules. No one in their right mind would put me in charge."

Scoffing, Cedric makes a face. "Not that Dumbledore's exactly in his right mind."

"Truer words have never been spoken." Her throat feels tight, anger flooding her at the thought of the man who's enabled so much suffering. She clears her throat in an attempt to distract herself. "How's Theo doing?"

Cedric's own expression grows troubled, hand instinctively going to the woven bracelet at his wrist his soul mate had given him as a graduation gift nearly two years prior. "He's been better. His family's mostly safe, and he is too, as long as my…allegiances, aren't discovered. But he's said—" he swallows heavily. "Even if the worst happens, me doing this work is more important. Which I hate, but—makes me love him even more. And he's right. I love him more than the whole world, but—I couldn't let the world burn even if it meant his life."

"I—I'm so sorry." Hermione grips his shoulder gently, sorrow visible on her face. "I hate that you're having to deal with this. But you're incredibly brave to do it anyway, I—I think we'd all like to think we could make the same sacrifice, but the truth is I'd never be strong enough. Even if it meant the world."

He frowns with grim understanding. "I don't think that's true. That's—part of why I wanted to get coffee, actually."

"Sorry?"

He looks around them, casting a muffliato just in case. "I…Theo's a Death Eater, Hermione."

Hermione opens and closes her mouth, unsure of whether he wants a response, or to vent, or what.

Cedric gives her a meaningful look. "He's been marked since the start of school."

"Oh—okay?"

They enter the café, and he puts on a smile as they order from the barista, but when they sit down he looks entirely exasperated with her. "Hermione, we've sparred together hundreds of times. I watched you duel nearly every day of seventh year, and spent plenty of time at Order meetings since then."

She rubs at her temples, unseeing. "Yes, Ced, we've been good friends for ages, but I'm afraid I'm missing your point."

"You've been wearing long sleeves since July." He grimaces when her eyes go wide, glancing at her left forearm. "Which, a penchant for baggy sweatshirts and sweaters is nothing new for you, but—you've always rolled up the sleeves. Always. You're far too practical to keep them rolled down for fighting, or any time you're reading or writing and they might get in the way; I'd almost never seen them not rolled up. On top of the secret boyfriend we all knew about, how stressed you've been all year. I've seen the kind of pain I'm in, in your eyes—I've only seen it in George's and Neville's. Those of us who love Slytherins at the center of it all."

Gripping tightly at her wand out of habit, out of nerves, she grasps for words. "I—what are you accusing me of?"

"I'm not accusing you of anything," he says gently, frowning slightly. "I hate that times are so dark that it's your first thought, but—I understand why. I just wanted to tell you that—I see you. And you're not alone. I know how it weighs on you, when the person you love is in hell, when you're fighting on the other side, knowing it might kill them. If you ever need to—talk about it, or just—be with someone who understands."

Hermione swallows heavily. She debates denying it, lashing out, but—it's not likely she'll convince Cedric, anyone.

(He's always been a bit too perceptive, a bit too good at psychoanalyzing everyone around him to fall for it.)

The barista's making rounds wiping down tables, smiles as she passes by them; then, her eyes go big at the sight of Hermione's wand in hand.

Hermione moves to shove it away hastily, but the woman's already moving toward her. "Those props are so incredible! My favorite customer has one too, though I'm amazed by it every time. Are you two in the same acting troupe, then?"

Her eyebrows shoot upward. "I'm sorry—the same acting troupe as who, exactly?"

"Narcissa, of course! Is she alright? The dove was in with her son last week, though they both looked a bit ill—poor lamb could do to put on some weight, though I suppose if he's his mother's genetics it might just be the metabolism. She hadn't been in for ages, before that."

And Hermione knows she should feign nonchalance, should pretend it doesn't affect her in the slightest to keep Cedric in the dark, but—

(she can't help it—her body reacts without her own intent, at the mention of her soul mate's presence.)

"He—Draco was here last week?" she rasps, unable to stop herself as the words fall out of her mouth.

Far away, she hears Cedric suck in a shocked breath as he puts it together, the desperation in the tension of her body, attention rapt on the barista as her fingers grip her mug so tightly her knuckles grow white.

"Mhm, that's the one—such an odd name. You do know them, then?"

Hermione nods, at a loss for words.

(He was here, and alive, and okay, just a week ago.)

(One more week and she'll see him with her own eyes.)

The barista eventually waves and heads away, and Hermione's helpless as she turns to Cedric, who's looking at her with wide eyes. "Fuck."

She giggles at the ridiculousness of it all, unable to do anything but laugh at her own situation. "Yeah." She rolls her eyes, lip curling. "All the stories make star-crossed lovers seem romantic—it's anything but."

"I—wow. Okay." He shakes his head, like he's assimilating the knowledge with his own memories. "I'm a good occlumens, by the way, so—you're safe. I wouldn't have approached you about it at all if I weren't."

"I know," Hermione promises with a half-hearted smile. "You're a good friend, Cedric. I have no doubt you'd never to anything that could endanger me so long as you can help it." Her lip twitches into a smirk. "That's why Harry loved the badges so much during the tournament, by the way—he had been whining about people cheering for him instead of you, so Draco made them to get them to stop. The two of them wouldn't stop laughing about it for ages."

"Of course." Cedric's expression is fond, and it's visible, the way he decides Draco is an ally—that his friends trust him, so he trusts him.

(It's that simple, his loyalty that strong.)

After a few moments of silence, Hermione searches for something more positive, to distract them from the hell of it all for just a moment. "Oh! Did you hear about Fleur and Bill's engagement?"

"Yes, I'm so thrilled for them," Cedric grins, delighted. "She—they've asked me to be a groomsman, actually, which I was surprised about and insisted Bill didn't have to, he already has so many brothers he probably wants to have part in it, but he insisted anyone who's family to Fleur is family to him, so I guess I'll be walking down the aisle with Ginny."

Hermione smiles at the thought. "That feels right."

/

They can't risk gathering on the train, anymore—the situation's grown too dire.

(There are too many eyes on too many of them.)

So it's just Harry, Ron, and Hermione in a train car, like it's first year again.

They've cast muffliato, and they're all sprawling around with throw blankets and tired eyes, and something about it is…significant.

"I don't think I'm going to be able to come back to Hogwarts next year." Harry's hesitant, as he says it, eyes cast downward as he waits for his sister to chastise him.

But she doesn't—isn't surprised at all, unfortunately. She leans her head on his shoulder, interlocking her fingers with his. "Okay."

"That's it?" He blinks at her, looking to Ron for confirmation it's not a dream. "You're not mad at me for missing out on my education?"

"Harry, you know better than anyone it's not the education I care about, it's—the fear of no longer having a place in this world. If Voldemort wins the war…this escape is lost to us all."

Harry nods slowly. "And you're—not mad that I'm abandoning you?"

At this both Hermione and Ron burst out laughing, turning to each other as though he's not there.

"What an adorable idiot we have," Hermione muses.

Ron shakes his head in agreement. "Honestly. It'd be funny if he weren't completely serious."

"Sorry?"

Levelling him with a look, Ron crosses his arms. "Mate, you're not leaving us behind. We're coming with you."

"You can't—"

"Harry James, I know you're not serious right now." Her eyes are burning as she stares him down. "You're fucking delusional if you think we're just going to go to school as if everything is normal while you're off hunting pieces of the antichrist's soul. We're in this fight just as deeply as you are."

"And honestly, bro," Ron says, the colloquialism earning a face from Hermione, "Without us there, Voldemort won't even have to kill you, you'll die all on your own."

Harry's jaw drops with offense. "That's not at all true!"

"Really?" Hermione cocks an eyebrow, unapologetic. "Where are you going to sleep? Can't exactly stay at the Leaky or any other hotel when you're on the run."

"Well, I—"

Ron cuts him off. "What are you going to eat? Do you have any sort of plan to get ahold of food, a way to cook it?"

"Have you put together any medical supplies to keep with you?"

"A way to transport it all?"

Harry's breathing quickens, anxiety ramping up at all the things he hadn't even begun to consider. "I—I suppose not, but…"

"Harry. Breathe." Hermione reaches for his hand, eyes softening. "We're not pelting you with questions to scare you or overwhelm you. We're asking them because they're all necessary things for you to stay alive long enough to succeed and actually beat him—and because they're things we've already made plans for."

"You—what?"

They both smile grimly, and Ron says, "Every time you've snuck off alone to mope and be emo about how you have to do all of this alone, we've been drawing up plans, making contingencies, figuring out the best ways to make it all happen. No offense, Harry, because you're great in a fight, but you're pretty horrible at being a person."

"Hence why you quite literally can't do this without us."

Harry opens and closes his mouth, before settling on a hesitant nod. "I—I know you'd be in this fight regardless. But being in my life has already made both of yours' so much harder; you've dealt with so much you wouldn't have otherwise. I—the last thing I want to do is put you in even more danger for my benefit."

"Good thing what you do and don't want doesn't matter where this is concerned." Hermione's expression is dead serious, lip twitching with amusement at the way her brother's face scrunches up with frustration. "Your safety aside, winning this war is—all that matters."

He sighs, scratching at his hair. "How did you even know what I was planning?"

"I mean, we've met you." Ron tilts his head knowingly. "I can be daft, but you're—the most predictable and annoyingly noble and self-sacrificing dumbass on the planet."

He and Hermione both eye their friend, gazes simultaneously exasperated and fond.

Harry pauses, considering, and whispers, "Thank you."

"Always," Hermione promises, Ron murmuring his agreement. "Family."

They're quite, for a while; thoughtful, resting, bracing themselves for the term to come.

"Not to take away Harry's status as the reigning morbidity champ," Ron mumbles, laying down across the seats as he stares at the ceiling. "But the truth is we probably won't all survive this. I'm—I know I haven't been through things in the same way you two have, but—I'm terrified of something happening to my parents. My brothers. Ginny. One of you." He winces, horror and heartbreak in his face when he meets Harry's eyes. "And you've just lost Luna, I—merlin, I'm so sorry, Harry."

Harry's expression twists with pain that Ron perceives as grief, but Hermione knows is the complicated chaos of guilt and sorrow the reminder of his friend's cluelessness as to Luna's survival.

"It's—not okay, but. I understand what you mean. Because the loss is so fresh and…reality feels very fragile right now."

Hermione hums, thoughtful; meanwhile, Harry sighs before continuing. "I—I wish I could disagree. But it's…the odds aren't in our favor. I wished for a family for so long, and now I have you both, and my dads, and everyone, and it's…I'm so scared of losing them. But it's not possible for us all to make it. And I'm…so worried about not measuring up, not being able to beat him."

"You both deserve so much better," Hermione whispers softly. "We all do. I—hate that this is our future. I want so much more for us than this half-life."

"Someday." Ron closes his eyes like he's dreaming it up, a future where they're safe, and happy, and every day isn't another yard of a hellish obstacle course they can never escape. "Someday, we'll be—really, actually good. Not just alive, but—living."

"What a concept," Harry murmurs, half asleep where he lays with his head in Hermione's lap. She strokes her fingers through his hair, dwelling on it all.

(In passing, considers that the position is so comfortable because for so long Harry'd never felt loved or cared for, and she'd never had anything in her control.)

She considers it—the idea that someday they'll be happy, truly living instead of just surviving day to day.

(She wishes she believed it.)

/

Draco's chest is tightening, and he's speed walking through the castle as fast as he possibly can, radiating stay away as much as is physically possible in the hopes that it'll keep everyone away from him long enough to make it to the room of requirement.

(He just has to make it there, and then he can fall apart.)

A few Slytherins he passes attempt to get his attention, but he turns a snarl so derisive onto them they immediately cower and run the opposite direction.

He's not breathing when he finally hurtles himself through the entrance to the room, just wishing for somewhere, anywhere to hide, for even just a moment—somewhere he can breakdown, let out the scream threatening to drown him out.

He collapses to his knees amidst a cluttered space, everything from books to bird cages to worn chairs and forgotten firewhiskey filling the room as it currently exists. He's hyperventilating, now, eyes burning with tears as he lets himself feel for the first time in a month—

(He's so incredibly screwed—he and his mother are both going to die, and there's nothing he can do to stop it.)

It's hilarious, actually; his father spent so many years trying to make their lives hell, and Voldemort has managed to do the same within a span of months.

(And Draco knows better than to hope Hermione won't be caught in the crossfire.)

The fact that they haven't been caught yet, even with all of their precautions; the fact that no one has realized their connection after all these years—

(He's not naïve enough to believe it'll last—not naïve enough to believe they'll both survive this.)

"Merlin. Fuck. How did we get here." His voice is raspy, even as he whispers out loud to himself—he dissolves into bitter, maniacal laughter, at the sheer horror and impossibility of it all.

And if he doesn't come up with a way to get them into Hogwarts, Voldemort will know—Draco's too clever, and Dumbledore too lax, for him to not somehow succeed. If he doesn't it'll be obvious it's intentional.

(And then more people will die just to punish him, because that's Tom Riddle's playbook.)

There's no winning, with this.

He has so much frustration, and hopelessness, and rage inside him, he picks up the object nearest to him, and just—chucks it. Takes a deep breath at the sound of something breaking, because at least there's something in his control, something he can break instead of helplessly watching someone else take it out of his hands.

It's—cathartic, so he keeps going, picking up anything and everything he can reach to chuck and break, a cacophony of sound and chaos around him.

A part of him is terrified, at how easy it is for him to lose control like this, to be swept up in rage, to destroy everything around him.

(Terrified that he'll become his father—that the same darkness lives inside him, that he, too, might be capable of the same kind of harm to everyone around him.)

He falls back to the floor amidst the damage, out of tears, and out of energy, and out of hope.

Which is how Hermione finds him, half an hour later.

"Draco?" she calls out as she enters the RoR, confusion clear in her voice as she takes in the unfamiliar configuration. "Harry couldn't find you anywhere else on the map, so I just asked the room for you and—oh, god. Draco."

He's just laying on the floor, when she spots him, chaotic wreckage all around, staring at the ceiling completely zoned out.

"Hi, my love," she whispers, laying down beside him, gently tugging his hand to her chest, where she softly traces along his skin. "I missed you."

He hums his agreement, but doesn't otherwise respond; doesn't acknowledge her presence except to lean over and press a kiss to her collarbone, before returning his attention to the ceiling.

"I won't ask if you're okay, because—I'm sure right now it's impossible for you to be." She's quiet for a beat, listening to the soothing sound of his breathing.

(Feeling for the pulse at his wrist—the reassurance that he's here, and alive.)

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Draco takes a deep breath, silent for another moment, before murmuring, "I'm going to become him."

"What do you—"

"I broke all of this." His voice is cold and detached, so hopeless he has to dissociate from it all to keep from drowning in it. "Just—I was upset, and I couldn't breathe or think and I just—snapped. I'm—Mia, what if I turn into him? If I—hurt you, or—"

"You could never." She doesn't even hesitate, even as she realizes what he means—the bone deep fear that he's going to become Lucius, a monster to everyone around him. "Babe, you—throwing old abandoned junk when your world is falling apart is not the same as abusing your family. You are—you are nothing like him."

He shakes his head in disagreement; doesn't argue back, but—so clearly thinks she's wrong.

"Draco." Her voice is soft—so gentle, quiet enough he might miss it. "You and I have both grown up in hell. We know monsters. And it's—I can so, so understand why you're so scared to become one. But you are not that. You are—heart, and soul, and love, and the one I'd trust to keep me safe more than anyone in this world."

Draco slides over just a bit; carefully pulls her into his arms, heart rate growing steady at the familiar scent of her hair. "I need you to promise me," he says, voice shaky, "That if I ever do become that—even the slightest bit. If I am—at all like him, if I even—look like I might, you'll get out. Promise me. No matter what I say or do, you'll leave." He swallows heavily, sucking in a deep breath. "No one can hurt you ever again. Especially not me. There would be—nothing worse in this world."

Hermione blinks back tears, overwhelmed with sorrow and love.

(Wondering what it's like for other people who don't have these memories, don't have to live with these fears.)

"Not that I will ever need to," she stresses, "But yes. I promise."

They sit up, eventually, and Draco surveys the room for the first time; really and truly takes in the sight of what's around him.

Lopsided stacks of books everywhere, dueling dummies, a set of weights, a nightstand, a silver crown, dilapidated pillows on an ancient futon, a tall dark cabinet that seems like obsidian—

(A memory tugs at him, from months ago in Borgin and Burkes—)

(And years before that, when Flint had been missing for days after picking a fight with the Weasleys, only to later reappear and tell them all he'd fallen into a—)

"Vanishing cabinet," he whispers, softly—so, so quiet.

Hermione picks her head up, covering a yawn as she blinks back the exhaustion. "Hm?"

"I…" he ponders, threads beginning to weave together—possibilities. The beginnings of a plan.

(Maybe they can survive this.)

"We're going to have to be so, so careful."

/

All of ASA is—understandably stressed.

(Families are beginning to choose sides.)

(Many have switched to standing beside the light, since Luna's article, which is a stroke of luck they'd never even dared to hope for, but—)

For those whose families are on the other side…

(Hell is forming around them.)

Harry and Hermione do their best to soothe everyone, remind them that in this one place, if nowhere else, they're safe and united.

(But no one's spirits are very bright.)

They're doing a bit of review and then work on shielding when the other party has already cast a curse; Hannah and Zacharias are giving each other a run for their money, fear visibly motivating them, while Justin and Parvati have such severe underlying anxiety they're struggling to focus long enough to even attempt to cast.

The only person who looks more stressed than Harry feels is Pansy, whose family has been publicly taking action in Voldemort's name, her break nearly as bad as Draco's; halfway through the meeting, she sits down to take a break and attempt to calm herself, but ends up falling asleep despite the cacophony of chaos all around.

(She's that drained—Hermione and Ginny lock eyes at the sight, pained by how visibly she's suffering.)

After doing rounds to check on everyone, Harry moves to grab a water bottle as the members begin to shuffle out of the chamber, humming when he feels Ella's familiar shape curl around his ankle. "Hey, you."

She hisses, making her way up to his shoulders, scales sliding along his cloak as she goes, but it's not her usual chatter—it's hurried, the parsletongue coming so quickly Harry barely has time to understand.

"Oh—oh, god. Guys," he calls, searching to make sure it's just Hermione, Ginny, Ron, and Blaise left, Pansy and Neville having gone off to work on a potions assignment, while Draco's spent the entire evening working on plans for the invasion of Hogwarts.

All of them immediately alert at the panic in his voice.

Hermione's instantly at his side, wand raised. "What's wrong? Are you okay?"

"I'm—I'm fine. It's not me who—fuck, I—" he swallows, tugging at his hair in a frenzy. "Sit down. You should all sit down."

"What's going on?" Blaise asks, Ginny hypervigilant beside him.

Harry opens and closes his mouth, searching for the right words. "Ella's been…doing some recon for us, while she and Pansy have been stuck at Voldemort's headquarters. She hangs out with Nagini a lot, so she's been—overhearing things, over break."

Hermione's eyes go wide with understanding, tension flooding her body. "Harry, what did she hear?"

"Apparently, Voldemort—killed his soul mate. When he was still in school—to avoid any vulnerability, any weakness. He's started looking into the three of ours, he—" he swallows heavily, wincing before saying, "he said it's for the best that he already had Luna taken care of. Ella heard him say the spy that has eyes on you is trying to find dirt on yours, Mia, to find a way to use them to sabotage you. Ron's too, but because they have all of his family he's not as worried about—having hostages."

Hermione goes white with fear, pressing clasped hands to her mouth. "Fuck. If—if the spy puts it together, if Draco's found out—they'll kill him. In a heartbeat."

"I know." Harry moves to rub her back gently, trying to calm her as though he's not panicking himself. "We'll just—have to be more careful. And now we know, so you two can take precautions, be on guard."

"How are we supposed to be on guard when this spy is a student? They could be—anyone, someone who's already graduated or a first year, everyone is fair game, and we're none the wiser. The fact that we haven't been found out this far is—pure luck. I—" her fists clench so hard the nails draw blood from her palms.

Harry gingerly tugs at her fingers, gently moving them so they're no longer digging into her skin. "Breathe, Mia. I'm sorry. It's horrible, but—we're going to figure this out, okay? We're here. Draco's okay for now."

She blinks, zoning back in with a shuddering intake of breath, biting her lip at the sight of her brother dabbing away at the blood dripping onto her pants. "Sorry," she whispers. "I didn't mean to snap. I know it's not your fault. I just…"

"It's your soul mate," he soothes, unbothered. "No one would react any differently. You're allowed to freak out when his life is on the line."

Their eyes meet, because he knows the fear running through her.

(of course he does, as it's consumed him for the last two months.)

Hermione tries to shake off the fear, to force herself into action to distract from the overwhelming terror. "Right. Okay. We can—we can get through this. We've been through hell before, we can get through this." She takes several deep breaths, the way Remus has spent the last year trying to teach them both to do, before turning to Ron. "Your soul mate—what can we do to keep them safe? You've—you've never talked about them much."

"Oh, right," he shrugs, looking mainly too stunned by the situation to be scared or register much of anything at all. "I mean, it's Susan—we're good friends, and all, and we plan on being together eventually, but she's really serious about her studies, so we're just staying friends till at least graduation."

Ginny makes a face, visibly bracing herself. "Ron, I promise I hate that I'm about to say this more than you do, but—do you two ever sneak off to shag?" The disgust at bringing up her brother's sex life is tangible, but she charges forward. "Anything that could be traceable or seen, we need to know so we can make sure the spy doesn't have a way to connect you two."

"On a list of questions I never thought my baby sister would ask me," Ron mutters with a shake of his head. "No, though, we don't—I mean, we're both ace, so. No worries there. We don't fuck around in broom closets like some people."

Hermione's entire face flushes. "That was one time, you swore you wouldn't mention it again!"

The younger Weasley cackles gleefully. "Oh, I'm so never letting you live that down."

"Do you really want to talk about strange liasons, because your brother is in the room and I would love nothing more than to watch you both squirm—"

"Priorities, please," Blaise insists, unfazed despite the way Ron's now scowling at him. "When is you two's next lesson with Dumbledore?"

Harry's expression is grim at the thought. "Tomorrow. It's an important one, apparently. And he's still bugging us about getting the memories from Slughorn, so if anyone comes up with some brilliant ideas, feel free to suggest them."

Nodding in agreement, Hermione rubs at her temples, distress lining her body. "Do you think it'll all ever stop getting worse? It would be nice if there were a world where life gets better, for once."

Beside her, Harry mumbles, "whole war to go before then."

Notes:

chapter title from bloodshot by dove cameron

sorry for all the emo, my loves. It's a hard time for our faves. Have been doing lots of thorough plotting, so v excited for you to see the ~action~ currently in the making

take care of yourselves out there—more to come soon. all my love.

Chapter 34: darling everything's on fire

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

The first memory, one taken from a man dying, just barely out of prison—of his youth, his father.

His sister—and the muggle she adored, a prat called Tom Riddle with the kind of wealth that made his entitlement clear.

(The pieces are beginning to fit together, Harry knows, meets Hermione's grim eyes beside him.)

It's—using a love potion on someone, forcing them to be with you, is completely unforgivable. It's a kind of violation, an overreach of agency that's unacceptable and wrong in so, so many ways.

But this is before that—she's not that person, yet.

She's just a lonely girl in an abusive household, a girl who's known nothing but darkness and pain and waiting for it all to end.

(They've been there, too. They can't help but feel for her, just as they had Tom.)

Morfin, the insane and cruel son, speaks only in Parsletongue, Harry's whispered translation meeting Hermione's ear. It's all just heartbreaking to see; everyone in this home became a monster, did such horrible things, but even before they went bad—

(She never stood a chance.)

And it's—terrifying, Harry thinks, how much he can understand the way Voldemort became the person he did. Knowing himself, trying to imagine who he would've been without Hermione and Ron, without his dads, without Tonks and Andy and Sofia—he can't even picture it.

(He'd like to think he would've stayed on the same course regardless, but the truth is…it's easy to become so, so bitter when life just keeps fucking you over.)

And then Marvolo is thrusting his ring in Odgen's face, talking about some family called the Peverells, and it's the same ring that was on Dumbledore's desk, the one they'd decided must be a horcrux, the one that had destroyed Dumbledore's hand—

And then he's reaching for his daughter's throat, and if they hadn't been sure already they would be now, because he's tugging forward the very same locket from Grimmauld Place, the one Regulus Black had given his life to take, the one they know was a horcrux—

And Hermione's clutching at his hand as they both suck in shocked breaths, trying not to react so as to not give anything away, and it's—

(All of the pieces are finally coming together, everything they've learned over the years beginning to fit together as it all comes full circle.)

It's honestly insane, that they've made it this far, that the years of chaos and bloodshed have brought them to this point; that these moments and life-changing objects have such ordinary roots that are appearing in every aspect of their lives.

They're inside the small, dilapidated Gaunt home, and Marvolo is getting in Ogden's face, and Harry is—cornered.

(Trapped.)

The walls are closing in, and his breathing grows shallow, and he drops to the ground, curling in the fetal position and squeezing his eyes shut and imagining he's somewhere else.

Mia's at his side, of course, rubbing his back and telling him to breathe, whispering "it's not real, Harry, you're okay, we're not here"; she turns to a surprised Dumbledore and barks, "Get us out! Now!"

Dumbledore, to his credit, is so confused and shocked that he doesn't argue, or reprimand her for having an attitude or commanding him. He waves his wand, and then they're emerging from the pensive.

Harry's gasping, hyperventilating as they land on the hard tile of Dumbledore's office; as he takes in the open space and his sister's reminders that he's out, that he's okay, his heart rate begins to slow.

"Harry, what—" Dumbledore tries to approach, but Hermione steps in front of him defensively.

"Give him some space. Just leave it alone—you're good at that."

The headmaster narrows his eyes at her. "If something's wrong, I need to know."

And it's—if Harry had the mental capacity for it, he would attempt to defuse the situation, because Hermione's always at her most dangerous when defending him against anyone; up against a man she already hates with a burning passion…

"Nothing's wrong. He just needs a moment." Her eyes burn with the anger of someone who's watched her brother have to pull himself back out of hell after a lifetime of abuse—abuse this man could've prevented. "He's claustrophobic, you see. Occupational hazard of living in a cupboard for eleven years. And having locks on your door and bars on your window as a child. Nothing that would worry you."

(He loves her even more for it, because he's never had to tell her—has never had to explain the way small spaces and restraints suffocate him, make every cell of his body feel like it's being compressed, like he would skin himself alive if it would end the feeling.)

(She just—noticed, and put it together. Because she loves him just as much as he does her; they understand each other, the depths of each others' trauma and darkness, in a way no one else quite can.)

And as much as he dislikes Dumbledore for many reasons, in these moments his resentment is the most visceral, when the world feels heavy and his brain whispers things would be easier if he just weren't alive.

Because most of his trauma, the years of horror and loneliness and neglect and abuse at the Durselys' hands—they were so fucking unnecessary. All of it never had to happen—dads were there, and wanted him, and were in his parents' will to get him; even if Dumbledore had believed Sirius guilty (a whole other can of worms) and Remus unable to financially support him, Andy had approached him about it and was willing to raise him right alongside Tonks, and Dumbledore just—decided he knew better.

Decided his idea was best and never looked back, even when letters went out and he knew Harry was being kept under the stairs, even when he showed up for first year underweight and malnourished and scarred and timid and jumpy.

Dumbledore had all the power to help him, every ability in the world to get him out of that hell, and he just didn't.

(What kind of person does that?)

Eventually, once he's breathing normally and Hermione has relaxed her raised wand, the headmaster takes out another corked vial of memories.

(His eyeing them, even as he does so; Harry's skittishness, Hermione's protective stance, how easily they'd moved around one another.)

(How instinctively they banded together and faced anyone else in the world as an enemy.)

It's making him re-evaluate them both, Hermione can tell; knows he'll look at them differently, going forward.

(Knows he's realized she's a threat—and that Harry is her family.)

He pours the new memory into the pensive and meets their eyes, expression serious. "This memory is not my own. It is in complete. And it is, arguably, the most important of all those we have studied this year; this memory, I believe to be the key to defeating Voldemort."

They go in, and it's Slughorn's classroom—likely his memory, then.

Tom Riddle is there, a bit older than he'd been when he opened the Chamber—a sixth or seventh year, maybe?

He approaches the professor, and everything is fine until he says it—

(Horcruxes.)

Harry's unable to conceal the shock in his expression, Hermione knows without looking, and she's likewise shocked beyond words.

(He was still in school when he started making them—not even of age, and he'd begun to fracture his soul, pursue the darkest of magic.)

Not only that, but Dumbledore having this memory—it means he knows.

The memory warps, then, going foggy and loud and—clearly wrong, in some way—and then they're spat back out into the office, attempting to assimilate the paradigm-shifting realizations with their previous assumptions.

"The memory is altered," Dumbledore explains, settling down at his desk as they take the seats across from him. "But the information in the original is critical for winning this war—it is imperative that we see what truly transpired."

(They know—god, do they know how badly they need to see it.)

"Does Professor Slughorn…not remember?" Harry asks, offering the benefit of the doubt.

The headmaster grimaces. "No, he remembers just fine; but I'm afraid Horace is ashamed of the contents of the memory—in the moment, he was helping the Head Boy, but now anything he might have said was truly aiding the man who would become the greatest dark wizard in history grow stronger. You don't know this, but horcruxes are—some of the very darkest, worst magic on the entire planet."

Hermione elbows Harry before he can say something stupid, and clears her throat. "Actually, sir, we know a bit about horcruxes—not much at all, of course, as obviously they're—terrible. But the Black family passes down certain knowledge, and with the war coming, Andromeda thought it best we be prepared for anything members of the family on the other side might attempt to use against us; she just gave us a basic knowledge of what they are, and what substances are known to be able to destroy them."

Harry doesn't twitch, at the way she so easily weaves a believable lie. They've both always had to be incredible liars; the causes were horrible, of course, but in moments like these he's incredibly grateful for the skill.

"Hm." Dumbledore clearly disagrees with Andy having told them about the magic—doesn't like anyone other than himself imparting knowledge, of course, because he likes to be the one with all the cards, likes to have everyone dependent on him whether they like it or not because he has a monopoly on information.

(Like that's what matters right now—this is war.)

He clasps his hands, meeting both of their gazes seriously. "Whatever the case, we need that memory. I have tried everything short of a confundus to procure it from Horace without success; I need the two of you to convince him to give it to you, through whatever means necessary. We will have no more lessons until you've done so—without knowing what came to pass on that day, we cannot make any further progress."

Harry nudges Hermione's foot with his when her lip twitches, and he knows she's thinking they should "accidentally" not manage to get ahold of the memory so they don't have to meet with Dumbledore ever again.

(And he knows the thought is only half-joking.)

But she just nods, showing none of the feelings Harry already knows; says, "Yes, sir. We'll keep you updated as to our efforts."

At this point, the fact that he needs the memory—he doesn't know any more than they've already put together; is even still in the dark about things they'd discovered, with Sirius, Tonks, and Remus's help.

The fact that they've surpassed his knowledge, knowing they don't need to rely on him for any further intel—

(Game changer.)

/

It's the first time in a week they've been able to see Draco—really see him, as himself, not during their feigned antagonism in class.

He's mumbling to himself like a mad scientist when Harry, Hermione, and Ron trail inside the RoR; Pansy and Ginny are off reading muggle werewolf romance novels somewhere, and Blaise and Theo are doing Divination NEWT coursework.

The room is in its' hidden things state, rather than their usual common room type setup; Draco barely even notices them come in, lost in calculations and plotting under his breath.

Hermione sits down on the floor beside him, smoothing back his hair with a fond smile. "Hi, Romeo."

Blinking, a contented sigh escapes him at the sight of her—one that makes her heart just throb with love for him as he shoves his parchment aside. "Hey, love."

"You making much progress?" she asks gently, trying not to be too obvious about the way she's cataloguing him as she speaks—the bags beneath his eyes, the hang of his clothes from being too nauseous from stress to eat.

Draco shrugs, but seems less despondent than he has lately, so—it's something. "Okay. I think I'm making headway on fixing the Vanishing Cabinet, and I'm starting to work on the floor plans to give them, and ways to have the Order alerted and know where to go to head them off without my cover being blown. And since we're aiming for that to not be till the end of the year, I have to have at least one more seeming attempt on Dumbledore's life of my own."

He reaches to lift a bottle of mead to show them all. "I'm going to dose this with poison—not an immediate one, because most of those would alter the color and that would be visible from the outside, so it'll be one that takes a few minutes to kick in; anyway, I'll anonymously convince someone to give it to him as a gift. Aunt Andy has assured me that he does a poison sweep on everything he's given to drink from anyone but the Hogwarts house elves, even McGonagall, so he'll know before even opening it—no collateral damage, this time."

He says it offhandedly, but Hermione can see his hands shaking—how guilty he feels for Katie getting hurt, how terrified he is of anyone else being caught in the crossfire ever again.

"Sounds like a pretty good plan to me," Hermione promises softly, squeezing her arms around his waist; Harry and Ron nod in agreement. "Anything else fun happen since we've seen you last? The most excitement we've had is Ginny bat-bogey hexing Cormac McLaggen—which was phenomenal, don't get me wrong, but we could do with some more entertainment."

Draco starts to shake his head, with an amused smile at the thought of Ginny eviscerating the egotistical Gryffindor—but then he's jumping to his feet, eyes wide. "I forgot, I can't believe it wasn't the first thing I mentioned—you won't believe this."

Ron makes a face like he's a little worried for their friend's sanity as he rushes across the cluttered room, going behind a stack of broken chairs before re-emerging with something slight and silver clutched in hand, the light catching it as he returns to them.

"I've been passing this for—months, every day, and thought nothing of it. Even when I bothered to look, I thought it must be a fake, at first; it seemed impossible, you know? But…you guys, I think it's the real thing."

He holds out the slight tiara, and it takes them a second to understand; it's Ron who puts it together first, after a lifetime in the magical world. "But it's been lost for centuries—millenia, even!"

"I know!" Draco's eyes are wide. "That's why I thought it couldn't be the real one, but—it has to be."

"What on earth are you—" Hermione reaches for it, narrowing her eyes as she draws it close to her face It's beautiful, clearly quality material, ancient and delicate, but she doesn't perceive the significance until she turns it around and sees the engraved wit beyond measure is man's greatest treasure. "Oh my god—there's no way. Draco, how did you findthis?"

Her soul mate gestures his own disbelief. "It just—all year, I've been seeing it, and I was trying to distract myself yesterday, and it was—right there, in the middle of all the chaos and broken junk. Who knows how long it's been here."

Hermione turns to Harry, knowing he'll never figure out what it is on his own. "It's Ravenclaw's diadem, Harry—no one's seen it since her death, people have assumed it was destroyed thousands of years ago. It's supposed to make the wearer cleverer, more able to process solutions to their problems; almost like Felix Felicis, a little bit."

Harry nods expectantly. "Okay, right, so—who's trying it on first?"

It's thrust back into Draco's hands, and, he swallows heavily as he lifts it above his brow. "Here goes nothing, I guess."

They're all silent, for a moment. Draco's eyes go wide, thoughtful, gears of his mind visibly whirring. "Oh, I see. It's—not the same high as felix. More like the way you feel after coffee in the morning, like you've been thinking hard and it didn't work but suddenly the fog is gone. I just—I know what I need to do to finish fixing the Vanishing Cabinet. And who I should give the wine for Dumbledore to. I just—it's all clicking." He pauses, brow furrowing, and tilts his head to the side. "I…something feels off. Wrong."

He moves to take it off, hesitating as he does so; as soon as it's not on his head he frowns at it in confusion. "Weird." He hands it off to Harry, who's interested but definitely not excited enough to understand the significance of the moment.

Harry sets it on his hair, nodding thoughtfully. "This is really cool. Nothing feels off about it, though, I feel like my usual self. Except, y'know, smart—I imagine this is how Mia feels all the time." They spend a few minutes discussing, with him wearing the diadem, feeling none of the unease Draco'd mentioned.

Eventually, Hermione reaches to take it from him, brimming with excitement and nerves. "I can't believe this is really happening. All these centuries, and somehow it's in our hands." Raising the artifact to set it on her head, she sucks in an anticipatory breath, eyes going wide as she feels it begin to enhance her thinking. "Oh, wow, this is incredible! I can see how to make my plans to throw the spy off our trail work, and—" Frowning, she rubs at her eyes. "You're right, Draco, something isn't right. We should bring it to Remus—I mean, no, we don't need to—but we should—shouldn't—" mouthing dropping open with confusion and horror, she tugs it off her head, practically throwing it onto the grown in her haste to get it away from her.

"Mione, what's wrong?" Ron asks, looking at the diadem warily.

"I—everything was fine, until I thought we should bring it to Remus, and then—it was like it was interfering with my thoughts, convincing me that I didn't want to show him. I've never felt anything like it, the way it was whispering in the back of my mind…"

"So we should go straight to Remus," Draco stresses, muscles tense. "Anything an object tries to stop us from doing seems like the right step to me."

Harry tosses him the invisibility cloak so he can go with them inconspicuously, and they're hurrying out the door without another word, speed walking as fast as is possible without causing a scene.

The halls are pretty empty, and they're just a few corridors away from Remus's quarters when they're drawn to a halt by a ghost nearly slamming through them.

"Where is it?" she hisses, expression electrified. "I can sense it for the first time in decades—what have you done with it?"

"It's the Grey Lady," Hermione murmurs. "I've never heard of an occasion in which she spoke to students—nothing in living memory." She raises her voice. "I'm sorry, my lady, where is what?"

The Grey Lady's eyes flash as she meets Hermione's gaze. "My mother's diadem. I can sense it here, but it's hidden, somehow. I've made the mistake of allowing a student to possess it once before—I won't let it happen again."

"Your mother's…" Ron's jaw drops. "You're Ravenclaw's daughter—what was her name?"

"Helena," Draco whispers, tugging the cloak off himself, the diadem becoming visible along with him. "You've been at Hogwarts this whole time?"

Ignoring him, the ghost's eyes are locked on the diadem, jaw clenched. "Desecrated. Disgraceful. An insult to my mother's memory—it must be destroyed." She raises her eyes, briefly noting the cloak. "Clever. Intended to hide the wearer from Death—and so those of us who have already felt its embrace as well."

"Intended to…" Hermione shakes her head, brows drawn together in confusion. "I'm so sorry, Helena, but we have no idea what you're talking about. We haven't done anything to the diadem, although we noticed something about it was off."

"Desecrated," Helena repeats, voice practically a hiss. "He ravaged it. My mother's legacy, tarnished with the darkest magic on this plane."

"He who, Helena?" Harry wonders aloud.

But it's Ron who starts to put it together, freckles stark against the chalk white pallor of his face. "Oh, merlin. I knew it sounded familiar when you mentioned the voice in the back of your head and fucking with your mind, trying to convince you not to go to Remus…just like Gin. Fuck. Helena, the he you mentioned that ruined it, the student you trusted before—was it Tom Riddle?"

Hermione's skin erupts in goosebumps as she follows his train of thought—hears Harry and Draco both suck in a breath beside her as they put together what Ron's implying.

"Don't say his name!" the Grey Lady demands, wispy fists clenching. "I never want to hear his name again, the one who betrayed me. He pretended to care, that he would retrieve the diadem—so it could be returned to its rightful place. That I could attempt to right the wrong I'd done my mother, in my last moments—that she could know I didn't mean it, wherever she is in the life after this one. I didn't know, then, what he would become. He was just a student, then, preparing for graduation. I believed him." Her see-through hair billows behind her, vibrating with her anger. "Instead, he defiled it. Left it out of my reach."

"And this was all before the war," Hermione whispers, understanding. "I can't imagine the pain you've felt all these years."

Helena's mouth twitches, but she blinks back ethereal tears. "None of that matters—the diadem must be destroyed."

"We will," Draco swears, eyes honest. "My lady, we're bringing it to the Defense professor as we speak, and we have the necessary weapons to destroy it."

Staring, Helena sizes him up, then glances at the other three. She cocks her head to the side when her gaze lands on Harry. "You're like him, you know. So, so much like that other boy. In more ways than you know—more ways than you've ever possibly imagined."

Harry grimaces. "I—yes, we do have a lot in common. But—I want to do everything I can to be the exact opposite of the person he became; the person he chose to become. And I like to believe the people close to me will keep me in line if I ever seem like I'm becoming a darker version of myself." He looks to Hermione and Ron nervously, heart thumping when Hermione reaches to squeeze his hand.

"Part of it is out of your control," Helena murmurs, face pensive, like the words have a double meaning. "But nonetheless, I hope you succeed. I hope the good in you wins out."

(He wears the familiar frown they all know means he's scared of himself.)

"Me too," Harry whispers.

/

They've been on edge all year, of course, but Hermione hadn't quite realized how bad it was until she's in the boys' dormitory one Saturday morning, and there's a stack of pink and red notes and packages at the foot of Harry's bed.

Neville holds up a hand, giving her a look of disappointment. "Valentine's day, Hermione. It's Valentine's day." He shakes his head as he finishes tying his tie, looking entirely exasperated with all three of them. "Honestly, you'd think one of you would've remembered. I can't believe you're my friends."

"Oi, we've been a little stressed, Nev," Ron says defensively, even as he starts digging through Harry's pile of gifts. "Why are so many witches in the Potter fan club this year?"

Neville shakes his head as he heads out with a wave, a carefully wrapped box for Pansy in his arms.

"Well that's because of articles that have come out since Voldemort's return was publicized—they all think he's very brave and dreamy for sticking up to Umbridge and the rest of the world when they were all calling him crazy." Hermione mimes a dramatic, infatuated sigh before continuing. "Their interest has been piqued, and then when the news came out that he had—become single, and through losing someone…" she winces, carefully dancing around the topic of Luna. "Let's just say he's become something of a tragic romance hero."

"Because that's exactly what I need right now," Harry says dryly. "Ron, save the chocolate for Sof and my dad, but the rest is all yours."

"I can't!" Ron exclaims, leaping to his feet. "I have to tell her I love her!"

"Who, Susan?" a baffled Harry asks.

"Romilda Vane, of course!" Ron's gesticulating wildly, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "Where is she?"

Harry rubs at his temples. "Dude, we don't even know a Romilda."

Hermione gives him a look. "She's the fifth year I told you about two weeks ago, the one who was talking about slipping you a love potion?"

"Er…right." Harry makes an apologetic face. "I really should listen to you more. So if she put one in the Valentine's candy—how do we fix him?"

Hermione groans, grabbing Neville's pillow to chuck at her brother. "NEWT potions and you don't even know how to counteract a love potion?"

"Because I have you, and you're the smartest person in the world!"

"Troll!" she half-yells, pulling at her hair. "You deserve only Trolls. You're going to die if you don't learn some potions, I mean that Harry Potter."

"Do you think Romilda would like a troll?" Ron wonders aloud, eyes far away. "I could catch one to give her as a gift."

Hermione sighs, pulling her hair up into a ponytail. "Let's get this one to Slughorn, then, yeah? I don't have all the ingredients for an antidote here. Actually," she gasps with wide eyes. "Yes, that's it. I'll grab my felix, and we'll each take a swig, and while we're there we can ask him about the Riddle memory. Give me a moment."

"I love you!" Harry calls after her as she runs out of their dorm to grab the golden vial.

Half an hour later, Ron's looking disgusted and back to his usual self, earning uncontrollable laughter from his two best friends and amused chuckles from the potions professor.

They've been working to butter Slughorn up, praising his abilities profusely before asking him to cure Ron, before citing shock that such an incredible wizard as himself doesn't have Valentine's plans.

"You both are too sweet to an old man," he says, though it's clear he's basking in the compliments. "Perhaps we should have a drink to celebrate Mister Weasley's return to his own thoughts then, yes?"

Ron makes a face. "I dunno—"

He yelps as Hermione elbows him to shut up—and on his other side, Harry does the same.

(The felix, then—this is their best chance at success.)

"That would be lovely, Professor," Hermione beams. "Thank you so much! I know you have plenty of more important people you could be with right now, so we're so grateful you're willing to spend part of the holiday with us. I look up to you so much, and as someone who wants to go into Healing I can only hope to be half as skilled as you in the field someday."

She's laying it on thick, earning raised eyebrows of disbelief from Ron, but Slughorn is grinning, looking extremely pleased with himself. "Oh, it's no trouble at all, dear. Youth are the future, as they say, so any time with you three is time well spent."

He reaches into the drawer of his desk, pulling out a fancy-seeming bottle. "Here we are, then. I'd intended this as a gift, actually, but I'll get him something else, it's really too good of a bottle for us not to share."

Hermione's smiling, and Harry's eyes are likewise locked on the professor as they try to sweet talk him for later asking for the memory.

So it's only Ron who's paying attention, only Ron who notices—the bottle is familiar.

("convince someone to give it to him as a gift," Draco had said.)

(Poison. The bottle is poisoned.)

He's pouring it into goblets for the four of them now; Harry and Hermione will surely look and notice in time, but Slughorn won't—

(This is not at all what Draco had intended—it's what he'd done everything in his power to avoid.)

(If Slughorn gets caught in the crossfire, he'll never forgive himself.)

So despite the professor saying they should toast, Ron does the only thing he can come up with in the heat of the moment: snatches up a cup and pours its contents down his throat, "accidentally" knocking over the other three goblets as he does so.

"What on earth—oh, god," Hermione whispers, terror filling her face as she looks from Ron's hand to the bottle and sees it for the first time. "Ron—"

He doesn't have time to respond before he's falling over, convulsing, beginning to foam at the mouth; it's excruciating, but—Hermione's gotten him out of worse spots than this.

(He has faith she'll get him an antidote before the poison kills him.)

Slughorn's panicking, and Harry's just catching on, trying to turn Ron onto his side the way he's heard should be done with people who are choking.

The pain gets worse, and he knows it's not the fastest acting poison but feels like he's running out of time, and he really doesn't want his death to weigh on Draco's conscience and also really doesn't want to die—

And then something rough is being forced down his throat, and Hermione's voice is yelling at him, ordering him to stay with her—

The convulsions stop, and Hermione feels herself breathe for the first time since Ron had started to choke as his heart rate begins to return to normal.

"You're okay," she promises, smoothing back a lock of his hair. She meets Harry's eyes. "We should get him up to Madam Pomfrey anyway, just to check him over and make sure everything's okay."

"I…" Slughorn's sweating, still wide eyed and pale. "I'm so sorry, I hadn't the slightest idea it was poisoned. I would never—"

"We know you wouldn't, Professor," Harry says, expression serious. "It was Voldemort—this isn't the first time he's tried to attack someone in the castle."

Hermione nods. "And it won't be the last; nothing anyone has done to try to stop him has worked. Until we truly know what we're up against, we'll never be able to defeat him. We'll be looking over our shoulder for attacks like this for the rest of our lives."

Slughorn's distraught, and Harry moves a bit closer to him, forcing sad eyes as he goes in for the kill. "Professor—we would do whatever it takes to end this war. Ron almost just died—can you imagine, if he'd died in your classroom?" He shudders at the notion, as does the professor.

Frowning, Hermione meets the professor's eyes. "If you knew something that could help us stop him—make sure nothing like this ever happens again—you would, wouldn't you, professor? We know you care about your students more than anything. You want him to be beaten as much as anyone."

"Well, yes, of course I would," Slughorn says as he fans himself. "But I'm afraid I don't think I can be of much help."

"We actually think you might." She bites her lip, hesitates like she's nervous to bring it up, before saying, "Professor—he's made horcuxes." She pauses, letting the revelation hit him—really sink in, the terrifying implications. "If we can't find and destroy all of them, he will never die. The war, the threats, the chaos—it will never end."

"We know he asked you about them once," Harry says softly, trying to seem as unaccusatory as possible. "Of course he did—you know about everything, there would be no one better to ask; and you had no reason not to tell him, you care so much about your students and preparing them to succeed in the world. I know it's probably a very hard day to think about, but—Professor, you giving us that memory could be what allows us to win this war. We can't stop him without you."

(It's careful, the way they frame it, balancing the wartime chaos that threatens his peaceful lifestyle against the potential to be the reason they win the war.)

He's thinking about it, though.

(Hermione pounces.)

"Please, professor," she begs. "If we can't end the war, I will die. As will everyone like me. You've complimented my work so many times, told me what a bright future I'll have—please don't let Riddle take that away from me."

She gestures at Harry to look at Slughorn, and when the older man meets his eyes—Lily Evans's eyes—she hits him hardest. "I know Harry's mother was one of your favorite students, too. Her life was lost because of Riddle. Don't let her sacrifice be in vain. You—"

(And she swallows heavily, because she's been compared to Lily Evans academically for years—has always been so grateful and thrilled by such a compliment.)

(But in this moment, the similarities between them feel tangible, as though she can see her own future playing out just the same; she's just another muggle born witch in a war for her very existence, knowing she could accomplish so many things but she'll probably die fighting before then.)

(It hurts, the knowing.)

"Don't let what happened to my mother happen to my best friend," Harry whispers, knowing his best friend is unable to speak. "No one else has to go through this. Please, Professor—please give us the memory. It's the only way we can win this war. The only way we'll survive."

Slughorn's trembling, now, eyes watery as he reaches for his wand. He's silent as he conjures a vial, dragging the silvery wisps from his temple to the inside of the glass. "Don't think less of me when you've seen it," he whispers, not meeting their gaze. "All I've ever wanted is my students' success."

"We know, professor," Harry promises as he reaches for the vial.

(They're shaking as they levitate Ron to the hospital wing, vial hidden in their robes.)

(Desperately hoping their answers are within.)