Chapter 17 - Missions & Scones

In Hampstead, London, winter's fury never came full force around Christmas. Rather, its true tenacity waited until the festivities were over before coming to the fore. Not that Hermione wished for anything to be different. All throughout the rest of winter, past the new year and to the end of February, Hermione experienced some of the best moments of her life thus far.

Rather than be ostracised from her class, now the tides seemed to be turning at Steadheath Primary School. Her performance at the nativity play had washed out the last dregs of fear the rest of her classmates had towards her. Now, more and more students approached her with the extended hand of friendship, and her classes became a lot more lively, a lot more fun, and a lot more enjoyable.

And whilst school before had hung over itself the pall of dread, now it carried the blooms of excitement and friendship.

It turned out her thirst for knowledge had all along been a blessing, not a curse. In many of her subjects, but particularly in English, she'd help those across from her table, supplying answers and sometimes helping them in their homework, particularly Katie, who struggled with reading a lot more than the rest. They appreciated Hermione's insight greatly, and the chatter between them thus blossomed like the peonies in their front garden during springtime.

Hermione still attached herself to Harry's side, however, not forgetting her best friend and the one who'd helped her perform in the play in the first place. Despite the fierce nature of winter's snow forcing them inside most days, their bond had never been stronger. Days were filled with laughter and fun and joy, reading and playing in the park when the weather allowed, and now Hermione had a way to write everything down to read years and years down the line.

Her diary—the Christmas present Harry had gotten her—was seemingly a gift from the heavens, as though she truly was Mary, mother of Jesus. She treasured it like nothing else in her life, always keeping it squeaky clean by her bedside. When she'd first unboxed the present, the leather cover felt ridged under her fingers, like the comforting callouses in Daddy's palms.

Beside the leather cover was a quill. Except it wasn't a proper quill, which would've been a living nightmare to use with ink spilling all over the place. Shaped like a quill, the ballpoint pen held the smoothest tip Hermione had ever used, as though one of the Parker pens Mummy stashed in her big girl study. Hermione sometimes wrote in her diary just to feel the pen's lightweight swiftly cross the page like a ballet dancer's performance.

And oh, did she write about everything. And when she said everything, she really meant it.

After Christmas dinner, and before sleeping, she'd written about how grateful she was for Harry in her life, with his belief in her and her abilities, and she then detailed just what they had done that day. From playing in Hampstead Park to greeting all the neighbours with a merry warm welcome, to Christmas breakfast and how happy she was that Harry had received his first ever present in life.

She wrote about it all, filling the pages with description after description, until sometimes her hands hurt. It was sort of therapeutic, the spilling of her thoughts from mind to page. Therapeutic in a sense that, whenever Hermione reflected on the day, she could see where she'd done something good, and be grateful for the good others had done to her.

Since she was a big girl now, self improvement was key, as Mummy had once told her. Constantly reflecting on what one could do better, and being happy for what one was blessed with in life.

But two thoughts reigned supreme amongst her writing that worried her. Two thoughts that burrowed into the back of her mind and camped there, with a tent and pitchforks at the ready to fight her if she tried to kick them out.

As the season transitioned from winter to spring, and March's blossoming sun arrived with the melting snow, Hermione noticed something in all the pages she'd written in the diary (as well as the second one Daddy had gotten her once she finished the first).

Harry was still keeping secrets from her, about the pocket watch as well as about his past, and best friends didn't keep secrets from each other forever.

And though she was making more friends in school, and was as popular as ever with the other children, Niall the bully still aggravated Dahlia Glitz and other kids whenever he got the chance.

And those two things hampered Hermione's overall happiness, pushed a blight onto her and Harry's life, and she set about trying to solve both issues—Harry's secrecy and calling himself a freak, and the bullying at Steadheath. Determination her fuel, Hermione could achieve everything. She'd proven it with the nativity play, and she would prove it here too.

The only question was—how?

At first, she wished to just confront both Harry and Dahlia, tell them what she wanted, and hoped they complied. But previous experience with Harry told her it wasn't the best strategy, and it wouldn't go as swimmingly as she envisioned in her utter optimism.

Even finding out about Harry's pocket watch was a shot in the pitch-black dark. It was only by chance that she'd barged into his room on Christmas day and found the watch in his hand. And chance wouldn't serve her twice, as Daddy liked to say sometimes. The toothpick, too, was another secret, since it had looked a little mouldy and old and far too unsanitary.

Why would Harry carry around an old toothpick, and a similarly ancient pocket watch made of gold? And why hadn't he said a thing about it yet, other than a vague promise that Hermione would know the secret, one day? And why did he, even after all this time, insist that he was some kind of freak?

None of it made sense to her. But what she did understand was that Harry required coaxing, required gentle prodding, and then he would bloom like the flowers of spring showing their true colours for the first time. Forcing him into something he didn't wish for would never work, and though on the outside he seemed as fine as could be, chattering at school with other classmates like nothing was the issue, deep down those problems still lingered.

After all, why would someone keep secrets from their best friend unless there was something about them they wished to keep hidden?

The bullying issue was a problem Hermione didn't know how to tackle, and Miss Bailey's words on the problem didn't exactly help things. In no uncertain terms, Miss Bailey had essentially rendered bullying's existence as a permanent part of life, a reality that everyone had to face the truth of at one point or another, and nothing no one did could ever change the fact.

Hermione wished to, deep down, rid the entire world of anything negative. But it felt like good required evil to exist, as Mummy sometimes liked to tell her in bouts of wisdom whilst sitting on the sofa.

Perhaps bullying was the same—a kind of evil that would always exist, regardless of what anyone else tried.

Hermione didn't want to give up, though, but with no ideas on how to fix it, her mind could only drone and whir uselessly in circles. Harry's secrecy was her main focus for now—the pocket watch, toothpick, and his tendency to call himself a freak.

So she sat Mummy down one Saturday in March when Daddy had taken Harry to another Arsenal football game. Despite having gone another two times since Boxing Day, Harry loved every minute of every match.

Hermione knew this fact rather well. Since Harry rattled off every event in every minute of every match, such that Hermione thought her ears would bleed by the end. But seeing that smile on Harry's face, a visage of joy that contradicted so much the scared boy she'd sat with in the orphanage's cramped cupboard, made the pain of hearing about football worth it.

"You know you'll get an earful about the match when they come back right, sweetie?" Mummy said with a laugh as they sat on one of the living room sofas. Mummy nursed a mug of tea, whilst Hermione's hot chocolate filled her fingers with a warmth that travelled right to the tips of her toes.

Beverages brewed with love, after all, held a preciousness that couldn't be captured in words alone. Only feelings.

The living room was comfortable, quiet and homely, with the fireplace now displaying the family picture they'd taken at Hermione's nativity performance. It showed Harry and Hermione with their arms around each other, giggles in their eyes, Mummy and Daddy hovering behind them with similarly wide smiles splitting their cheeks apart.

A happy family. A happy scene. If only Hermione could get Harry to open up and be his true self, the secrets that were hurting him bared to those who loved him.

That was what she wished to talk about with Mummy, after all.

"He talks a lot about football," Hermione began. "And about other stuff too like classes and what happens in the other sets at school. He never…keeps quiet about those subjects, or hides anything. But…"

Mummy, perhaps sensing that Hermione wished to open up to her, placed her mug down on the coffee table and drew closer to her daughter.

"But what?" she asked in a soft voice. So soft Hermione felt like wrapping herself up in it for comfort.

"But he doesn't talk about other things," Hermione said.

Mummy raised an eyebrow. "What kind of other things?"

Hermione didn't want to betray Harry's trust, especially because she herself wasn't supposed to know about the pocket watch in the first place. But she needed Mummy's help. Reaching out for help had worked for her before, and she hoped it worked now.

"He has secrets, Mummy. Things that he hides. That he doesn't want people to know."

"And you know these secrets, sweetie?" Mummy asked. "Or at least some of them?"

Hermione nodded. "I'm not supposed to know anyway, so…so I can't tell you what it is. Sorry Mummy, I'm not trying to hide things from you, I swear. It's just Harry—"

"Sweetie," Mummy said, placing a hand on her arm. "Calm your breathing. I'm not angry at you, not at all. You're Harry's best friend, of course you'll have secrets between yourself. That's what friends are for, after all." She rubbed Hermione's forearm slowly, in little circles, as if her attention was orbiting around Hermione now. "Now tell me, what's got you so worried?"

"Harry won't let me know his secrets, that's why," Hermione said. Seeing the look on Mummy's face, Hermione quickly continued. "I'm not being selfish, Mummy. Harry's hurting because of something, but he won't tell me what it is. I know a little bit about it, but he's hiding inside something that's hurting him."

She turned to Mummy, met her eyes with a watery gaze. "I need to help him, don't I?"

"Of course you do," Mummy immediately soothed, rubbing her arm again in circles. "That's what family is for, to help each other with hard times. But…Harry's allowed to keep secrets if they're his. Maybe it's the only thing he's been allowed to keep his entire life, considering his old guardians. I wouldn't be surprised if that's the case, not surprised at all."

"Then we need to show him that we're better family than they ever were," Hermione said, fierceness lacing her tone, an inner strength booming her voice as though she was chanting at the Arsenal match, instead of Harry.

"That we do," Mummy agreed, a glint in her eye. And Hermione knew what the glint meant. That Mummy had an idea, a eureka moment, a light bulb flashing in her head.

And Hermione knew that Mummy, and her big girl ideas, could make the world right again. Saving Harry from the secrets he harboured. Secrets that were hurting him from the inside.

And ultimately saving Harry from himself.

If there was one thing Harry loved more than anything else in his life, it was his pocket watch. For the first God knows how many years living with the Dursleys, that flash of gold in his pocket or bag or hidden in his cupboard corner was the only sliver of hope he had in the world that a family had once loved him, once cherished him.

The family picture inside, with the note accompanying it, was his tether to normality, a proof that a freak like himself had once been adored by parents who weren't always drunkards that died in car accidents.

They were real people, with smiles and hearts and humour, if the note was anything to go by. And then Dudley, with his grubby hands and evil grin and maniacal eyes, had torn that picture to pieces. Shredded it as though a machine in Miss Loma's school secretary office. And the magical quality to the family picture, that it moved and swirled like a scene from a movie, vanished with the torn pieces.

But that Christmas, approximately three months before the present day, had proven something else to Harry. Had proven that the Grangers truly wished him well, though Harry wouldn't dare to assume more than that.

He'd received a present for the first time in living memory, his first ever Christmas present too, and the warmth in his heart only bloomed as the days went on, as winter left its chill behind—thank God for that, since Harry despised the cold—and allowed spring's vibrancy to lay the path down to summer.

The warmth he'd first felt in Harrods with Mr Granger still blossomed at random times, from the most random of things. Though Harry didn't know the source of such warmth, or indeed its true essence, he recognised the goodness it made him feel inside, even from things as small as a hot chocolate from Mrs Granger or a ruffle of the hair from Mr Granger, or Hermione rubbing his arm and giving him one of her customary hugs from time to time.

That warmth was something to treasure, and treasure it he did.

And another thing to treasure, to keep safe like his pocket watch, was the snowglobe Hermione had gotten him. A perfect present, and one that mesmerised him every time he glimpsed it sitting on his desk.

Because it moved, just like his family picture had, snow cascading down in a constant motion, as if defying the laws of physics Hermione had tried to explain to him the previous week after a rather confusing science class. The snowfall inside the globe was never ending, never ceasing, almost magical, and it was away from Dudley's clutches so it wouldn't break either.

Classes had improved for him too, over the previous three months after the Christmas holiday. Since Hermione was making more friends (though Harry was still her best friend, as she repeatedly mentioned—far too repeatedly, in Harry's opinion), Harry's aura of strangeness amongst his year group eroded around him. The Harrowing at Hampstead seemed to become an urban legend of sorts, like a myth. And like all myths, it was thankfully left in the past, letting Harry speak more freely with his classmates without that event hanging over his head like a third wheel.

He even made some more friends. Thomas and Eliza were in the same set as him for Maths, and they helped him massively when it came to catching up to speed with the workload. He still wasn't the best at the subject, and nowhere near as good as Hermione of course, but Harry was improving, slowly and surely.

And, as Mrs Granger liked to say, improvement was better than nothing at all.

Thomas, though, was a Tottenham supporter, since his dad had lived on that side of North London as a youngster. Which meant that, much to Eliza's chagrin (she wasn't fond of football, like Hermione), heated discussions on football took place between Harry and Thomas, since Tottenham and Arsenal were fierce rivals dating back decades.

Outside of school, Harry sensed Hermione was scheming something. She didn't know it, but a glint entered her eyes when an idea formed in her mind. When a plan was brewing, taking shape, and Hermione was waiting for the right moment to tell Harry.

Except she didn't tell him, not this time at least. Though the glint in her eyes remained. Instead, the one to tell him was Mrs Granger, on a bright spring afternoon after asking Harry to help her water the plants in the front garden.

Harry had always watered the plants for Aunt Petunia. Though, back in those days, he'd done it as a chore, out of fear of his relatives making things worse at home for abstaining from his 'duties'. Perhaps another night or two without food, perhaps a cuff on the ear from his aunt or her frying pan, perhaps setting Dudley on him like a tyrant with unlimited power.

But here, as the sun warmed his skin like he was sitting around a nice campfire, Harry enjoyed holding the watering can and feeding the plants whilst chatting with Mrs Granger. It felt like he was doing something productive, with good company, as opposed to toiling away on his own with no help in sight.

"Did I ever tell you about the scone making competition we have here in Hampstead?" Mrs Granger said. "I might have mentioned it a while back."

Harry couldn't remember. His eyebrows scrunched as he replayed the last half a year through his mind, like a sped up film reel. But he couldn't think of it at all. Maybe Hermione had talked about it…

"It's a…well, scone-making competition," Mrs Granger said, "as you can imagine from the title. Every year, we get a few dozen entries from around the area, and they all come together at Hampstead Park for a little fair for the kids. Everyone tries out a few and has a blast, and there's three judges. Old heads, Mark calls them, but they really are nice ladies, if well into their sixties."

Mrs Granger was rambling now, whilst her errant right hand watered the plants as if it had a mind of its own. Harry didn't mind the rambling, though. In fact, he found it rather endearing, like a mother talking to their—

No, he wasn't going there. Not now, not ever. He was just staying here, whilst Hermione remained their real child, their blood child. And Harry was the…other person in their house, even if they did have a portrait as if they were all one big, happy fami—

Harry shook himself mentally. He needed to focus on watering the plants, not dwell on dreams and fantasies that were never going to materialise, no matter how much he yearned for them. These peonies had already drank far too much water, and he wasn't trying to drench the soil in any case. That would kill the plants off outright, and Harry wasn't a murderer.

"That sounds interesting," Harry muttered, shifting his attention to the bed of sunflowers. "Are you entering this year?"

"I won't unfortunately," Mrs Granger said. "It's at the end of April, and I need an assistant to help me make the best recipe…but Mark's too busy nowadays since he mostly runs the practice whilst I look after the house, and Hermione isn't…let's just say, she can't cook an omelette let alone make a scone, and leave it at that."

"I mean…I could be…" Harry stopped himself. Mrs Granger didn't want him as an assistant, obviously, since he was a freak. She was just mentioning why she couldn't enter this year. And yet, Harry could see himself standing there, behind a stall, with a bunch of scones to sell and let other children try, taking pride in his own work.

He had helped Aunt Petunia in the kitchen on numerous occasions, so he wouldn't exactly cut himself with a knife or slice his arm off. And on those occasions, Harry hadn't even been able to eat the food he cooked, unless he got lucky at the end of the day and found leftovers.

With this scone-making competition, he would be able to eat the scones, taste testing along the way, making sure the recipe was perfect alongside Mrs Granger.

"That's what I was thinking too," Mrs Granger said, snapping him back to the present. She lifted her watering can and walked closer to Harry. She stopped a few feet from him, smile beaming and wide, as though reflecting the sun's radiance into his eyes. "I need an assistant, and I nominate you, Harry, as my premier choice. I think it'll be the best for both of us, don't you?"

Harry gave a shy nod, unable to believe his luck. It was like a dream come true, helping Mrs Granger accomplish one of her goals, the same way as he'd helped Hermione rehearse for the nativity play.

"I'd love to," Harry finally said, finding his voice once more. Mrs Granger smiled warmly, tapping him on the shoulder, before returning to watering the roses on the far side of the front garden.

Harry paused for a second, his shoulder burning with that warmth kindling his chest at times, before watering the plants again. But the new smile on his face, that couldn't be wiped off for even a hint of a second.

"It can be our little project, Harry," Mrs Granger said from the far side. She met his eyes. "We'll make the best team, no doubt."

Harry could imagine it. And with thoughts of the scone making competition in his mind, he continued watering the plants, the sun shining high above like a medal, the world's brightness increasing with every drop of water on every single flower.

Catherine, truly, did like the annual scone-making competition. It had been a staple of her life for as long as she'd resided in Hampstead, a yearly event to look forward to once springtime graced the world. Not only did it host a fair for Hermione and Mark to enjoy, with Harry alongside them this year, but the scones on show were nice to eat, with free samples handed out to any other contestants.

The only issue with the competition was…well, precisely that—the other contestants. When Catherine was new to the competition, a good friend who'd since moved to Somerset pulled her aside at the front of the fair.

"Be careful," Mandy had said amongst the thrush of the loud crowd.

Catherine had given a laugh at the time. A nervous laugh, since it was her first competition, and because Mandy sounded a tad too dramatic for a scone-making competition of all things.

"I'm being serious," Mandy said, pointing over to a few of the stalls already set up and bustling with customers in the distance. "See her—that's Betty, and then next to her is Loxie, and her assistant Hetty."

"That's funny, their names rhyme," Catherine said.

"Yep, and they're the ones who take this thing way too seriously. Like…" Mandy leaned in, whispered in Catherine's ear as if sharing a secret worthy of passage into heaven. "They used dirty tactics to win last year, but I didn't tell you that."

Catherine pulled back, a giggle tearing through her. "Now you're having me for a long one," she said. "Dirty tactics? It's a scone-making competition for crying out loud." To emphasise the innocence of such a concept, Catherine raised the new bag she'd gotten just for the competition, in lilac blue colours that sparkled amongst the red and white of the fair.

"See, there's nothing so bad about this, just some scones in here ready for the park to enjoy." Catherine lifted her bag for Mandy to get a closer look, certain that it would solve the dispute.

It seemed Mandy wasn't willing to go down without a battle.

"You'd say that," Mandy said, leaning in once again. "But you weren't here last year. They put some kind of stink bomb behind Margaret's stall, probably did it on the low when no one was looking, and that messed the entire thing up."

"A stink bomb?"

"Nasty one at that, too. Smelled like a right old fart. None of the customers went near the thing, and the judges—let's just say the smell got into the scones. Margaret was a favourite, too, and after they didn't find out who was responsible, the poor woman left the entire competition altogether."

"And you know it was them because…?" Catherine asked, jabbing a finger towards Betty, Hetty, and Loxie in the distance.

"Because I have it on good account, my dear." Mandy winked. "Basically, my nephew managed to sneak a peek at Betty chuck it down there, before she went over to Hetty and Loxie and began laughing very loudly. Cackling like witches, if you ask me. They never noticed my trustworthy source, thank you very much."

Catherine had nodded at the time, mulling over her friend's words. Cheating in a scone-making competition was the lowest one could go, especially since a portion of the fair's earnings always went to charity, and a burgeoning dentist had no need for competing with those who would raze the playing field, rather than level it.

In any case, Catherine had tried her best that year, and though Hetty had won in rather suspicious circumstances, Catherine thoroughly enjoyed the experience. And thus the yearly fiasco in Hampstead Park began.

As the years passed, however, the rivalry between herself and Betty, who turned out to be a boy in Hermione's school named Niall's mother, grew worse and worse. The woman, now ripe at the age of fourty-five, had the most devilish stare, as if pinning those around her and trapping them in her gaze. Her early wrinkles didn't help things, as though constant frowning had caused lines to etch themselves into her skin.

Catherine found merely looking at the woman a little disconcerting, troubling, but even worse was speaking with her. She had a manner of communication that was, as Mark liked to say, distasteful at best.

At worst, it was downright disgusting the way she demeaned those around her as casually as breathing air, and Catherine didn't know how anyone managed to live with such a person. Her meeting with Betty once a year was enough to send her running for the hills, let alone sharing the same space under a roof.

She sighed, focussing back to the present, a week after she'd enlisted the help of Harry in making the new recipe. And it was going swimmingly…well, if they were swimming in the depths of the ocean, that was, with only a couple of weeks to go before the fair commenced.

She'd already gotten close to winning the previous year with her homemade scone recipe, a deliciously fluffy scone mixed with pumpkin flavours that gave it a sweet kick to the end. The aftertaste was glorious too, like a constant reminder of the delight that had been ingested.

But this year, Catherine wanted something even more extraordinary, something that would wow the judges and leave no doubt in their minds as to who deserved to be the winner. Regardless of any 'dirty tactics' used by Betty, or indeed anyone else.

Catherine was going to steal the show, and little Harry Potter would help her do it. Together, they would be the greatest scone-makers in the entirety of Hampstead.

If only she could perfect the recipe in time, of course.

"Harry, dear, could you get the oven, please?" she said to the boy standing by the kitchen counter with oven gloves already on. He was a cheerful little helper, clad in an apron that was as adorable as it was useful in protecting him from the splashes and scrubs with dirt that baking inevitably resulted in.

He smiled, as was the permanent feature on his face whenever they baked, and hurried to the oven. Opened it up to a cloud of smoke gushing out in announcement of the bake, and brought the tray out.

"Just leave it there, dear," Catherine said, pointing to the counter where she'd already set up a little layer of foil to avoid damaging the marble. She prided herself on a clean and orderly kitchen, and she wasn't about to mess it up to beat little old Betty Jenkins.

Harry almost preened at the term of endearment Catherine had begun using. It was sweetie for Hermione, as was always the case, and dear for Harry. Hermione's words to her from Christmas time, even after all these months, still permeated Catherine's mind on more than a few occasions a week.

If you love him, Mummy, why don't you tell him?

And that block in Catherine's mind still persisted. She knew she loved Harry—loved him like he was her very own son, borne from her womb, with her blood inside him. But…admitting her love for him, like she very often did with Hermione, seemed a leap too far to take.

And for the life of her, she couldn't figure out why that was the case.

So, she'd decided to take little steps. Little steps leading towards ultimately letting the boy know that both she and Mark loved him like a son, loved him like he deserved to be loved, loved him for the child he was and not what he wasn't.

As Harry and Catherine waited for the scones to cool down enough for a little taste test (their favourite part of the baking process of course), Catherine's mind flitted back to discussing the permanent adoption process with Ralph earlier that month.

Since Mark and Catherine were dead set on making Harry a permanent fixture in their lives, they'd need to get the adoption papers signed sometime after the foster period was up, which would be in July at the earliest. Of course, they could have attempted to get it done earlier, since the foster period ended technically in May, but with further inspections of their home and living conditions required, not to mention the slowness of the English care system, time was needed more than anything else.

"What's that you've got there, Harry?" Catherine said, mind returning to her kitchen.

He held up the knife and cut into a scone, rather expertly too with deft fingers, making sure the middle was as presentable as could be. Catherine inspected it under a close eye, noticing the flecks of flour that had escaped the surface and dipped into the dough. Though the competition didn't exactly grade scones for their appearance, they did cut a few to see the neatness of the bake.

Catherine needed everything perfect if she was to best Betty and claim her spot as the best scone-maker in Hampstead, with the best assistant to boot.

"I'll go get the toppers," Catherine said, heading to the fridge. She pulled out jam and cream, before heading back to where Harry stood patiently. She spread the jam in between the scones, adding the clotted cream for taste, before doing the same for Harry. They both took a large bite and licked their fingers after lowering the half-eaten scone to the tray again.

"These are delicious," Harry said with a wide smile, chewing on his scone with gusto. His delight warmed Catherine's heart, and she knew without a shadow of a doubt that, when Harry became a permanent part of her life after adoption, she could enjoy these moments for the rest of her days.

Moments of happiness, joy, the thrill of caring for the second child her maternal instincts had always urged her to have.

"I think it still has something missing, though, don't you think?" she asked the boy.

Harry stared at her, thoughts raging in those stark green eyes. He nodded slowly, as if both scared to agree and scared to disagree at the same time. "What about adding a bit of lemon juice?" he said.

Catherine stared at him, eyes agape, the thought splitting apart her mind.

"I'm sorry, did I do—"

"That's a brilliant idea," Catherine breathed out, the brainwave seizing her so suddenly she almost toppled onto the tiled floor. How had she not thought of that before? Lemon juice was acidic—leaning back on her old chem labs in uni—meaning it would enhance the raising agent in the flour, and that in the baking powder.

Meaning that, although the taste in her scones would remain similar to how they were now, delicious with the sweet kick of pumpkin mixed with the jam and cream, they would feel a lot more full once ingested. That was the mistake that all the other contestants were making. They were trying to compete on taste, but Betty Jenkins seemed to have that locked down many years ago, since her moulded flavours really were a marvel to behold.

But the texture of the actual scone, making the mouth feel a lot more full with each consecutive, hungry bite—that was something Catherine could lead with, and it would create the best bake in all of Hampstead. A tactic she would never have discovered, had it not been for the brilliant mind of Harry Potter, and his courage in saying his ideas rather than keeping them to himself.

"You're amazing, dear," she told Harry, leaning down and wrapping him up in a hug. The stickiness from the jam on his mouth might have stained her apron as she held the boy close, but Catherine didn't care. Harry Potter was the blessing that kept on giving, and for that, Catherine was eternally grateful.

As she glanced back at the tray and drank in the sights of her baking with one of her own children, something she'd never been able to do with a kitchen-klutz like Hermione, she couldn't help reminiscing how far she'd come over the last four months. She'd gone from being unable to have children and choosing the foster system, to hugging another child she loved as closely as she did Hermione.

How had such good fortune struck her so quickly? What miracle in a previous life had she done to deserve such a reward?

She didn't know. Not at all.

But as she stared at a flustered Harry Potter, adorably red in the face, she wouldn't trade the scene for anything else in the world. And she knew, with a blessing like Harry as her assistant by her side, that the scone-making competition was theirs for the taking.

A/N: Hope you all enjoyed. Take care this next week!