SEVEN
The winter outside traced delicate patterns across the Great Hall's high windows. All around, the countryside eventually gave way from the shades of yellow to winter's cold grasp. Harry sat at the Gryffindor table, absently watching steam rise from his untouched tea. The morning after the Yule Ball had a different kind of quiet - not the usual breakfast rush, but a gentle lull, as most of the students were still at various stages of sleep, hesitantly waking up for the late classes that awaited them.
Ron slumped onto the bench across from him, looking decidedly green.
"Morning," Harry offered.
"Is it?" Ron groaned, dropping his head to the table. "I swear I can't feel…anything. Bugger."
"George's punch?"
"Among other things." Ron lifted his head slightly. "Did I really try to teach the suits of armor to waltz last night?"
"Oh, that definitely happened," Hermione said, settling beside Ron as usual, though her movements were slower than normal. "Right after you declared yourself the 'King of Dance' and challenged Nearly Headless Nick to a floating competition."
"I did not!"
"You absolutely did, mate." Harry said. He'd seen that part, at least. "Nick was very polite about turning you down."
Ron buried his face in his hands. "Just kill me now."
"And miss Quidditch practice?" Harry tried to hide his smile behind his teacup.
"At least I didn't spend half the night mooning about in the rose garden," Ron muttered.
Harry felt heat creep up his neck. He'd been lost in thought after following Professor Graves, and while he'd slept for a few hours, Harry had found himself awake when the more noisy couples finally returned from their snogging sessions late in the night, and couldn't sleep since, sneaking out to the nearby gardens for a walk to clear his head. "I wasn't mooning," he protested. "I didn't know you two even saw me!"
"You were literally under the moonlight," Hermione pointed out, stirring her tea with careful precision. "That's the definition of mooning."
"I hate you both."
"No you don't." Hermione's voice was gentle. "Besides, it was… nice. Seeing you enjoy yourself for once."
The morning light caught in her still-tamed hair, and Harry noticed the way Ron's expression softened as he looked at her. Some changes, he thought, were easier to accept than others.
"Pass the marmalade?" Ron asked after a long moment.
"Already?" Hermione raised an eyebrow. "You were just declaring yourself at dead."
"Best cure for almost-death is marmalade. Everyone knows that."
"Everyone definitely does not know that," Hermione said, but she passed the jar anyway, her fingers lingering against Ron's for just a moment.
Harry watched the simple interaction, feeling simultaneously part of and separate from the moment. The questions from last night pressed against his thoughts, but here in the gentle morning light, they seemed less urgent somehow. Or maybe that was just his clouded mind. There was a lot going on in the quieter parts of Hogwarts, and though he tried to ignore it a bit to have some semblance of a normal life, Harry couldn't quite push away the thoughts entirely. Some shadows never really disappeared.
"Your eggs are getting cold," Hermione observed.
"Not really hungry," Harry said, pushing his plate away.
Ron looked up sharply. "You're always hungry at breakfast. What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong, I just—"
"Morning, all!" Neville's cheerful voice cut through Harry's denial as he dropped onto the bench beside them. "Beautiful day, isn't it"
"Too cheerful," Ron grumbled, grabbing his head. "Way too cheerful."
"Someone's not feeling the morning spirit," Neville grinned. "Though I suppose after that thing with the punch—"
"We've covered that, thanks."
The morning post arrived just then, owls drifting down through the enchanted ceiling like leaves on a gentle breeze and stopping all conversations as the students worked on catching the news before it fell into their food. Harry watched as Hermione reached for her copy of the Daily Prophet. He hadn't actually subscribed to the paper, mostly because he was tired about the newer things they were writing about him. He wasn't some sort of half-Sphinx, for one (where did they get that idea?) and it definitely wasn't him spotted two days ago adventuring in the African Sahara (why would he do that?) However, he had to admit that the Prophet did have some information that caught his attention from time to time. At lot of which involved artifacts of the Hogwarts founders being stolen from around Magical Britain.
Most of the items were commonplace, with little or no known magical residue that he knew of, but Harry couldn't shake the feeling that something wasn't right. It wasn't just something that happened all of a sudden. Maybe he was being paranoid, but after hearing the conversations last night, he couldn't help but wonder if they were all connected. The artifacts, the founders...it all seemed to tie back to the old castle somehow.
"Oh," Hermione breathed next to him, jerking him from his thoughts.
"Another one?" Ron's hangover seemed to evaporate as he leaned in to read the paper Hermione was holding. Harry didn't need to see the headline. The shift in their expressions told him everything he needed to know. "Common room?" he suggested quietly.
"Finish your tea first," Hermione ordered, folding the paper decisively. "No need to rush."
Harry nodded, wrapping his hands around his cooling cup. Through the windows, the frost was beginning to melt, leaving trails like tears down the ancient glass. A few minutes of quiet, and Harry allowed himself a contented sigh as he sipped the tea, which got over far too quickly for his liking. He gently set the empty cup down, savoring the aftertaste. A cursory glance showed most of the students around him moving about- either leaving the hall to catch up on sleep or just getting ready to eat.
"Shall we?" Hermione asked next to him, raising a brow at his empty cup.
Harry nodded, hiding a yawn. He'd just gotten comfortable sitting down.
The Gryffindor common room was almost empty when they arrived, just dying embers painting shadows across familiar furniture. A few younger students still dozed in corners, their dress robes wrinkled from the night's festivities. Harry sank into his favorite armchair by the fire, the worn velvet familiar against his fingers.
"Right then," Ron said quietly, settling onto the hearth rug. "What's got you looking like you've seen Snape's ghost?"
Hermione perched on the arm of Harry's chair, spreading the Prophet across her lap. The firelight caught the remaining sparkles in her hair, which was brushed to the side this time. "Another artifact's gone missing," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "A statue this time, from a park in Yorkshire."
"What kind of statue?" Harry asked, leaning forward.
"It's said to have been carved by Rowena Ravenclaw herself." Hermione's fingers traced the lines of text. "The article says it's the third founder-related item stolen this month."
Ron frowned, reaching for the paper. "Third? What were the others?"
"A tapestry from the Historical Society's museum in Devon," Hermione counted off. "And some books from a private collection in Cornwall. All supposedly connected to the founders in some way."
Harry's stomach twisted. This was significant enough. He needed to share what he'd seen.
"That's not all, I think," he began. "Last night, after the ball…" He glanced around, but the nearest students were fast asleep. "I followed Graves."
"Harry!" Hermione's whisper was sharp with concern.
"I know, I know. But listen - he met someone in one of the old corridors. They were talking about artifacts, and weakened wards, and a final stage or something…I'm not sure what they meant, but…"
The fire crackled, sending sparks dancing up the chimney. For a long moment, no one spoke.
"You think it's connected?" Ron asked finally, his face serious in the fading light.
"I don't know." Harry ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. "But it can't be coincidence, can it? All these founder artifacts going missing, and then Graves having secret meetings about artifacts and wards…"
"We should tell McGonagall," Hermione said immediately. "If someone's targeting founder artifacts-"
"And say what?" Harry interrupted. "That I was sneaking around after curfew and overheard a suspicious conversation? They'll think I'm just being paranoid. You know how everyone's been since the war, treating me like I'm about to see Death Eaters behind every suit of armor." He shook his head. "That won't work till we've got a little more evidence."
"But Harry-"
"He's right," Ron said quietly. "We need more than that. Especially if we're accusing a professor."
The fire popped, sending another shower of sparks upward. One of the sleeping students mumbled something and shifted, making them all freeze until the quiet settled again.
"These artifacts," Harry said slowly, "they must be protected somehow, right? The founders weren't exactly known for leaving their things lying about unguarded."
"Of course they were protected." Hermione's voice took on that familiar tone that meant she'd read extensively about the subject. "Every historical account mentions the complex charms and enchantments the founders used. Even simple items like quills or books were said to carry powerful protective magic."
"So how are they being stolen?" Ron wondered.
No one had an answer to that.
"We need to watch him," Harry said finally. "Gather evidence. Something solid enough that they'll have to listen."
Hermione bit her lip, clearly torn between concern and the need to solve this mystery. "I can look into the other thefts, see if there's any pattern we're missing."
"And I'll keep an eye on the Prophet," Ron added. "Dad might know something too - I could write him, ask if the Ministry's got any leads they're not publishing."
Harry nodded, grateful as always for his friends' unwavering support. But something still nagged at him, a piece of the puzzle he couldn't quite grasp. Why these specific artifacts? Why now?
The clock struck ten, making him jump. Beyond the windows, snow had begun to fall, fat flakes drifting past like lost stars. The sun shone lazily beyond, casting golden shadows on the glass.
"We should get going. Harry, Ron, you've Transfiguration next," Hermione said stoutly, though she made no move to leave. "I've got Advanced Runes."
"Yeah," Harry agreed. "Alright then."
The trio quickly dispersed, Ron and Hermione walking to their rooms to get their bags, while Harry headed towards the dorm to get his.
The corridors seemed longer than usual as Harry and Ron trudged toward Transfiguration, their footsteps echoing against ancient stone. The castle was slowly coming alive around them, portraits yawning and stretching in their frames, suits of armor creaking as they resumed their posts.
"I still think we should tell McGonagall, just after we have some more evidence." Ron muttered, adjusting his bag. "She's different now she's Headmistress. More… understanding, you know?"
Harry's response was cut short by a group of giggling third-years darting past, their excitement over last night's ball still palpable in the air. He watched them disappear around a corner, remembering his own third year. He had several memories of it- but most of them weren't entirely pleasant.
"Harry-"
"Yeah, more understanding," Harry cut in, trying not to sound like he'd been lost in thought. "But also more cautious. After everything that happened, you know what she's like. Especially towards us…" He trailed off, not needing to finish the thought. They all carried the war with them, in different ways.
The Transfiguration classroom door stood open, Professor McGonagall's tall figure visible as she wrote on the blackboard. Harry and Ron slipped into their usual seats near the middle of the room, close enough to see but far enough back to whisper if needed. Harry did, after all, enjoy some of his classes. And he was fairly competent in Transfiguration, he liked to think.
"Today," McGonagall announced, turning to face the class with characteristic precision, "we will be discussing the theoretical framework behind human transfiguration. Your NEWTs will require not only practical demonstration but a thorough understanding of the underlying principles."
Her chalk tapped against the board, underlining key phrases. Harry tried to focus, he really did, but his mind kept drifting back to the conversation he'd overheard. He found it hard to pay attention as muddled thoughts clouded his head, the steaming ideas that he'd kept a lid on last night suddenly bubbling over right now, as if they'd found the best time to bombard him.
Founder artifacts.
Weakened wards.
The final stage.
The pieces refused to fit together, like a puzzle with half its parts missing. A sharp elbow to his ribs jerked him back to attention. Ron nodded meaningfully toward the front of the room, where McGonagall was staring at them with raised eyebrows.
"Mr. Potter," she said, her voice carrying that particular blend of disappointment and exasperation he knew so well, "perhaps you'd care to explain the primary limitations of cross-species transformation?"
Harry's mind went blank. Beside him, Ron was suddenly very interested in his quill.
"I… er…"
"Fascinating as the ceiling may be," McGonagall continued dryly, "I assure you the information you need for your NEWTs is somewhat closer to eye level."
Several students snickered. Harry felt his face grow warm.
"Sorry, Professor."
McGonagall's expression softened slightly. "See me after class, Potter. Both of you," she added, glancing at Ron. "Now, as I was saying…"
Ron slumped lower in his seat. "Brilliant," he whispered. "Hermione's going to kill us."
Harry started to respond, but movement by the door caught his attention. Professor Graves was passing by, deep in conversation with Fleur. The morning light caught in her silver-blonde hair, creating a halo effect that made several boys crane their necks to stare. Harry felt that now-familiar twist in his stomach as Graves placed a hand on Fleur's arm, pointing to something in the book she was carrying. He, on the other hand, carried...something.
"Oi, Harry!" Ron hissed. "Stop staring!"
"I wasn't staring," Harry protested, his ears turning red. "I was looking at Graves-"
"Sure mate," his friend rolled his eyes, turning back to his notes. Ron had gotten a lot more resistant to Fleur's allure once he'd started dating Hermione. Harry never really had an issue with the allure, but of late he'd found himself staring in Fleur's direction more than once. Something that both troubled and excited him.
"Mr. Weasley," McGonagall's voice cracked like a whip, "since you and Mr. Potter seem so determined to hold your own private discussion, perhaps you'd like to demonstrate the wand movement for partial human transfiguration?"
Ron's face went as red as his hair. He stood, fumbling with his wand, and managed to nearly take out Harry's eye with an enthusiastic but incorrect flourish.
"Sit down, Mr. Weasley, before you accidentally turn someone into a tea cozy." McGonagall pinched the bridge of her nose. "Five points from Gryffindor. Each."
Harry barely noticed the lost points. His attention was still fixed on the doorway, now empty. Graves had been carrying something - a small package wrapped in dark cloth. Something about the way he'd held it, close to his body, almost protective…
"Harry!" Ron's urgent whisper pulled him back. "She's looking at us again!"
Harry quickly picked up his quill, trying to look attentive. But his notes, when he glanced down, were just a mess. In the margins, he'd unconsciously sketched what looked like the outline of a statue.
He gave up. It was a lost cause. Besides, he could always refer Hermione's notes.
The rest of the class passed in a blur. Harry's mind kept circling back to the artifacts. Each of them were related to Hogwarts, in some way. But what could it be?
Fortunately, McGonagall must have realized he wasn't going to pay attention much this class either way, because she had stopped asking him questions. When the bell finally rang, Ron groaned next to him. "Can't wait to explain this to Hermione."
"You can tell her over lunch," Harry said, gathering his things. "After McGonagall's finished with us."
Ron shook his head, gesturing at the clock.
"The class was already late. We barely have ten minutes for lunch."
Harry sighed, throwing his quills and scrolls into his bag. Sometimes, the Headmistress had a habit of teaching into lunch hours. Not a common occurrence, but definitely a headache when it did happen. Especially if a result of that was missing said lunch. He hadn't even noticed it until Ron had pointed it out. They watched their classmates file out. Neville gave them a sympathetic smile as he passed. "Good luck," he whispered. "Try not to get any more detentions - you've got Quidditch practice."
Harry's stomach dropped. He'd almost forgotten about practice.
"Potter, Weasley." McGonagall's voice cut through his thoughts. "A moment, if you please."
They approached her desk with the air of men walking to their doom, like they did every time. The morning sun had moved, casting long shadows across the classroom floor. Somewhere in the distance, a clock began to chime.
"Well?" McGonagall fixed them with her signature stern gaze. "Would either of you care to explain why my lesson on human transfiguration was apparently less interesting than whatever has you both wool-gathering?"
Harry and Ron exchanged glances. How could he explain without sounding paranoid?
The silence stretched, broken only by the soft ticking of McGonagall's desk clock and the distant sounds of students walking down the hallways.
"We were just…" Ron began, then faltered.
"Thinking about NEWTs," Harry finished quickly. "Sorry, Professor. Won't happen again."
McGonagall's expression suggested she believed this about as much as she believed in Nargles. "Indeed." She studied them both for a long moment. "I understand that returning to normal academic concerns after… everything… can be challenging. But your NEWTs are crucial for your future careers. Whatever is distracting you, I suggest you find a way to manage it. Understood?"
"Yes, Professor," Harry and Ron chorused.
She nodded once, sharply. "Very well. You may go. And Potter?" she added as they turned to leave. "Do try to pay attention in tomorrow's lesson. You do take after your father a bit, in terms of skill. I'd hate to see it wasted."
Harry nodded. "Yes, Professor. Erm, sorry."
McGonagall's lips twitched in what was almost a smile. "I will excuse your behavior for today. Very well then, that is enough dilly-dallying for you two young gentlemen. Do you not have a class to be in?"
Harry nodded as Ron joined him out of the classroom. They hurried out into the now-empty corridor, footsteps echoing against the stone floors accompanied by the ever-present whispers of curious portraits.
"That could have gone worse," Ron said finally, breaking the tense silence.
"Could have gone better too." Harry adjusted his bag, mind already racing ahead to their next steps. "We need to be more careful. If we're going to figure out what Graves is up to-"
"Without getting caught," Ron added. "Or losing any more house points. Or missing Quidditch practice. Or failing our NEWTs." He paused. "Simple, really."
Harry couldn't help but laugh, the sound bouncing off the ancient walls. "When you put it like that-"
"Just like old times, isn't it?" Ron grinned. "Secret meetings, sneaking around the castle-" His stomach growled loudly, interrupting whatever else he was going to say. "I'm starving."
"You're always starving."
"Growing boy, aren't I?"
"Ron, you haven't grown an inch since sixth year."
"Have too! My mother had to let out my robes just last month!"
Their bickering carried them toward the Great Hall, where the smell of lunch was already drifting through the corridors. But even as they joked, Harry's mind kept returning to the package Graves had been carrying, to the missing artifacts. And a small part of him stubbornly dwelt on the way Fleur had smiled at something the professor had said. He couldn't help but think that whatever Graves was up to, it had something to do with charms. Why else would he be so close to Fleur?
Something was happening at Hogwarts. And somehow, some way, he had to figure out what it was. Preferably before he lost any more house points. Ron and Hermione would definitely be upset if Gryffindor didn't win House Cup in their final year.
His attention slowly drifted to a pair of sparrows danced past the corridor windows, their wings catching the midday light. Ron was busy snacking on another chocolate frog.
"Look," Harry said, keeping his voice low as he suddenly got an idea. "I've got my cloak. We could follow Graves, see where he's taking that package—"
"Absolutely not." Ron's freckles stood out against his pallid face. "Have you gone mental? It's broad daylight, mate, and there's too many people walking around. Some bloody first-year will bump into us and scream like an idiot. And we've got Charms next—"
"Since when do you care about missing class?"
"Since McGonagall for some bloomin' reason made me Headboy!" Ron ran a hand through his disheveled hair. "Besides, Hermione would kill us. Actually kill us. They'd find bits of us scattered all over the Astronomy Tower."
"Oh alright, then." Harry sighed. The stream of students flowing around them thinned as the lunch hour drew to a close. Somewhere above, Peeves could be heard singing a particularly rude version of a Celestina Warbeck song.
"We can't just do nothing," Harry tried again, but his protest was cut short by a familiar voice.
"Can't do nothing about what?" Hermione appeared beside them, her arms laden with books. "And why weren't you two at lunch? I saved you seats."
"McGonagall," Ron said glumly. "Long class. Plus, we got caught not paying attention in Transfiguration."
"Again?" Hermione's eyebrows shot up. "Honestly, you two—"
"We should get to Charms," Harry interrupted, not quite ready for one of Hermione's lectures. "Before all the good seats are taken."
The Charms classroom was already half-full when they arrived, Professor Flitwick perched atop his usual stack of books at the front. The late afternoon sun streamed through the high windows, creating pools of warmth on the worn wooden floors. Harry led them to the back row, ignoring Hermione's pointed look at their usual seats near the front. He didn't have enough food in his stomach right now to pay attention to another class.
"Harry," she began, but he cut her off with a pleading glance.
"Please, Hermione? Just this once?"
She sighed, but settled into the back-row seat. "Fine."
Flitwick's squeaky voice carried through the room as he began lecturing about advanced animation charms. As predicted, he seemed completely absorbed in his subject, barely noticing when Seamus's attempt at the spell sent the paper in front of him dancing across the ceiling.
"So," Hermione whispered, pretending to take notes, "what's gotten into you two?"
Harry leaned closer, voice barely above a breath. "Remember when I told you about Graves asking about the lion statues in Gryffindor Tower?"
"The ones flanking the fireplace?" Ron's eyes widened. "Blimey, that was what, three weeks ago?"
"And now founder artifacts are going missing." Hermione's quill paused mid-word. "Harry, you don't think—"
"I don't know what to think." Harry watched Flitwick demonstrate the proper wand movement for animated origami. "But he was carrying something today, wrapped in dark cloth. Keeping it close, like…"
"Like it was valuable," Ron finished. "Or dangerous."
The scratch of quills and Flitwick's commentary filled the silence that followed. Outside, clouds drifted across the sun, sending shadows dancing across their parchment. Harry wasn't sure what to think. So as usual, he waited for Hermione.
"I still think we should tell someone." Hermione said finally, her voice careful. "Someone who might understand about magical artifacts and protective charms."
"Not McGonagall, right?" Ron asked. Harry shook his head.
"She's got enough to worry about, running the school. Besides, we don't have any proof."
"What about…" Hermione hesitated, then lowered her voice even further. "What about Professor Delacour?"
Harry's quill slipped, leaving an ink blot that looked suspiciously like a Rorschach test. "Fleur? Why her?"
"She's brilliant at charms," Hermione pointed out, ignoring the ink stain spreading across Harry's notes. "And she worked as a curse breaker at Gringotts for a bit. If anyone would know about magical protections on ancient artifacts, it would be her."
Ron nodded slowly. "She might even know something about the other missing pieces. Bill mentioned she helped catalog some of the founder artifacts in the bank's vaults."
Harry found himself suddenly very interested in cleaning his ink-stained quill. "I don't know-"
"What's wrong?" Hermione's eyes narrowed. "I thought you two were getting along better lately."
"We are! I mean, we're fine. It's fine. Everything's fine."
"Smooth," Ron muttered.
Before Harry could defend himself, Flitwick's voice rose in excitement. "Now watch carefully, class! The key to successful animation is in the final flick of the wrist—"
A paper crane soared over their heads, its wings catching the afternoon light. For a moment, they all watched it dance through the air, Harry finding an odd grin spreading across his face. Sometimes, he really remembered how wonderful magic was. And it was little things like a flying paper crane that reminded him.
"I'll do some research," Hermione said finally, her quill resuming its steady march across her parchment. She was somehow still paying attention to class and taking notes. Harry had long since given up. "See if there's any connection between the missing artifacts. But Harry…" She paused, choosing her words carefully. "We should tell someone. Before this gets any bigger."
Harry nodded, but his eyes were drawn to the windows, where the paper crane had landed on the sill. As he watched, it folded itself into a tiny origami lion, proud and alert, keeping watch over the grounds below. The sun emerged from behind the clouds, and for a moment, the paper lion cast a shadow much larger than itself across the ancient stone floor.
"Yeah," he muttered. "We should."
"Now for practicals!" Professor Flitwick's voice carried across the room, and Harry suddenly found himself in front of stacks of paper with different animals he was supposed to charm it into.
"Hermione-"
The brunette rolled her eyes and gave Harry some of her notes. She still thought of magical theory a bit like a muggle, which was why Harry found her thought patterns easier to follow, especially in things like charms. He absently flicked his wand, focusing on reading what Hermione had written there. Glancing down at his table, he frowned. It was supposed to be a lion. Not…a deformed mole.
Harry sighed internally. He loved charms, but this looked like it would be another long class. Ron's snickering at his animals didn't help either. Hermione was still ahead, making her creatures dance and move around like they were part of a circus.
It was ages before they finally left the classroom, and Harry had charmed so many lions he couldn't stand the idea of ever making a Gryffindor banner again, at least for a while.
"We have to tell someone," Hermione pressed, her voice low but insistent. "This isn't like before, Harry. We're not children anymore, stumbling across mysteries by accident."
Harry stopped abruptly, turning to face his friends. "That's exactly why they won't believe me," he said, the words tasting bitter. "Everyone thinks I'm just… seeing things. Jumping at shadows. Poor Harry Potter, can't let go of the war—"
"We believe you," Ron cut in firmly. "And Fleur's different. She was here during… you know. She might actually listen."
The mention of Fleur's name sent an uncomfortable warmth crawling up Harry's neck. "She's been spending an awful lot of time with Graves lately."
"All the more reason to warn her," Hermione pointed out. "If he is up to something…"
Harry ran a hand through his hair, watching a group of first-years scurry past, their arms laden with books nearly as big as they were. "Fine. But you two are coming with me."
Ron and Hermione exchanged a look that made Harry's eyes narrow.
"Actually-" Ron began, suddenly finding the ceiling fascinating. "We sort of… have plans?"
"Plans."
"I promised to help Hermione with her extra credit work for Ancient Runes," Ron said, the words tumbling out too quickly. "Very important. Can't be rescheduled. Absolutely critical timing—"
"Since when do you help with Ancient Runes?" Harry asked, suspicion dawning. "You don't even take Ancient Runes."
Hermione's cheeks had taken on a distinctly pink tinge. "Well, I need someone to… hold the books. And turn pages. And… things."
"Things."
"Very important things," Ron nodded vigorously. "Crucial, really. Matter of life and death. Well, maybe not death. But definitely life. Or something like it, er, yeah."
Harry looked between his two best friends. "You're not even trying to be subtle anymore, are you?"
"Fine." Ron snorted. "Anyway, you're the one who needs to talk to Fleur. Alone. In her office. Just the two of you."
"I hate you both," Harry muttered.
Hermione's expression softened. "Harry, she'll listen to you. Just… be careful how you approach it. Professor Graves is still her colleague."
"And in some weird way, a suitor," Ron added helpfully, earning an elbow in the ribs from Hermione.
"Not helping, Ronald."
Harry felt something twist in his chest at Ron's words. "Let me worry about that part," he said, more sharply than he'd intended. "If she thinks it's worth taking to McGonagall-"
"And if she doesn't?" Hermione asked quietly.
The corridor had emptied around them, leaving only the falling leaves and the distant sound of students heading to their final classes for the day. Through a nearby window, Harry could see the Quidditch pitch, its flags stirring in the autumn breeze.
"Then we'll figure something else out," he said finally. "We always do."
Ron clapped him on the shoulder. "That's the spirit! Now, if you'll excuse us-"
"Sure," Harry said dryly. "Try not to strain anything."
He watched them go, Hermione already launching into what sounded like a detailed explanation of Ancient Runes, Ron nodding along with an expression of exaggerated concentration which really meant he wasn't paying any attention at all. The sight made him smile, despite everything.
Then he was alone in the corridor, the weight of what he had to do settling around his shoulders like a familiar cloak. Somewhere in the castle, Graves was probably already planning his next move. And somewhere else, Fleur was going about her day, unaware of the storm brewing around her. Harry straightened his shoulders and began walking. He had a professor to find. And this time, he really hoped he wasn't just jumping at shadows.
It was absurd how quickly he'd found her office. Almost as if he'd practiced the best routes to avoid it before. Harry paused for a moment to breathe, before shaking his head. He had better knock before he lost his resolve.
KNOCK
"Entrez!"
Harry stepped inside, the familiar scent of her perfume catching him off-guard. "Hi… er, Professor Delacour."
"'Arry?" Her smile was radiant. "You know you can call me Fleur when we are not in class."
"Right. Fleur." He shifted awkwardly. "Could we talk? It's…rather important."
"Of course." She gestured to a chair. "Though you look as if ze world might end any moment."
Harry drew his wand, absently casting privacy charms that settled around them like an invisible curtain. It was an old habit of his after the war, and what he was about to say, if anything, warranted a least a few of these charms. It was only after he'd finished casting the charms that he realized, with a blush, that he'd done so without asking Fleur whatsoever. Turning back, he noticed the veela looking at him with an almost-amused expression.
"Erm," he stammered. "I have a reason-"
Fleur's eyebrows arched delicately. "Privacy charms? In my private office?" She leaned against her desk, eyes sparkling. "My my, 'Arry… one might think you 'ad some… inappropriate suggestions for your professor."
"What? No!" Harry felt his face burn. "That's not - I mean, I wouldn't -"
Her silvery laugh cut through his stammering. "You are still so easy to tease." But her expression softened seeing his discomfort. "What troubles you?"
Harry took a deep breath. Might as well get to the point. "Have you been reading the Prophet lately?"
"Ze missing artifacts?" Fleur nodded. "Oui, strange business."
"It's not just what's in the papers," Harry said, leaning forward. "Things have been disappearing from Hogwarts too."
"What sort of zings?"
"Small stuff at first. Books from the restricted section. Old decorative pieces. I noticed a few when I'd gone to the library yesterday. Small things, but not small enough to go unnoticed."
"Zat is…concerning," Fleur frowned. "'ogwarts 'as never been under fear of…theft before."
Harry nodded. "Exactly. And all these things have something in common."
"You think zis is connected to ze other thefts?" Fleur's playfulness had completely vanished at this point.
"I think someone's testing the castle's defenses, at the very least" Harry said carefully. "Learning how they work." The unspoken reason remained the same: it was to infiltrate the castle. But to achieve what, Harry wasn't sure.
"That is quite an accusation, 'Arry." She studied him intently. "What makes you so sure?"
"I've noticed… certain people asking questions. About artifacts in the common rooms." He swalloed
"Certain people?" Her voice sharpened, as she leaned forward. "'Oo exactly?"
Harry hesitated, suddenly very aware of how close she was standing. "I… that's the complicated part."
"With you, it usually is." But there was warmth in her voice. "Tell me everything, 'Arry. From ze beginning."
The afternoon sun painted golden patterns across her face as she waited for his response, and Harry found himself struggling to remember why he'd been so nervous about coming here. "You might want to sit down for this part," he said finally.
Fleur's eyes narrowed slightly, but she settled into her chair. "I am listening."
Harry's fingers traced the edge of Fleur's desk, his nervousness bleeding into restless energy. He wasn't sure how to bring up the name- it was stuck at the tip of his tongue like an itch he couldn't scratch.
"'Arry."
Her voice was calm. Dangerously calm. Dull, even. Harry choked in a breath, swallowing his spit.
"S-sorry, it's just-"
Fleur gave him a quick smile. "You can tell me, mon cher."
Harry nodded. Alright then. "It's about Professor Graves," he began, watching her reaction carefully.
Fleur's eyebrows lifted slightly, a hint of skepticism crossing her features. "Ethan? What about 'im?"
"I think he's involved with the missing artifacts," Harry said, his voice low and urgent. "He's been asking questions, poking around places he shouldn't. I overheard a conversation—"
"Non," Fleur interrupted, her tone dismissive. "Ethan is a respected professor. 'E would not—"
"Would not what?" Harry's voice hardened. "Steal? Compromise the school's security?"
A delicate flush rose in Fleur's cheeks. "You 'ave no proof, 'Arry. Just… suspicions."
"Suspicions?" Harry's laugh was sharp, brittle. "I've seen him, Fleur. Last night, he was talking to someone after the Yule Ball, carrying some package wrapped in cloth, and asking about founder artifacts—"
"And zis makes 'im a criminal?" Her accent thickened, a telltale sign of rising emotion. Tiny golden feathers seemed to shimmer at the edges of her hair, barely visible but present, something that caught his attention with a sort of morbid curiosity.
"It makes him suspicious!" Harry's magic crackled around him, making the papers on her desk tremble. "Why- why are you defending him?"
Fleur's eyes flashed, inhuman golden light bleeding into their blue depths. "I am not defending 'im. I am asking you to be rational. To zink beyond ze shadows of your past."
"My past?" Harry's voice rose. "My past taught me to recognize threats before they become disasters!"
"Your past," Fleur said softly, dangerously, "is making you see enemies where zere are none."
Harry could feel the temperature in the room spike. Not from heat, precisely, but from their magic. It strained. Tugged. Pulled. The room was like a sort of thunderstorm. Sparks danced between them—literal sparks, golden and red, like tiny fireflies born from their clashing magics. Harry had never had his magic react so…viscerally to someone else, except perhaps Voldemort. He could feel his blood rushing into his ears, his vision tinged with red as the undercurrents of anger threatened to surface- and he was unable to hold them back. Why was he so…angry?
"You're taking his side," Harry accused. "Because what? He's charming? Respectable?"
"I am taking ze side of reason!" A tendril of golden flame flickered at her fingertips. "You cannot go around accusing people without evidence!"
"Evidence?" Harry's laugh was bitter. "Like the evidence I had about Voldemort? About Quirrell? About Pettigrew? How many times do I need to be right before people start listening-"
Fleur's magic surged, pushing against his—protective, fierce. Feathers of pure energy began to materialize around her, translucent and shimmering. "You are not fighting Dark Lords anymore, 'Arry! You cannot live like every moment is a battle!"
"And I can't just ignore this!" His magic answered hers, wild and desperate, crackling with the same intensity that had saved him time and again. "I have to save everyone from potential threats!"
"Potential zreats?" Now she was a turning even more into a veela, her beauty terrifying and magnificent. Golden flames danced in her hair, her eyes blazed, and those ethereal feathers created a shield of raw, primal energy around her. A small part of Harry wanted to back down- but a larger, angrier part seethed with rage. "You are seeing ghosts where zere are none!"
"Am I?" Harry stepped closer, not backing down. "Or are you just too comfortable to see what's right in front of you?"
"What do you mean by zat?"
Harry blinked back unexpected tears. "You-" his voice cracked. "I thought you, of all people would understand. But now," he spat. "I see that I was wrong to think so."
"You do not trust me," she said, and it wasn't a question. The words came out rough, edged with something that was more snarl than speech.
"What reason have you given me to? I'm trying to protect—" Harry began, but she cut him off.
"Protect?" The laugh that erupted was nothing like her usual melodic sound. It was jagged, razor-edged. Like nails scratching across a chalkboard. "You zink you are protecting me? Non. You are insulting me. You are saying that I, Fleur Delacour, cannot see what is 'appening in my own workplace?"
Harry felt his own anger rising to meet hers. The magic in the room began to crackle, like invisible lightning dancing between them. "I know Ethan is asking you questions. Suspicious questions. About the founders, about protective charms—"
"And I ask you- do you really think zis makes him a criminal?" Fleur's accent thickened, became something almost dangerous. "Because 'e speaks to me about magical theory? Because 'e is curious?"
"Oui," Harry snarled, almost mockingly in French.
"Researchers collaborate!" Her voice rose, and with it, the temperature in the room. The papers on her desk began to curl at the edges, as if wilting under the heat of her growing rage. "Not everything is a conspiracy!"
"Everything is a conspiracy," Harry shot back, "when you've lived my life!"
The golden feathers around Fleur transformed, becoming something more substantial. Sharp-edged. Dangerous. Sharp like knives that could cut his throat in a heartbeat. "And what do you know of my life? Of what I 'ave survived?"
Harry stepped forward, his own magic pushing back against hers. "I know you're being blind. Deliberately blind."
"Blind?" The word came out as a hiss. A tendril of pure golden flame flickered between her fingers. "I see more than you know, 'Arry Potter. I see someone who cannot stop fighting, who looks for war in every shadow!"
"Someone has to!" He found the force behind his words surprising even himself. "Someone has to be watching, has to be ready—"
"Ready for what?" Fleur's magic surged, a wave of protective fury that made the air itself seem to tremble. "Ze war is over! Ze monsters are gone!"
"Are they?" Harry's laugh was bitter. "Are they really?"
For a moment, she stood there. Magic coiling, twisting, burning. Fleur's veela nature glowed bright and terrible, but Harry countered with the own waves of magic he felt pulse through him. He had gone toe-to-toe with the Dark Lord- there was no way a veela could think she could scare him with her mere aura.
"You do not trust me," she repeated, and this time it was a declaration of war.
Harry said nothing. But the silence was more explosive than any words. Fleur's eyes shot towards her wand, Harry instinctively reached towards his. He doubted that they would fight, a small part of his mind reasoning that pulling a wand on a professor while in Hogwarts was always a last resort, not the best idea. So he snarled and turned around instead, his muscles taut. He should just leave- there was no point staying.
CLICK!
The locking charm, when it came, was as sudden and devastating as lightning.
"Non," Fleur's voice was steel wrapped in silk. "You 'ave walked away from me once already, 'Arry Potter. We will talk about this."
Something dark and angry coiled in Harry's chest.
"Unlock the door." His voice was dangerously quiet.
"Make me."
Harry drew his wand in a fluid motion, but his hand was shaking. Everything seemed to move in slow motion. The unlocking charm died on his lips as Fleur moved with preternatural grace, crossing the space between them. Before he could react, she had plucked his wand from his trembling fingers.
The rage that exploded through him was instant and overwhelming. "Give that back," he snarled, all pretense of calm evaporating. "You have no right—"
"No right?" Fleur's accent thickened with emotion. "You zink I 'ave no right to stop you from running away? Again?"
"I'm not running!" The words tore from his throat. "I'm trying to protect you, to protect everyone, and you're treating me like- like-"
"Like what?" She stepped closer, still holding both wands. "Like someone 'oo cares? Like someone 'oo cannot bear to watch you destroy yourself chasing shadows?"
"That's not—" Harry's hands clenched into fists. "My whole life, everyone's been telling me what to do, what to think, what destiny I'm supposed to fulfill. And now you're going to trap me here? Force me to—"
"Force you?" Something dangerous flashed in Fleur's eyes. "You zink I wish to force you to do anything? Merde, 'Arry, I am trying to make you see—"
"See what?" He was nearly shouting now. "That you trust him more than me? That you think I'm just paranoid, just damaged—"
"That I lov-" Fleur choked, stopping herself. "That I care for you, you impossible man!"
The words hung in the air between them like shattered glass. Harry felt as if all the oxygen had been sucked from the room.
"If you are jealous of Ethan," Fleur continued, her voice softer but no less intense, "you 'ave no reason to be. Zere is nothing zere."
But Harry could barely hear her over the roaring in his ears. "You care about me?" He laughed, and the sound was bitter. "Then why won't you trust me? Why won't you believe me?"
"Because I cannot bear to watch you throw yourself into another war!" The words burst from her like they'd been trapped for too long. "Because every time you look at me like that - like you are looking for enemies in every shadow - I see you slipping away, becoming someone else's…arme…mon dieu, wat is ze word…weapon again!"
"I'm not a weapon!" Harry's magic crackled around him, making the papers on Fleur's desk rustle. "I'm trying to keep people safe! Why can't you understand that?"
"And 'oo keeps you safe?" Fleur demanded, taking another step closer. "'Oo protects 'Arry Potter while 'e is busy protecting everyone else?"
They were inches apart now, both breathing hard, the tension between them electric and dangerous and somehow more intimate than any touch. Harry could see the golden flecks in Fleur's eyes, the way her pulse raced at her throat, the slight tremble in her lips as she stared him down.
"I don't need—" he started, but she cut him off.
"You do," she whispered fiercely. "You need someone to remind you zat zere is more to life zan fighting. Zat you deserve—" She caught herself, something vulnerable flickering across her face. "Zat we all deserve…paix…peace."
"Peace?" The word tasted like ashes in his mouth. "There won't be any peace if I'm right about Graves. If something happens and I could have stopped it—"
"And if you are wrong?" Fleur challenged, her fingers tightening around their wands. "If you destroy everything good in your life chasing phantoms?"
"Then at least it'll be my choice!" The words exploded from him. "My mistake to make! Not someone else pulling my strings, not someone else deciding what's best for me!"
"So you would rather be alone?" There was something raw in her voice now, something that made his chest ache despite his anger. "You would rather push away everyone who—" She broke off, turning away sharply, but not before Harry caught the shimmer of tears in her eyes.
"Fleur—"
"Non." She stepped back, putting distance between them even as her magic continued to clash with his. "You wish to choose? Zen choose. But do not expect me to stand by and watch you tear yourself apart over nothing."
"It's not nothing," Harry insisted, his voice hoarse. "And if you'd just listen—"
"I 'ave listened!" The force of her words made the windows rattle. "I 'ave listened to you! But you—" Her voice caught. "You never listen when I try to tell you zat you are worth more zan your next battle!"
The silence that followed was deafening. Outside, clouds had gathered, casting the room in shadows that seemed to pulse with the intensity of their combined magic.
"If you would just listen—" Harry started again, but Fleur cut him off with a laugh that held no warmth.
"Listen? 'Ow dare you speak to me of listening when you refuse to 'ear what I am saying!" Her accent grew thicker with each word, magic crackling visibly around her like summer lightning. "I trusted you enough to tell you about Bill, about everything, and you—you think I would dismiss you without reason?"
"But that's exactly what you're doing!" Harry's own magic surged to meet hers, papers on her desk beginning to smoke at the edges. "I trusted you, Fleur! I came to you instead of the other professors because I thought—I thought you of all people would understand!"
"Understand?" Something shifted in Fleur's eyes then, a flash of inhuman gold replacing their usual blue. "You think I do not understand? I was there too, 'Arry! I saw what ze war did to people—to Bill, to my family, to you!" Her voice cracked on the last word. "Every time someone enters a room, your 'and goes to your wand. Every shadow makes you tense. You jump at sounds zat are not zere!"
"That's not—"
"It is!" The windows rattled with the force of her emotion. "And now you see conspiracy where zere is none! Ethan 'as done nothing suspicious—"
"Nothing suspicious?" Harry's laugh was bitter. "The artifacts disappearing, the secret meetings, the questions about—"
"ENOUGH!" Fleur's shout was accompanied by a burst of magic that sent several books flying off their shelves. When she spoke again, her voice was lower but no less intense. "I cannot— I will not watch you destroy yourself chasing phantoms. I care too much to—" She caught herself, something vulnerable flickering across her face before being consumed by anger again. "You are not ze only one who 'as lost people, 'Arry Potter. Some of us are trying to 'eal! I only wish to protect-"
"Like Dumbledore tried to protect me?" Harry's voice was ice. "Keeping things from me 'for my own good'? That worked out brilliantly, didn't it?"
The comparison seemed to physically strike Fleur. She recoiled, her magic flaring so violently that several glass objects on her desk shattered. "Get out," she whispered, then louder, "GET OUT!"
"My wand," Harry said finally, his voice cold. "Give me my wand, and unlock the door."
Fleur stared at him for a long moment, something complicated and painful playing across her features. Then, with deliberate slowness, she placed his wand on her desk - just out of his reach.
"Take it," she said softly, dangerously.
Harry felt the words like physical blows, but his anger was a living thing now, feeding off years of being controlled, being managed, being told what was best for him. Without another word, he strode to the desk, snatched up his wand, and turned toward the door.
Behind him, he heard Fleur's whispered "Finite," releasing the locking charm. He quickly stepped out, before he could get mad again. The door slammed behind him with a finality that felt like the end of something he hadn't even realized. Through the heavy wood, he heard what might have been a sob turn into a scream of pure Veela rage, followed by the sound of destruction. But he turned around and kept walking, his hands shaking. The corridor ahead blurred slightly, and he told himself it was just the residual magic in the air making his eyes water.
He needed air.
The Gryffindor common room felt suffocating when Harry burst through the portrait hole. He could still feel his magic crackling around him like static before a storm. Ron and Hermione looked up from their corner by the fire, and he could see their faces turn from surprise to concern in an instant.
"Harry?" Hermione's voice was careful, measured. "How did it—"
"Don't." The word came out like broken glass. "Just… don't."
Ron's hand found Hermione's knee, squeezing gently. Their silent exchange spoke volumes – Harry saw it all: the worry, the understanding, the quiet agreement to let him breathe.
"Mate," Ron started, but Harry was already halfway up the dormitory stairs, his footsteps echoing like thunderclaps against the ancient stone. His Quidditch gear lay where he'd left it that morning, still carrying the frost from yesterday's practice. The familiar texture of his uniform brought no comfort as he yanked it on, his movements jerky and aggressive. A button popped off, rolling under his bed to join the dust and forgotten memories – like so many other things he'd lost, so many people who'd slipped away.
"Harry?" Neville's voice drifted up the stairwell. "McGonagall's looking for—"
"Tell her I'm busy," Harry called back, his voice rough enough to scratch glass. He grabbed his Firebolt and headed for the window, ignoring the concerned murmurs below.
The late afternoon air bit at his face as he soared over the castle grounds, but the cold was nothing compared to the ice in his chest. Higher and higher he climbed, until the people below became mere specks, until even the tallest tower lay beneath him like a child's toy. Up here, at least, no one could tell him what to think, what to feel, who to trust.
Up here, he could finally be himself.
"I thought you of all people would understand!" he shouted into the empty sky, his words torn away by the wind that howled like a wounded thing. The broom responded to his turmoil, jerking and weaving through the air like a wild creature, matching the chaos in his heart. Seamus's voice carried faintly from the pitch below: "Oi! Harry! We've got practice in an hour—"
Harry banked hard left, leaving the words unfinished, uncaring of anything but the need to move, to flee, to outrun the echo of Fleur's words that chased him through the darkening sky.
The lake stretched before him, its surface a mirror of his fractured thoughts. He dove, recklessly close to the water, close enough to see his reflection – his father's face, his mother's eyes. Black hair like Sirius. All the pieces of people he'd lost, assembled into something that was supposed to be whole but never quite managed it.
"What would you do?" he whispered, the words lost in the spray. "Any of you? All of you?"
The water offered no answers.
His thoughts spiraled like leaves in an autumn storm. Sirius would have believed him – wouldn't he? His godfather had understood about seeing danger where others saw nothing, about the maddening frustration of not being believed. But Sirius had also been wrong, hadn't he? His paranoia had led him straight to Azkaban, while the real threat had hidden in plain sight for years.
"I'm not imagining this," he told the darkening sky, but even to his own ears, the words sounded desperate. "I'm not."
A group of students flying near the pitch called out to him, their voices carrying traces of concern, but Harry pushed his broom higher, ignoring them. The clouds above were heavy with unshed rain, perfectly matching the weight in his chest. Memories of the war pressed against his mind – all the times he'd been right when everyone said he was wrong, all the times his instincts had saved lives. But also the times his certainty had led to disaster, had led to death and loss and graves that should never have been dug.
"Is that what you think I'm doing, Fleur?" he asked the empty air, his voice cracking. "Looking for battles because I don't know how to live without them?"
The question hung in the freezing air, unanswered. Below him, Hogwarts spread out like a living map, each tower and courtyard holding memories of people he'd lost. His parents had walked these grounds, laughed in these halls. Sirius had roamed these corridors, young and bright and unbroken. Remus had taught in that very classroom where Harry had seen Graves with his suspicious package. All of them were gone now. Hopefully to a happier place.
Harry had lost too many people already- he couldn't afford to lose anymore. "I wish—" he started, but couldn't finish. There were too many wishes, too many things to mourn, too many people who should have been here to guide him.
Time lost meaning as he flew, pushing his broom through maneuvers, hoping the physical exhaustion might somehow quiet the storm in his mind. The sun continued its relentless descent, painting the world in shades of gold and shadow that reminded him painfully of firelight in silver-blonde hair.
When he finally spotted Hagrid's hut, smoke curling from the chimney like a beckoning finger, the anger that had driven him skyward had burned down to embers, leaving behind something raw and aching and impossible to name. The lights in the small windows seemed to promise, if not answers, at least a moment's peace from the chaos in his head.
He leaned into the landing and forced himself to descend, before he could rethink his decision.
The grass was frost-touched beneath his feet as he dropped off his broom. His legs shook slightly – how long had he been flying? His hands were numb with cold, and somewhere in the back of his mind, he registered that his practice robes were soaked with sweat and sky-moisture. Fang's deep bark echoed from inside the cabin, and for a moment, Harry hesitated.
Hagrid would ask questions, would want to know what was wrong.
But maybe… maybe that wouldn't be such a terrible thing. Maybe he needed someone who'd known his parents, known Sirius, known what it was like to be thought dangerous or unstable or untrustworthy.
Harry had barely knocked when Hagrid's door flew open, spilling warmth and firelight into the gathering dusk.
"Harry!" Hagrid's beetle-black eyes crinkled with delight. "Abou' time yeh showed up! Been wonderin' if yeh'd forgotten where I live!"
Before Harry could respond, he found himself enveloped in one of Hagrid's bone-crushing hugs, the familiar scent of woodsmoke and creature feed wrapping around him like a well-worn blanket.
"Can't… breathe…" Harry gasped, though he found himself smiling despite everything.
"Oh, right, sorry." Hagrid released him, beaming. "Come in, come in! Jus' put the kettle on. Perfect timin', if I do say so myself."
Fang bounded over as Harry stepped inside, nearly knocking him over in his enthusiasm. The boarhound's jowls left wet patches on Harry's Quidditch robes as he attempted to lick every inch of Harry's face.
"Down, yeh great softie!" Hagrid chuckled, but made no real attempt to call the dog off. "Though can' blame him, can I? Hardly see yeh these days. Too busy bein' a proper grown-up wizard, I expect."
"Sorry, Hagrid." Harry scratched behind Fang's ears, grateful for the simple affection. "It's been… complicated."
"Life usually is." Hagrid busied himself with an enormous teapot, his back turned in a way that felt deliberately casual. "Though mus' say, didn' expect ter see yeh out flyin' this late. Looked like yeh were tryin' ter outrace a Hungarian Horntail up there."
Harry sank into one of Hagrid's massive chairs, Fang immediately flopping across his feet like a living blanket. "You saw that?"
"Hard ter miss, weren't it?" Hagrid set a bucket-sized teacup in front of Harry. "Nearly gave poor Professor Sprout a heart attack when yeh did that dive over the greenhouses. Think yeh might've startled her Venomous Tentacula – it's been hiccuping ever since."
Despite himself, Harry felt his lips twitch. "The Tentacula or Professor Sprout?"
"Both, come ter think of it." Hagrid's eyes twinkled as he settled into his own chair, which creaked ominously. "Though can' say I blame either of 'em. Reminded me of yer dad, actually. Used ter do the same thing when he was worked up about summat."
"Really?" Harry's hands tightened around his teacup.
"Oh yeah. Specially in his sixth year, when he was tryin' ter convince everyone about… well…" Hagrid shifted uncomfortably. "About certain things."
"About what?"
Hagrid took a long sip of tea, his expression growing distant. "Well… don' know if I should say, really. Ancient history now…"
"Hagrid." Harry leaned forward. "Please."
"Well…" Hagrid glanced at the window, as if checking for eavesdroppers. "It was about young Severus, wasn't it? James kept tryin' ter tell Lily that Snape was gettin' mixed up in dark stuff. Course, we all know now he was right, but at the time…" He shook his massive head. "Lily wouldn' hear a word against her friend. Drove James half mad with worry, it did."
Something cold and heavy settled in Harry's stomach. "What did he do?"
"Lot of what you was just doin', actually." Hagrid gestured vaguely skyward. "Flyin' at all hours, workin' himself up into states. Sirius used ter say he was gonna wear out his broom before he wore out his temper." A fond smile crept through Hagrid's beard. "Course, this one time, he actually did wear out his broom. Crashed right inter the Whompin' Willow – gave Madam Pomfrey a right job, puttin' him back together."
"What happened?" Harry asked quietly, though he thought he might already know.
"Well, funny thing about truth," Hagrid said, suddenly very interested in refilling their teacups. "It has a way of comin' out, whether people believe it at first or not. But sometimes…" He paused, choosing his words with unusual care. "Sometimes the how of tellin' it matters as much as the what, if yeh follow me."
"Not really," Harry admitted.
"Right then, let's put it another way." Hagrid leaned forward, his chair protesting loudly. "See that Blast-Ended Skrewt out there?" He pointed through the window to where one of his latest 'projects' was contentedly setting fire to a pumpkin patch. "Beautiful creature, ain't she? But if I went around tellin' everyone she was as harmless as a Flobberworm, they'd think I was mad, wouldn' they? Even though she's actually quite sweet once yeh get ter know her."
As if to punctuate his point, the Skrewt let out a sound like a backfiring motorcycle and launched itself fifteen feet into the air, trailing sparks.
"Er, Hagrid? Should it be doing that?"
"Oh yeah, that's just her way of sayin' hello." Hagrid waved cheerfully through the window. "Point is, sometimes yeh have ter let people come round ter things in their own time. Can't force 'em ter see what yeh see, even when yeh know yeh're right."
Harry slumped in his chair, absently scratching Fang's ears. "But what if there isn't time? What if something terrible is happening and no one will listen?"
"Ah." Hagrid's expression softened. "Been seein' shadows again, have yeh?"
"They're not just shadows," Harry started heatedly, but Hagrid held up a dustbin-lid-sized hand.
"Didn' say they were, did I? But sometimes…" He paused, frowning thoughtfully. "Sometimes the shadows we see are real enough, but they ain't always cast by what we think they are. If yeh follow me."
"Reminds me of another time," Hagrid continued, stoking the fire with a flowery pink umbrella. "Years before you was born. James came stormin' in here, all thunder and lightning, just like you did today. Lily'd hexed him something fierce - turned his hair into living snakes, if I remember right."
Despite himself, Harry felt a smile tugging at his lips. "What had he done?"
"Oh, the usual. Tried ter convince her that one of her study partners was nicking restricted potions ingredients. Course, he was right - caught the bloke red-handed a week later. But it weren't about being right." Hagrid's eyes twinkled. "Was about trust, weren't it? About letting her make up her own mind."
The fire crackled, sending shadows dancing across the cabin's walls. Outside, darkness had begun its slow descent, painting the grounds in shades of twilight.
"Did they…" Harry hesitated. "How did they work it out?"
"Ah, well." Hagrid grinned through his wild beard. "Yer dad finally figured out that sometimes you've got ter step back. Let people see things for themselves. Course, helped that the fellow got caught trying ter brew Polyjuice in the prefects' bathroom. Flooded three floors, it did."
Harry paused for a moment, thinking about what the old keeper had just said. "So…you're saying….just…wait?"
"Aye, lad," Hagrid nodded, rubbing a meaty hand over his beard. "If you've got gal trouble- jus' ye wait. The right gal- well, she'll realize she's wrong, eh?"
"And then what?"
"Then yeh forgive her, of course!" Hargid replied, as if it was obvious. He continued, his voice soft. "I knew yer parents, Harry. And I know yer as well. If there were anything I could say was sorta a, well, what d'ya call it…stupid trait? I'd say it was how big yer hearts were. All three of yer."
Harry frowned. "You mean, how easily we forgive?"
"Exactly," Hagrid nodded. "Some might consider it a weakness. But I say it's one of the strongest attitudes of them all."
Now that he thought about it- if he hadn't forgiven Ron back in Fourth Year, he'd definitely have lost a wonderful friend. And besides, he was far from perfect himself. Perhaps…perhaps it was better to forgive.
"I see," Harry said, slowly, looking into the fire. "Just wait, then? And forgive…"
Hagrid winked. "Aye, lad."
Harry watched the flames dance, feeling something inside him slowly unknot. "Thanks, Hagrid."
"Fer what? Just tellin' stories, aren't I?" Hagrid stood, his massive form blocking out the firelight. "Though if yeh're thankin' me, might say you're welcome more often if yeh visited more."
"I will," Harry promised, rising. "I've missed this."
"Go on with yeh," Hagrid said gruffly, but his eyes were suspiciously bright. "Before it gets too dark. And Harry?" He paused, hand on the door. "Sometimes the bravest thing isn't fighting. Sometimes it's waiting."
Harry gave his old friend a last smile as he turned back, got on his broom and flew towards the castle. The flight back felt different - calmer, though tinged with a new kind of anxiety. The lights of Gryffindor Tower beckoned like a constellation of earthbound stars, and through one window, he could see two familiar figures waiting. And for that- he was glad.
Ron and Hermione were exactly where he'd expect them to be - their corner by the fire, homework spread around them like a paper fortress. They looked up as he climbed through the portrait hole, their expressions a careful mix of concern and relief.
"Alright, mate?" Ron's voice was deliberately casual.
"Getting there." Harry collapsed into an armchair, suddenly aware of how his muscles ached from hours of tension-fueled flying. "I'm sorry about-"
"Don't." Ron waved him off. "Though, er, speaking of apologies…" He shifted uncomfortably. "The team was a bit…"
"Oh god." Harry sat up straight, horror dawning. "Practice. I completely forgot about-"
"It's fine!" Hermione cut in quickly. "We told them you weren't feeling well. They understood. Well, mostly."
"Mostly?"
Ron's ears had gone slightly pink. "Ginny might have said something about captains setting examples…"
"Brilliant." Harry slumped back into the chair. "Just brilliant."
"She'll get over it," Ron said, though he didn't sound entirely convinced. "Eventually. Probably."
The fire crackled, filling the silence that followed. Around them, the common room had begun to empty, students drifting up to their dormitories, leaving behind the gentle hush of evening.
"Harry…" Hermione's voice was careful, measured. "What happened? In Fleur's office?"
The question hung in the air like smoke, and Harry felt the calm from Hagrid's hut beginning to slip away. He stared into the flames, seeing again the flash of anger in Fleur's eyes, feeling the crackle of their combined magic.
"She didn't believe me," he said finally, the words leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. "About any of it."
Ron and Hermione exchanged one of their looks. "Did she say why?" Hermione asked softly.
Harry's laugh was hollow. "Oh, she had plenty to say."
The memory of their argument rose like a tide - words and accusations and things left unsaid crashing against the shores of his mind. The fire's warmth suddenly felt insufficient against the chill in his chest. "She thinks…" He stopped, started again. "She said I'm seeing battles everywhere because I don't know how to live without them."
The words seemed to hang in the air, each one heavy with the weight of everything he'd had been carrying. Harry was grateful as he noticed that Ron and Hermione waited, giving him the space to find his way through the tangle of emotions that had been choking him since he'd left Fleur's office.
"She wasn't entirely wrong," he admitted finally, his voice barely above a whisper. The admission felt like letting go of something he'd been clutching too tightly for too long. "About me looking for fights. About seeing danger everywhere. But this… this is different."
"Different how?" Hermione's voice was gentle, free of the edge it usually carried when they were solving mysteries.
Harry stared into the dying fire, watching the flames dance and flicker like his own scattered thoughts. "Because this time I'm not just seeing things that aren't there. The artifacts are really missing. Graves really is acting suspicious. But the way she looked at me…" He trailed off, the memory of Fleur's disappointed eyes hitting him like a physical blow.
"Like you were breaking her heart," Ron finished quietly.
Harry's head snapped up, startled by his friend's insight. "How did you—"
"Mate," Ron's smile was sad but knowing, "I've been watching you dance around each other for months. The way you look at her when you think no one's watching. The way she finds excuses to be wherever you are. The way you both pretend there's nothing there, even though everyone can see it."
The fire popped, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney. Somewhere above them, the wind whistled through the tower's ancient stones, a lonely sound that seemed to echo the ache in Harry's chest.
"She said…" Harry's voice caught. He swallowed hard and tried again. "She said she couldn't watch me destroy myself chasing shadows. That she couldn't bear to see me become someone else's weapon again."
Hermione made a soft sound of understanding. "Oh, Harry."
"But that's not what I'm doing!" The words burst from him with unexpected force, making a couple of first-years by the window jump. He lowered his voice, conscious of the late hour. "I'm not looking for a fight. I'm trying to prevent one. Why can't she see that?"
"Maybe," Hermione said carefully, "she sees it too well."
Harry frowned. "What do you mean?"
"Think about it," she continued, choosing her words with obvious care. "Fleur was there during the war. She saw what it did to all of us, but especially to you. And now…" She glanced at Ron, who nodded encouragingly. "Now she's watching you show all the same signs. The hypervigilance, the certainty that something bad is coming, the need to protect everyone…"
"But I was right then," Harry insisted. "About Voldemort, about the Death Eaters, about all of it."
"You were," Ron agreed. "But mate… it nearly killed you. Multiple times. And not just physically."
The truth of those words settled over Harry like a heavy cloak. He remembered the constant fear, the crushing weight of the responsibility, how Dumbledore told him always that the greatest good was to come from him. He remembered the way every shadow had held potential death. How he'd pushed people away, convinced he was protecting them, only to realize too late how much he needed them.
"She said…" Harry's voice was rough. "She said she…cared about me."
Ron and Hermione exchanged another of their looks, but this time Harry could read it clearly: finally.
"And what did you say?" Hermione asked softly.
"Nothing." The word tasted like regret. "I was too angry, too caught up in trying to make her believe me about Graves. And then…" He ran a hand through his perpetually messy hair. "Then we were shouting, and our magic was everywhere, and she took my wand—"
"She what?" Ron sat up straighter, alarmed.
"Not like that," Harry assured him quickly. "She was trying to stop me from leaving. Said I was always running away from anything that might make me feel… make me feel something. I don't know." The words came out in a rush, each one carrying the sting of truth. "And then I just… left. While she was crying."
The silence that followed was broken only by the gentle sound of falling snow and the distant hooting of an owl. Harry could feel the weight of his friends' gazes, not judging, just waiting. "I think I love her," he whispered finally, the admission feeling like something breaking and healing all at once. "And I think we might have ruined everything."
"Oh, Harry." Hermione moved from her spot by Ron to perch on the arm of Harry's chair. "Love isn't that fragile. Not real love."
Harry shrugged. "I guess. I don't know. Fleur just…came into my life, and I suddenly, well," he wearily rubbed a hand across his eyes. "I don't know," he said resignedly, sinking deeper into the chair.
"When did you know?" Hermione's voice was barely above a whisper, as if she too felt the weight of the hour, the sanctity of this moment of shared vulnerability.
Harry's fingers traced absent patterns on the worn fabric of his armchair, following paths as meandering as his thoughts. "I'm not sure exactly," he admitted after a long moment. "Sometimes I think… maybe it started in fourth year, during the Tournament. There was something about her even then, but I was too young, too scared, too…"
"Too busy trying not to die?" Ron offered.
A ghost of a smile touched Harry's lips. "That too." He paused, gathering his thoughts. "But it wasn't real then. Not really. Just… the beginning of something I wouldn't understand until much later."
The fire popped softly, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney. In that brief flare of light, Harry's eyes caught on the window, where the moon hung like a half-finished thought in the winter sky. "When McGonagall introduced her as the new assistant Charms professor…" He trailed off, remembering that morning in the Great Hall, how the autumn light had caught in her hair. "Something just… shifted."
"Was that why you knocked over your pumpkin juice?" Ron's grin was audible in his voice.
"Prat." But Harry's voice held warmth. "I was just surprised. She looked… different. Or maybe I was different."
"Nah mate. You were staring."
"I wasn't staring," Harry mumbled, but heat crept up his neck. "I was just… thinking."
"About what?" Hermione's voice was gentle, free of teasing.
Harry was quiet for a long moment, watching the last flames flicker and dance. "About how she explained things. Not just spells, but… everything. Like that first time at the library, when I couldn't get my head around Advanced Environmental Charms…"
"What happened?" Ron leaned forward slightly, his expression softening at the distant look in Harry's eyes.
Harry's voice grew quiet, remembering. "She explained how magic flows like the weather around us, how everything connects if you just… look at it differently. And suddenly it all made sense."
"The theory?" Hermione asked.
"Everything." The word came out barely above a whisper. "She has this way of making the world make sense. Even when it doesn't."
"Including that night you didn't come back to the dorms?"
Harry blushed. "How did you notice that?"
"Mate, I don't stay at the dorms anymore, but that doesn't mean I don't know what's going on," Ron replied, smirking.
"We were just studying," Harry said, but something in his voice made it sound like more than that. Like maybe 'studying' was too small a word for what had happened under those stars. "Looking at the moon. Must have fallen asleep at some point."
"Must have?" Hermione's voice was teasing.
"We were talking. About… everything. France. Her family. The war." Each word seemed to cost him something, but in the giving of them, something else was gained. "She told me about growing up there, how the weather was at night. I told her about…me. And somehow it didn't feel heavy. It just felt…"
"Safe," Hermione supplied quietly when he couldn't find the word.
"Yeah." Harry's voice cracked slightly. "When I woke up, she was still there. Like she knew I needed someone to stay."
The silence that followed felt sacred somehow, like a confession in a cathedral. Ron shifted in his chair, the ancient wood creaking beneath him.
"Sirius used to tell me something about the Potters," Hermione said finally, her voice soft but clear in the quiet room. "That they had this… peculiar trait. They always fell in love with people who could fight with them the most fiercely."
Harry looked up, startled. "What?"
"He said it was like magical magnetism." A small smile played at her lips. "That your parents' arguments could be heard across the castle sometimes, because they both cared so deeply, felt everything so completely that their magic itself seemed to argue."
"Like summer lightning and winter storms," Harry murmured, remembering the crackle of Fleur's magic against his own earlier that night.
"Exactly." Hermione reached across the space between them to squeeze his hand. "They fought because they loved too much to let each other get lost."
The words seemed to hover in the air, heavy with meaning. Harry stared into the dying embers, watching the last traces of fire dance and fade.
"I think…" His voice was barely audible. "I think I'm already lost."
"No," Ron said with unexpected firmness. "You're not lost, mate. You're just scared."
"Of what?" But Harry's voice suggested he already knew the answer.
"Of letting someone love all of you," Hermione said gently. "Even the parts you think are broken."
The moonlight painted silver patterns across the common room floor, and Harry watched them shift, remembering other nights, other patterns, other conversations under different stars. He thought of Fleur's face in the firelight, of the way her magic had felt against his, of all the things he hadn't said.
"You reckon I should apologize to her?"
Hermione and Ron shook their heads.
"Apologize for shouting, maybe. She is a staff here after all," Ron pointed out. "But more than that, you two need to talk."
Hermione nodded. "Better not let it fester. Tomorrow. As soon as you can."
"After the match," Ron added quickly, earning a look from Hermione. "What? We need him focused tomorrow! Slytherin's got that new beater, and their chasers have been—"
"Ronald!"
"No, he's right," Harry said, surprising himself with a weak laugh. "One crisis at a time. Though…" He paused. "We still need to figure out what Graves is up to. Those artifacts keep disappearing, and if the pattern holds…"
"We'll check his chambers," Hermione said firmly. "After the match. All of us, together." She fixed Harry with a look that brooked no argument. "But first, you need to sort things out with Fleur."
"Alright," Harry nodded. "I'll do it."
"Good." Ron stretched, his joints popping. "Now can we please get some sleep? Some of us have to try to stop Slytherin's new Chaser formation tomorrow, and I'd rather not do it while half dead."
Harry managed a genuine smile. "Worried about facing your sister?"
"Worried about facing Hermione if we lose because we stayed up all night talking about feelings," Ron corrected, but his grin took any sting out of the words.
They began gathering their things, the familiar routine of ending another late night in the common room. But before they separated for their respective dormitories, Hermione pulled Harry into a fierce hug. "I'm proud of you," she whispered. "For letting us in. For being brave enough to feel things, not just fight things."
Harry hugged her back, throat tight with emotion. "Thanks, Hermione. For everything."
"That's what family's for," she said simply, and Harry felt the words settle into place like the final piece of a puzzle he hadn't known he was solving. Harry hugged her back, throat tight. As they pulled apart, Ron clapped him on the shoulder. "Get some sleep, mate. Tomorrow's going to be interesting enough without you falling off your broom."
Harry managed a genuine laugh. "Thanks. Both of you. For everything."
"That's what family's for," Hermione said again, simply.
They parted ways at the stairs, Harry turning up to the dorms. The moonlight followed him up the spiral staircase, painting everything in shades of silver and shadow. For the first time in longer than he could remember, those shadows held no threats. He had no idea that simply talking could help so much- until he remembered that that was the easiest way to get rid of a shadow. To just hold it in the light.