Chapter Text
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I.
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She didn’t remember their names, only their faces and vague memories of their actions.
(Bright sunny smiles, ocean eyes and whiskers on his cheeks; fiercely loyal to his friends, no matter how far they ran; the biggest heart she had ever had the pleasure of losing—he was like family.
A smirk on his lips, murder in his eyes; spinning pinwheels and false promises; a bench and then loneliness; a curse that consumed; a return and teamwork—he wore death and betrayal like a cloak.
Silver haired, heterochromatic eyes which crinkled when he smiled; mysterious and chronically late; mask wearing, porn-addicted broken soul—he lost more than he had, but he was always enough for them.)
And then there was herself, of course.
(Obnoxious pink hair and mossy eyes; determined and smart; tanned from excessive hours in the sun training to catch up to them—she had had them once, until she lost them all.
The three of them—black, blonde and pink—standing together in a formation that they had been destined for, mirroring a team from generations before, their fourth member watching them from afar, an expression akin to pride on his face. Snake, Toad, Slug; Moon, Sun, Sky; facing a goddess with no hope of winning, and yet still they hoped.)
They called her Cherry now. The name felt right but sounded wrong. She had had another name once. How she wished she could remember it.
Her life was lonely, but her memories were enough. She held onto them, her grip threatening to tear them apart for fear of being truly alone. She missed them dearly.
If only she could remember their names.
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There was power in this strange new world. It was not as rigid as chakra (the word chakra coming only after she read some blurbs on the cover of a yoga magazine). The power existed in a way that was wild and free—there were no specific natures as far as she could tell. She wanted fire, she got fire, she wished for water and it was there, she desired lightning and it came like a shock. She even tried plants, remembering that such a thing would have once been nigh impossible, and to her absolute delight, a delicate little flower bloomed beneath her fingertips.
Her newfound knowledge led to further investigations. She experimented with medical knowledge from another life, wondered if it could be applied with the wild new magic of this life. It could be, so she did.
When her cousin pushed her to the ground, she healed the scrapes on her knees that same night in the privacy of her lonely little cupboard. When her aunt slammed down a pan full of smoking, crackling bacon grease in front of her and it splattered up into her face in big searing globs, she healed the burns that she received. When her uncle came home in a mood and she was accidentally standing in his way, when he pushed her into the corner of the foyer table and received a gash beside her eye that gushed blood, she healed that, too.
The only thing that refused to heal was the strange scar on her forehead. The thin lightning bolt shaped mark remained steadfast in her attempts to remove it. It wasn’t a large forehead she had to be ashamed of in this life, but a stupid little scar. She covered it with her messy black hair, the dissimilarities of another life sticking like a knife to her ribs, twisting every time she glanced in a mirror and only recognized the wide, green eyes staring back at her.
Her extended family was cruel, but they were civilian, as were most people in this place. She did not fight them, did not taunt them with her powers, never reacted when they hurt or scorned her. She kept her head down and left the house often, ignoring her aunt’s angry whispers over her disobedience—they weren’t important.
Still, she sometimes wondered if there was more to this mundane world. Her magic said yes, but her circumstances (her loneliness, her sadness, her desperation) said no.
Days passed. Days blended into weeks, blended into months, blended into years. Then, one day, she received an innocuous beige envelope addressed to her, Cherry Potter, of Number Four Privet Drive, in the Cupboard Under the Stairs. And for the second time in her entire consciousness, her life was flipped.
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A witch, the large man told her. He smiled at her, the kindest smile she had received in this lifetime. She wanted to cry.
The Girl-Who-Lived, he explained, telling her the tale of a dark lord and the valiant sacrifices of her parents. There had been no car crash like her aunt and uncle had told her once. There had only been love and desperation for a child’s survival. The feelings brought on by her origins were so familiar, so like those she once felt Before, that she ached deeply.
Hogwarts, the large man continued. A place for her and people like her. A feeling like hope swelled in her chest and she wished that they were here with her, so that they could experience this life, too.
A train would take her to her destination. A long, scarlet steam engine comprised of dozens of compartments and filled with students of many ages. They train them older, she thought, vaguely remembering another youth spent learning to kill. This one had been spent learning to count and read.
Another girl joined her on the ride. Mousy and shy, she was reminded of herself from a long time ago. This girl searched for a leader, a pillar of strength, a friend. She could be that person, like that girl from Before was to her.
(Platinum hair and pale eyes; a smile that could melt and cut; flowers in her hands and thorns in her mind; beautiful and strong—she’d always aspired to be like her, and then, eventually, to remain by her side as an equal.)
They read the whole way, exchanging words about their likes, dislikes, hobbies and dreams. She kept her dreams close to her chest. In fact, her responses were vague and unhelpful. It annoyed the other girl, whose name was Hermione, but Cherry only smiled and went back to her book. It was a potions textbook and it reminded her of another time where she could make poisons and help find antidotes. It was much the same, but there was magic now.
When the train stopped, and their robes were on, nervousness swept like a plague through the youngest ones—the other eleven-year old’s—but Cherry felt none of this. She had faced scarier things (a goddess came to mind, but the details were foggy and far from her grasp).
A talking hat was going to sort them into a house, a supposed place where they would find friends and truly belong. There were four houses and there was no doubt that one of them was to be the place where she would find acceptance. She couldn’t help but imagine where the ones she knew from Before would go.
Ravenclaw, Slytherin, Hufflepuff, Gryffindor; the wise, the ambitious, the loyal and the courageous. She wasn’t sure which one she belonged to. She couldn’t be sure she would fit in to any of them. After all, how could someone who had lived two different lives be sorted into one house?
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“Hello, there!” The Hat’s voice was gravelly, but upbeat. “Hm, interesting. You are the second I have sorted this night to remember another life.”
She stiffened. Was it hope that bloomed in her chest, delicate and feeble? What.
“Mhm, there was another, a boy, who remembers a life that is not this one. Just as you do. And yet, not like you do. You know faces, but no names, and he knows names, but no faces. How curious.”
Who? It was desperation now, desperation entwined with hope as she mowed through the cryptic words, searching for an answer to her prayers. Could it be… she was not alone?
“I’ll tell you. Maybe. But I need to help sort you first. Now, let’s see. Ambition, it is there, in your heart and your mind. Loyalty, now there’s something special. Wisdom, plenty, I see. Courage… undoubtedly. But I’m not a judge, just a guide. Tell me, what is it that you want?”
What do I want?
She wanted her family back. The ones from Before. Even though she’d been left behind and betrayed, time and time again, even though she’d been shunted to the side and deemed weak, even though she was only ever a bystander in her own life because they all took centre stage, she wanted them back.
But that wasn’t what the Hat was asking, was it?
She could almost hear its rumble of agreement.
So…
Ambition? No, she was never truly ambitious, at least, she’d never valued any ambition she might have had. It was true, she had worked desperately for the things that she had wanted, but she had never sacrificed everything for the sake of her ambition (not like him). That one boy, he was the ambitious one. The one she might have married once, but not after everything he’d done. What had he done again? She found it hard to remember specifics (he’d betrayed her, left her, even though she’d given him her all, but she was better now, she didn’t need him to be strong, dammit).
Loyalty, she’d been loyal, once. Fiercely loyal. She had always valued loyalty, for herself, the place she’d lived, and her precious people. But when all that was taken from her, could she still describe herself as that? Could she still count that as one of her most defining traits? What was there to be loyal to in this life? No one. One day… maybe.
There was wisdom, but wisdom was different from knowledge. And she had knowledge, but did she have wisdom? The Hat had told her that she had plenty, but she was inclined to disagree. If she’d been wise, maybe she wouldn’t have lost so many loved ones. Maybe she wouldn’t have wasted so much time. Maybe she would have seen the truth earlier. Wisdom had never been something she had associated with herself. She was smart, never wise (not even near the end).
Courage on the other hand…
He was courageous. She felt her face warm and closed her eyes, even though she knew no one could see the tears that threatened to escape. He was so, so courageous. And I only ever wanted to be like him, I think, even though I never admitted it, even though I always thought he was beneath me. I only realized that it was the other way around at the end. But the end was too late.
(…what had happened at the end?)
“Is that your answer? Courage? It is a permanent decision.”
She bit her tongue, wishing her fuzzy memories would gain some clarity. But they kept leading her down the same path. Memories of betrayal and hope, and her dreams that she held close. Friendship and family and love.
She wouldn’t let herself be weak this time. She would be like him.
(Always fighting for what he believed, no matter who tried to break him, never backing down, determined until the very end.)
Courage is what I need to walk down this new path.
“Very well.”
Will you tell me that boy’s name? The one who is like me?
The Hat chuckled. “Of course. I do not wish to see you suffer alone. His name is Draco Malfoy.” Draco Malfoy—she committed the name to memory.
Thank you. I’m ready now.
“Good. The place you belong is GRYFFINDOR!”
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She was famous here, she remembered sadly. Everyone watched her, some subtly, some openly. Each bite of food—tasty, but not what she craved—was taken precisely and each sip of juice swallowed carefully.
The boys in her age range pestered her. Did she remember the night she had faced down the boogie man of the wizarding world? The girls wanted to know inconsequential details like how she did her hair (those details had once been so important to her).
If she closed her eyes, she could almost pretend that she was not surrounded by people who only wanted to know her because of something she wasn’t even sure she had done.
At the professor’s table, a place full of adults she might one day learn to look up to, she saw people who no longer existed.
(Blonde hair and hazel eyes, a woman who was both kind and sad, who hoped and despaired; black hair and brown eyes that glinted in the light, who loved and cared, who protected where the blonde one couldn’t.)
When she looked more closely, she was faced with a greasy man’s scowl, a smile from Hagrid, a nervous glance from a man in a turban that she vaguely remembered from her first visit to the wizarding world and a knowing twinkle in the eye from the headmaster. Oh, and a headache that vanished before she could even send some magic to soothe it.
Unsettled, she looked away, not bothering to glance back until the night was over and the same man who seemed to know so much declared certain death hiding within the walls of the school.
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She did not make friends—whenever she thought she should, she remembered blonde and blue; black and red; silver and mismatched; platinum and pale.
Another reason friends were so hard was because excepting Hermione, the girls were chatty and unfocused, obsessing over trivial things. Cherry, too, had been like that once. It had nearly broken her. But these girls had grown up in a different world than she. Death did not await them the moment they turned twelve. They had time. She would not belittle them for their happiness, as long as their innocence stayed. This world was not so driven by spilled blood, after all (though blood was still there on the table, pureblood, halfblood, mudblood).
The boys were obnoxious and ignored her, once they got over the fact that she knew very little about the Halloween night that she became an orphan. It still confused her how she could be famous for something she could not confidently claim as a truth. They called her the Girl-Who-Lived. They weren’t wrong. She had lived twice now. But it did not mean that they were worth her attention. Maybe one day they would grow up and, like the girls, see the truth. For now, she would not judge them.
Hermione stuck close. Cherry never made fun of her for her love of books and reading or her need to know everything. It always came back to their similarities. They were so alike it hurt, sometimes.
But it was okay. At least Hermione wasn’t alone like she had been. Maybe Cherry would even go so far as to call the bushy haired eleven-year-old her friend.
Eleven years was a long time to fight the idea of making new friends, to endure a self-made exile, but…
She couldn’t help missing them.
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Cherry kept an eye out for Draco Malfoy, but he was hard to corner. He was in her rival house, for one, so even in shared classes, he remained distanced from her. And between classes, it was still difficult to separate him from his posse. His housemates never left his side, even though he never appeared to truly interact with them. He would cross his arms and scowl and they would talk quietly amongst themselves, never really including him. They were like schooling fish and Cherry, the shark, was getting frustrated.
It was Friday and she had double potions, admittedly the class she was most ecstatic for. It was yet another class that Gryffindor shared with Slytherin.
As Severus Snape, renowned potions master and their potions professor, let them into the class, she was reminded of another black-haired scientist who made her skin crawl.
(Golden eyes, off-coloured skin, he looked sickly; hair long and black like spilled oil; a grin that murdered hope and butchered dreams; he stole him from her—he was the reason he left.)
This man, her professor, had no love for her, she was sure of it. True, he appeared to glare at all of the students equally when they entered the room and took their seats, but when his eyes landed on her, his face darkened, and his frown deepened. He began to read off the register, his voice soft and silky. When he reached her name, he paused as if deliberating on what to do with her. It didn’t take him long to decide.
“Miss Potter,” he sneered. “Tell me, what would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?”
She knew the answer. It was in her textbook. She’d read it over four times, so she answered, “Draught of Living Death, sir.” Polite, honest, correct. He didn’t seem pleased.
The professor tsked, but went on, “Where, then, would you look if I asked you to get me a bezoar?”
She met his gaze straight on, ignoring the looks of the students around them as they began to ping pong back and forth between the two. This, too, was in her textbook—a footnote in the appendices that most students would have overlooked. “The stomach of a goat, sir.” This answer, also undoubtedly correct, seemed to anger him further.
“What is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?” he pushed.
She gritted her teeth, but this answer came as easily as the first two. Still, she grew tired of his game, whatever it was. She had already resolved to be stronger this time so she wouldn’t fail now and allow someone to bully her so easily into a corner. “It’s the same thing. And if that answer wasn’t enough, it also goes by aconite.” There were several raised brows and shocked gasps. “Any other questions for me, sir?”
“Ten points from Gryffindor for your cheek, Potter.” He spun on his heel but did not ask her any more questions. The rest of the class remained silent. Even the red headed Weasley beside her who’d been bursting at the seams, eager to cheer her on, didn’t say a word.
She was quick to complete the assigned potion and equally quick to approach the teacher’s desk to hand it in. Professor Snape, with his hooked nose and burning eyes, spared her a single unpleasant look, but accepted the proffered vial without question.
On the way back to her seat, she saw Draco Malfoy watching her, his metal eyes guarded. As she passed his desk, she lost her footing, tripping on old, cracked stone. She held onto the nearest desk, regaining her balance before scurrying back to her seat, face vividly flushed with embarrassment.
She hunched over at her desk, shoving her face in a textbook for the remaining duration of the class, ignoring the questioning looks that Draco Malfoy kept secretly sending her.
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“Cherry Potter.” The words scorched her, and she wanted them to be something else, though what, she still couldn’t force her brain to remember. Cherry, but not and Potter, not ever.
“Draco Malfoy.” Her own voice was steady. “I’m glad you received my note.” Placed on his desk during potions. Would he have come if he were not who the Hat said he was?
The two of them stood, only meters apart, at the top of the Astronomy Tower. Cherry with her wild black hair and acid green eyes, and Draco Malfoy, with his orderly platinum hair and guarded silver eyes. All of it was so wrong.
“What do you want?” Harsh, like him, and demanding, too. Could it be him? Truly? There were few people she had known who would respond like him… it had to be.
“I—” The words were hard to form, her mouth was like ash, her hands trembling at her sides. She looked out across the expansive vista behind her. It was nothing like Before. Everything felt so much larger now. She tried to moisten her mouth, tried to steady her breathing, reminded herself that she was strong—
“Are you okay?” he asked unkindly, as if she were crazy. She wondered if she was. Everyday since the memories trickled back, she had asked herself if all of it was some elaborate dream. Maybe she had hit her head too hard and that was why she had the strange lightning bolt scar on her head.
She couldn’t put off the truth much longer. She would lose his interest if she dallied any more (she didn’t want to lose him again).
“You left me.” She could breathe at last, though the words she had said were not the ones she had imagined.
“Pardon?” Still cool, still in denial, but there was something in his eyes (they were so pale and polished like silver, nothing like the deep obsidian that bled to the colour of pain)—perhaps the Hat had spoken the truth.
“You… I remember you.” Steady, she was steady now. The earth could shatter around her and she would still be standing unmoved in front of him. “Do you remember me?” She had to know, she needed to, she couldn’t be alone anymore! She wouldn’t be able to handle any other outcome.
Please, please, please remember me.
His brow scrunched, his hands clenched, and his eyes peered into her own, searching. She poured her everything into her own expression, desperate that he respond the way she needed him to.
He clenched his jaw and took a step forward. “Sakura?”
She gasped for air as she broke through the surface. Tears, unwanted and yet so sorely needed, fell down her cheeks, drip, drip, drip. She had been drowning for so long, and now she could see the horizon, the shore within reach. She wasn’t alone. She choked, breathing in quick gasps of air.
“I—you—that was my name.” The words tumbled from her lips, her thoughts the furthest they could be from coherent. Sakura, Sakura, Sakura.
“Yeah… I guess it was.” He didn’t come any closer. It stung that he didn’t move. She wanted him to, but—but she wasn’t floating in the void anymore. She had found her anchor and she would be damned if she didn’t hold onto it for all that she had. Still, she didn’t step forward either.
“Then you are him.” She wiped at her eyes and her nose, trying to see him again beyond the haze of tears. Too many times she had cried for him. But was she crying for him? Or was she crying for herself? She wasn’t alone, she wasn’t alone, she wasn’t alone! “I… I remember your face, but I can’t seem to remember your name.”
(His face, so young and innocent, then marred by death then twisted with thoughts of revenge which consumed him.)
“Sasuke Uchiha.” Unable to stand it, she turned away from him. She hadn’t wanted to cry like this, not for him, not again, but she was so happy (but she wasn’t ready to forgive him for Before, he’d tried to kill her, he’d left her, he’d betrayed her, he’d tried to kill the others, he—he—).
She fell to her knees and sobbed and sobbed and sobbed. It didn’t matter that he didn’t approach her, didn’t attempt to comfort her, or soothe her. He had never done it before… but she wondered if he had thought he was alone too?
Maybe… maybe he was used to being alone.
Just over the sound of her tears, Sakura (Sakura, Sakura, Sakura) thought she heard two words.
I’m sorry.
She didn’t know if she believed them.
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“Do you think we’re the only ones here?” she asked one day in the library, her tongue speaking a language she knew from Before. It had never left her, pulsing like something living superficially under her skin. Apparently, he remembered it the same way. “Or do you think the others are here, too?”
Blonde hair, blue eyes; silver hair, one grey eye and a red eye that never turned off.
“Naruto and Kakashi-sensei?” he clarified, thankfully on the same mental tangent.
“Naruto and Kakashi-sensei,” she repeated, confirming, wishing to never again forget their names. Her heart eased—knowing their names was like a soothing rain, washing away the loneliness that once threatened to devour her.
The only response she received was a shrug. She finally tore her eyes away from her book, her gaze settling on the blinding waters of the Black Lake just beyond the cliffs. “I miss them,” she admitted, the first time she had ever said the words aloud. Maybe it was because for so long she feared that she had imagined them. She never wanted to admit to yearning for figments of a dream.
“Sakura… can you describe them to me?”
The question startled her, but then she remembered faces but no names and names but no faces.
She smiled at him. Then she began to explain their appearances, launching into in depth explanations of eyes and hair and smiles and frowns, only hesitating for a second before asking him for the names of the others. As she described, he named. And for the first time, Sakura felt whole. She was no longer a shadow. She had names. She had memories of them, even if the specifics were still hazy between the two of them.
Her precious people…
Sakura, Sasuke, Naruto, Kakashi, Sai, Yamato, Kiba, Hinata, Shino, Ino, Shikamaru, Chouji, Lee, Tenten, Neji, Asuma, Kurenai, Gai, Gaara, Temari, Kankuro, Chiyo, Shizune, Jiraiya… Tsunade.
Even the others, the ones who had hurt her.
Zabuza, Haku, Kabuto, Orochimaru, Danzo, Pein, Konan, Kisame, Itachi, Sasori, Deidara, Hidan, Kakuza, Zetsu, Tobi, Madara, Kaguya.
And the others, the ones who flickered in and out of existence as she struggled to maintain her grasp on their memories. There were so many people she had almost forgotten.
(she ignored that there were people whom he didn’t know, whose names he had never bothered to learn, whose names would be forever lost to her, like her parents—she would mourn for them, later.)
The others, though, she would never forget again.
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They trained together in the mornings. It had been Sasuke’s suggestion.
“Do you want to train with me?” he had asked simply one morning before class.
She glanced up from the toast she had taken from the Great Hall, mouth open and ready to take a bite.
“Er, sure.”
Every morning they could, they snuck out of the castle and trained until dew soaked through their clothes and sweat leaked from their pores. Katas and magic, team exercises and imitations of jutsus from another life, endurance and meditation, they did it all and they did it without their wands.
Sasuke wondered aloud one morning why they found it so easy to use magic without words and wands while others struggled with the very basics.
“Wands were created with the sole purpose of focusing a witch or wizard’s power—a power which is, conveniently, rather formless. We come from a place where our powers were far more precise and rigid. Between chakra natures and the fact that any form of ninjutsu needed at least some degree of chakra control, we are used to overcoming more than one obstacle in an effort to make things happen.
“Maybe if you think of each power source as a set of paints. In the Before we had a set of maybe only one or two colours. Of course if you tried hard enough you could mix them and get other colours, but its nothing compared to the ease of this world where you have a whole set of coloured paints at your fingertips, with no need to mix or struggle to get the colour you want. Even in this world you still have access to the paints of Before, except they are a slightly different hue.”
Sasuke had stared at her as if she were crazy. She only rolled her eyes in response. “Sai would have appreciated the analogy,” she grumbled.
But it made sense. As an enormous fire ball had filled the clearing that they had chosen for their practise that day (a place deep in the Forbidden Forest where she had knocked out a few trees) it became obvious that the powers from Before were a bit more enhanced, needing less direction to become what they wanted them to be.
“So what about your healing?” he asked, his face scrunched up in a way that it never used to as he seemed to ponder something.
“I can still use a version of medical jutsu. It’s both easier and harder, but it is surprisingly adaptable to this new magic. I often wonder about your Sharingan powers. Do they translate over as well?”
This seemed to be the very thing he was thinking about as he shrugged and threw his hand out, yet again forgoing the wand stashed haphazardly in his school bag at the edge of the clearing. Seconds later, an enormous fiery skeleton, almost the height of the ancient trees themselves, sprung up in the clearing.
“Yes, then…?”
Sasuke shrugged again. “I’m not sure what its limitations are now.”
“Only one way to find out.” She bit back a grin as she readjusted her clothes and got into a fighting position. The stance was matched quickly, as was her fierce smirk.
“Of course.” The two collided.
Together, under the foliage of prehistoric trees, two young children regained skills from another life, from a set of foggy memories. Together, two became strong and were prepared to face whatever lay ahead.
.
She visited Hagrid when she had time. She did it often enough, usually when Sasuke was too busy with his housemates and Hermione was doing homework for the hundredth hour that week. He was always happy to see her, offering her a dog saliva-soaked seat and a cup of hot tea.
“How are ya?” he’d ask in that kind, open way of his. No underhandedness, no expectations, just a lonely man with a lot of heart.
She’d smile back at him, feeling as if she owed everything she had to this gentle giant. She’d describe how she was making friends and talk about how her classes were going.
“It was quite funny. McGonagall put Crabbe and Goyle in detention for three weeks because of it,” she said one afternoon over a tray of sandwiches. She had just finished telling the story of how Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum had gotten in trouble over an attempt to bypass all of their transfiguration homework by trying to buy cheating enchantments that actually made their clothes smaller every time they tried to use them.
“Buggers probably deserved every bit o’ embarrassment.”
She nodded, taking a deep drink of tea.
“What about you? How have things been on the grounds of Hogwarts?”
“The forest creatures have been a bit skittish lately. It’s odd; once they get used ta the influx o’ magical beings in the castle they usually settle down, but not this year.”
She frowned. “Any ideas as to why?”
“None yet. Still investigtin’.” Hagrid didn’t appear outwardly concerned, but she could tell that he was. She wondered if his concern had to do with whatever was down the third-floor corridor. It seemed odd that magical creatures acting strangely and a corridor that could kill were occurring in the same year.
“I might not be able to do much, but if you need any help, I’d be happy to assist.”
“That’s kind of ya, Cherry, but until I know how dangerous it is, I don’ think Dumbledore’d want me ta get a first year involved.”
“That’s alright. I thought I’d ask just in case.”
Hagrid smiled at her, his eyes shining.
(He used to smile like that.)
.
Seeing the Malfoy scion spending time with the Potter heir was scandalous in a school with such an incredible divide amongst its students.
“Do you really think that snake isn’t pulling your leg?” Ronald Weasley asked her one night when she’d returned to the common room minutes before curfew, having just finished studying in the library with Sasuke. “The Malfoy’s are good at lying. He could be using you, spying on you for his father!”
“I don’t think that it’s any of your business,” she told him. “My reasons for spending time with him are my own.”
But Ron didn’t like that answer.
“Malfoy’s are scum! They’re no-good Dark Lord boot lickers!”
She grew angry at his words, her eyes glinting dangerously in the light of the fire. Other students who had gathered to watch the showdown were backing away nervously, their own eyes flicking between the two of them. “Hold your tongue, Weasley. I might not be able to speak for the other Malfoy’s but Draco—”
“Oh, he’s Draco now!” The second youngest Weasley made a face. “When are you handing in your Dark Lord fan club membership papers?”
“You’re such a child,” she hissed. “Grow up and stop quoting your parents. Use your own brain, will you?”
“I am! And it looks to me like you’re ready to go to the other side.”
(Wars were fought for less and the cycle never ends so long as children take up the mantles that their parents left behind…)
“Our parents’ wars do not have to be our own,” she said quietly, suddenly feeling far away.
Later, when she asked, Sasuke told her that his housemates protested their friendship just as vehemently as hers did. He didn’t argue as overtly as she had, but that didn’t mean that he didn’t fight for their relationship just as hard. The two began to take their meals away from the Great Hall, studying in the library more often, were gone in the mornings to train before their housemates even woke up, and they sat together in classes. The professors gave them odd looks, but none of them, not even Snape, argued their partnership.
In fact, after that first potions lesson, Snape had barely spared her a glance. Her friendship with Sasuke had granted her some kind of reprieve from whatever grudge the man thought he had against her and he settled for ignoring her, marking her written work fairly, and grading her potions more accurately.
.
Upon entering the wizarding world, Sakura had come across many new terms. For example: muggle, muggleborn (mudblood), and squib. These were the words that helped form a culture. Some were used more often than others. Some were insults, some were facts of life, some were both.
Two words confused her, not on their own, but in the context of the wizarding world. Muggleborns and squibs.
Muggleborns were those who were born of two non-magical parents yet carried the fantastical powers that their parents did not. What was a muggleborn really, better yet, how did they come about? Were they the result of ambient magic gathered into a living form? Did they have some distant magical relative? Were they actually just freaks of nature? Was there some merit to the blood supremacist theory that they had stolen the magic from their supposed betters?
Squibs, on the other hand, were the opposite. Those who lacked the magic of their parents, who lived as outcasts in their own world. Were they truly non-magical? Was it possible they had magic, but just couldn’t use it? Was it some kind of mutation?
Both were underdogs. Being a former underdog herself, she felt a strange sort of loyalty to these sad, bullied people. Muggleborns had rights, yes, but from what Sasuke told her, amongst the upper crust of society they were just as frowned upon as their non-magical kin. Squibs were often forgotten, kept hushed up in the same society that raised them. Forgotten.
(Like her.)
It was with these thoughts on her mind that she left the library one night, having just finished up reading about legislations regarding those who didn’t necessarily fit into typical wizard society. She’d been doing what she did best (what she’d always done best)—reading and researching. Books had never failed her.
Until that point, anyways.
She had just finished spending a few extra hours pouring over tomes and research papers, searching desperately for any proper research on the topics of muggleborns and squibs. And yet there was nothing. The Hogwarts library was empty of anything besides the occasional biased account. Did no one in this world care? Was there not a healer out there who wondered whether they could make some wonderful kind of breakthrough in one of the most debated aspects of modern wizarding life? The medic in her wanted to do it (wanted to prove that she was smart, that her mentor had taught her well).
It was with these thoughts on her mind that she came across the Hogwarts caretaker, Argus Filch one night about ten minutes before curfew. He saw her and immediately his face went flat and his back went up.
“A little late for a stroll, isn’t it, Miss Potter?” he grouched. She did a doubletake in response, feeling the beginnings of pity. This man with a moth-eaten cloak and a stubborn limp, all alone to take care of a castle full of hundreds of children? She had seen him between classes and at the occasional meal, and unlike the other adults in the castle he never seemed to use magic in any casual sense. She had her suspicions, as a result. Was he a squib? People often forgot about him unless they were doing something that they shouldn’t have been, therefore he was never talked about unless it was concerning rule breaking.
“I apologize, Mr Filch,” she said as calmly as she could, hoping not to give the man any openings to lash out. She’d heard horror stories about the man from older students. But she knew that people like that, that lashed out at others were sometimes the most desperate and lonely.
(Sasuke… Naruto… I’m sorry.)
She had already promised herself to be kinder and more forgiving in this life. She didn’t want to repeat any mistakes (she would be stronger).
“Well? Get lost, brat!”
She didn’t need to be told twice, even as she began to scurry towards the Gryffindor Common Room, a wisp of greenish magic being left in her wake and the beginnings of an idea forming in her head.
.
Sakura and Sasuke’s early morning training sessions were put to use when a troll invaded the castle on Halloween. After Hermione had been chased away by Ronald Weasley, Sakura and Sasuke had snuck away from the crowds to find her and ensure her safety, but only at Sakura’s insistence. The troll had been a great lumbering creature with a distinct scent— but a scent which had nothing on the pungent odours of a battlefield. They encountered it in the same place they found Hermione crying—in the bathroom.
They brought the thing down, Sasuke pulling out not his wand, but a trusty kunai (that Sakura knew she wanted and would later demand to know his source) and slitting its throat after Sakura had pounced on its back and torn out its eyes with two magically strengthened fists.
They’d both lost house points when the professors finally stumbled upon them, but neither one minded. Points were… pointless.
Up in the common room, Sakura had punched Ron and forced him to apologize to Hermione. She lost more points for that, but the look of disbelief (and the accompanying blush) on Hermione’s face had been worth it.
“Don’t let others determine your self worth, Hermione,” she told her later that night after the other girls had fallen asleep. “They will always undervalue you.”
Christmas holidays followed soon after. Sasuke went home, sparing Sakura a vaguely apologetic look. She couldn’t blame him for having a family here when she had none. He’d gone for so long without one… she would never ever begrudge him that small happiness.
Alone in Gryffindor Tower, with the exception of the Weasley family, she spent hours reading, soaking up information about a different, more elaborate history than the one that existed Before. Well-recorded history in this world ran back millennia, not just decades. It was thrilling.
She learned that the language from Before was called Japanese in her new life. The land from which it originated, Japan, once had things like ninjas, but even their magical equivalent were nothing like what Sakura and Sasuke used to be. Though some of the legends, like The Tale of the Gallant Jiraiya, were so familiar that they chilled her.
These eerie similarities led her to wonder if she were in some kind of alternate universe where history did not go the way it did in that of the world she once resided in. There had to be some kind of logic in that.
Christmas itself swept in quite quickly. Though she had splurged on the people in her new life, she hadn’t expected any gifts in return. She received four. Hermione had purchased a book on intermediate potion making, having witnessed Sakura’s innate skill in class. Sakura’s own gift to Hermione had been a lovely first edition set of historical textbooks from the early Hogwarts era. She’d indulged a bit, but Hermione was her first friend in this world (it wasn’t because of the gaping hole left behind by her best friend from Before… Ino, Ino, Ino).
The next gift was from the Hogwarts groundskeeper, Hagrid. He was the one who had told her of her witchy origins. He had been exceedingly kind to her, inviting her to tea though often. She had yet to bring Sasuke to his little hut, knowing of the giant man’s prejudice against Slytherins. She was working on it. She had also sent him a gift—a new set of teacups—after learning how often he broke his. These ones were charmed to never break and to change colour depending on what was put in them. His gift to her was a hand carved pan flute and a cute bundle of rock-hard biscuits. Lee’s cooking used to be horrendous and, as such, Hagrid’s had nothing on it, so she stuck one in her mouth to soften and moved on to her next gift.
Sasuke… She honestly hadn’t considered that he would get her anything. Of course, with the heaps of gold stashed away in her vault, she had gifted him a new cloak pin. It was silver, inlaid with emeralds and in the shape of a stylized leaf. She knew he would understand (she considered it to be what this world had termed as an olive branch, forgiving past transgressions against her and all those whom the leaf represented). Anyone else would assume it to be a harmless, generic item for any Slytherin.
But he had gotten her something.
“Son of a bitch,” she muttered when she pulled the gift out from its box.
About a dozen shiny new kunai, their weight familiar in her hands laid in gold wrappings. The blade of each knife had been engraved with a single cherry blossom only visible in certain lighting and the grips themselves were wrapped in a deep red leather. Sakura couldn’t help but let a finger ghost over each detail, wondering. They were probably ridiculously expensive as weapons were not so commonplace and those from another country entirely were even more so. They were perfect. She bit back a chuckle, ignoring the constriction in her throat (he had never given her anything but scars before) and moved on to her last gift—this one from an unknown sender.
The last gift perplexed her. A cloak made of silvery shifting colours, almost like the metallic wings of a beetle. She put it on, looked in the mirror and realized—
“Where’d I go?”
She’d read about cloaks like it in one of the various books she’d borrowed from the library. Invisibility cloaks… they were supposed to be rare. And the tag from the sender said extraordinarily little beyond the fact that it belonged to her father and the direction to use it well. She bit her lip. Maybe it was cursed. Maybe it was from a well-meaning gift-giver. Either way, she would be idiotic to pass up such an object even if there were countless spells in existence to make one invisible.
.
As Christmas holidays were drawing to a close, she found a mirror. It was tall and elaborate with letters written across the top of the frame in a foreign warning to the looker. But she was from a world where written words rarely went anywhere without some form of coding and ciphers were common, so it took her brief seconds to unravel the mirror’s secret. I show not your face but your heart's desire.
She folded her cloak in her arms and approached the moonlight drenched mirror, wondering what her desire was.
She knew somewhere deep down inside what it would be, and she was terrified. (Why, why, why, why.)
Raven haired Cherry Potter stepped up to the mirror and looked into its depths, her heart breaking at the image revealed within.
Sakura Haruno stared back at her, hair all pink and kempt, eyes bright with joy and love. On either side of her, her teammates, re-enacting a time when they were young and posing for a photo. They glared at each other as she smiled between them. Behind them, their sensei, eyes crinkled, and posture ducked. And then, beyond that, a village full of people she knew, among them, her forever nameless parents.
Fingertips grazed the reflective surface, but only Sakura truly moved, the others in the mirror remaining unchanged by her closeness.
“Konoha,” she breathed. The sight renewed her promise to herself—she would never, ever forget them (she would be stronger, for them).
Her heart ached. She wondered if Sasuke would see the same thing. Maybe he would be surrounded by his Uchiha family (they were all gone, weren’t they?)
She sat on the cold stone floor and did not tear her eyes away, not for a while. When she did, it was because she was not alone. She jumped up, grabbed her cloak, and fled, knowing deep down that she would never purposely search out the mirror again.
.
“Kunai,” she finally murmured after one of their early morning practises. Resting on her back, black hair like a halo of darkness around her head, green eyes followed her training partner as he glanced over from where he was winding down from his own routine. “I… forgot about them until just now. You gave me some.” Her breath came out in foggy puffs, but neither of them minded the cold, both circulating warming magic through their veins to fight off the winter chill.
“I did.” Sasuke stretched, his limbs still not quite as limber as they could have been, but that was something that would come from repetition and age.
“Where did you find them?”
He paused. “I had them commissioned.” She raised a black brow at this. She had suspected as much, but it had seemed like a lot of work for someone of his character.
“Your parents never questioned it?”
He scoffed. “My parents do not care what I do so long as I uphold proper etiquette in the company of strangers and maintain my marks in any classes I take.”
“Do you always have some on you?”
He smirked, his lips stretching over his lips in a look that was both fierce and amused. “Of course.”
Feelings of confusion stirred in her as she pondered his words, and she questioned him. “Why have you never brought them up or trained with them? We used them during the fight with the troll.”
“We did. But I don’t have that many. They’re expensive. You never got around to getting yourself some after you expressed interest in them, so I commissioned some for you, too. You want more, order them yourself. Or have the rumoured riches of the Potter legacy dwindled as far as wizarding society has speculated?”
She scowled. “Shut up before I pummel you into that tree.”
His smirk didn’t waver. She rolled her eyes and felt a pang of longing for their third teammate even as the two descended into a friendly spar.
(The three of them waiting for their sensei on their favourite training ground, Naruto and Sasuke squabbling while she waited in the shade with a heavy scroll digging into her legs, content.)
.
They found a dog in the castle. By they, she meant herself and Sasuke. By a dog, she meant a gargantuan, boss-summon sized, three-headed monstrosity whose mouths frothed with insane amounts of drool. Three heads, three sets of eyes, three sets of bone-breaking canines and yet, when Sasuke knocked it out with a few well aimed punches and kicks, it became a harmless little puppy, asleep on the floor.
“There’s a trap door beneath that paw,” Sakura said, gesturing vaguely.
Sasuke glanced over at where she pointed, eying the door for a moment. “Hn.”
She tilted her head and pressed a finger to her lips. “This is the third-floor corridor.” For a brief moment, she felt like she was on a mission, her team at her side, Kakashi-sensei leading them through darkened halls in search of their target. She missed those days, but they were long gone.
“Research first,” she decided, not interested in risking her life over the unknown. She was curious, not stupid. Risks in the magical world were far more varied, especially when there was so much that she simply did not know.
Sasuke didn’t argue, conceding her point, and the two left.
And when he questioned where to find leads, she laughed.
“For all things fun, strange, and fluffy one needs only to look to Hagrid.”
Sasuke still hadn’t met the friendly giant. She wanted to change that because he, too, was becoming someone important to her. She just hoped that he wouldn’t react too badly to the presence of a Slytherin. He seemed extremely biased towards them in all of their meetings despite how much she tried to change his mind.
But, upon visiting the man, they learned he was hatching the egg of a dragon. He tried to hide it, but again, Sakura was curious and not at all dumb. He stood in his doorway, hands gripping the wooden frame, puffing up his already great chest.
“Hagrid, it will burn your house down,” she tsked. “And they’re illegal,” she added, though that part wasn’t what concerned her. She used to live on money made from murder and intrigue, after all.
“So maybe it will!” he said, stubborn and unmoving. She rolled her eyes and ducked beneath his giant lumbering arm, Sasuke following suit on his other side. “And who’s this?” he demanded. “A Slytherin! And a Malfoy at that!”
Sasuke grunted, unhelpful.
“This is my friend,” she told him. “Anything you say to me you can say to him, he won’t tell. Besides, if you’re careful, I suppose we could help you with your dragon, right, Draco?”
“Hn.” Agreement. The feeling was unusual in another life. He used to never agreed with her so easily. He had always hated bending down to others and their ideas. In this life, he seemed to have an easier time of it. It warmed her heart in ways she thought he never would (she was so used to feeling cold, cold, cold around him).
“But we need you to answer a question before we do.”
“Er…”
“Whose three-headed dog is in the castle?” His eyes widened comically, black holes growing amidst the wiry hair on his face. He practically fell into his seat, the springs creaking with the sudden weight.
“You found Fluffy?”
“Fluffy,” Sasuke said, disgust colouring his tone. “Of course that’s its name.” She ignored him and his negativity.
“And why might Fluffy be occupying an entire room in the castle, on top of a trap door, and on the third floor, no less?”
Hagrid’s voice died in his throat. He raised his hands to try to explain away the dog’s existence, but the two sets of piercing eyes made him uncomfortable. “Er, well, that—that’s between Dumbledore and Nicholas Flamel!”
She smiled, sweet and innocent. “Thank you, Hagrid. It’s been a pleasure, but Sa-Draco and I really need to study for exams.” She grabbed her classmate’s wrist and held fast, even when he tried to rip it from her grip.
“Who is Nicholas Flamel?” he asked when they were a sizeable distance from Hagrid’s hut, rubbing his wrist when she finally released it.
“The only known maker of the Philosopher’s Stone,” she said, the cat who’d caught the canary. Her look fell. “But why does it need so many protections? Who is after it?”
Sasuke shrugged. “Does it matter?”
“Aren’t you having fun?” she asked. “This is the most interesting thing to have happened in this world! I miss—” She hesitated. But with one look he prompted her to continue. “I miss the sense of danger.”
“You’re adrenaline chasing?” He didn’t sound annoyed or incredulous, just probing. It made her want to smile, a vision of a dream from so long ago bubbling to the forefront of her mind (this boy—he was the one she wanted to marry).
She gave him a shrug, imitating how he always did it so lazily. “Among other things.”
“Hn.” This time she did smile.
.
The issue of the dragon ended up being solved when Hagrid confessed the truth to Dumbledore one night when he was drunk. Sasuke had rolled his eyes while Sakura frowned. “It could have been useful,” she admitted when prompted by one of his questioning looks.
She snuck a look at the essay he was writing, his penmanship as neat as one would expect of someone who had been raised with countless private tutors. She was only mildly jealous that he was blessed with wealth in both of his lives.
The regret she felt drowned out the envy almost immediately. He’d been rich before, but he had lost his whole family, had been traumatized and desperate for a vengeance which prevented him from opening his heart to anyone (to her). In this life, she knew he was no better off. She had heard the rumours, the Weasley’s in her House being notorious for them. Malfoy’s were evil, they said. Malfoy’s dabbled in Dark Arts and supported You-Know-Who. The Malfoy’s were pureblooded snobbish aristocracy at its finest.
And Draco (Sasuke) was supposedly no better.
She tried to ask him, only once.
“What is your family like?”
His pale eyes found hers, though she wasn’t looking at him, too busy flipping between pages in her book and pretending that her line of questioning didn’t matter. She didn’t expect him to answer. He had always been so ridiculously private.
“My father is distant but proud,” he said, voice oddly even. “My mother is polite and enjoys hovering.”
She looked up suddenly, but he was staring at empty space, eyes unseeing, fist clenched around his expensive eagle feather quill. There was something sad about the words he had uttered. Something that she wished she could wipe from his expression. Pain, she realized. Sadness, too, and bitterness. He appeared so terribly bitter.
Once more, she was reminded that though she had faced abuse in this life (always emotional, never outright physical) she had lucked out Before with her two loving, sane parents. She couldn’t remember their names—Sasuke had never learned them out of spite, it seemed—but they had loved her, that much she knew absolutely. But in both of his lives, Sasuke had been screwed over with two sets of parents who never gave him the affection he needed.
He needed hugs and smiles and words of comfort—things every child needed. Maybe he would have been alright if he’d been given them.
She wondered if she could change it so that it didn’t matter.
But then again, she had never been good at giving Sasuke what he needed. Naruto had always known, though, but Naruto wasn’t there with them.
Not for the first time, she wished she could curl up and cry (for Sasuke because he refused to do it for himself). Why was his life so unfair?
.
Their questions about who wanted the Philosopher’s Stone were easily answered one night when the two of them were bored.
“Hey, wanna go check out the third floor?” Sasuke asked after dinner, walking beside her as they headed on their nightly exploratory walk. She tried not to visibly light up at the idea.
“Tonight, after curfew. I’ll meet you there?” He nodded.
When curfew arrived, they spent little time heading back to the third floor where they knocked out Fluffy as easily as they had on their first visit. The dog had been asleep when they got there, but neither trusted the spelled harp to keep them safe.
They’d bypassed a barrier of light-fearing vines, a room full of flying keys, an unconscious troll (whose throat was slit once more by Sasuke), a life-sized chess board which Sakura blasted out of frustration when she realized the ploy (Shikamaru would have won easily with his love of shogi which was so similar) and were briefly stumped by a riddle involving poisons and potions and nettle wine.
“You should go,” Sasuke muttered into the collar of his robe after she deciphered the meaning and intent of the riddle.
“What, why me?”
“Aren’t you the Girl-Who-Lived?” he asked with an obnoxious curve of his lips. Sakura wanted to hit him but refrained.
There must have been a different reason Sasuke did not wish to go into the chamber, but she refused to push him. She grimaced at him, downed the right potion and dashed through the flames. She ignored his eyes as they followed her retreating back.
.
Quirrell answered the question of who wanted the Philosopher’s Stone. He had unwrapped his turban, surrounded by flaming tongues and the cold of a dungeon.
“You’ve derailed my expectations,” he told her. She sneered at him. He wasn’t scary. He was no scarier than the troll he let in on Halloween. There was only one thing in this life that scared her (pale gunmetal eyes turning blood red as he scoffed at her, his hand through her chest, no hint of regret).
She’d faced monsters in the Before. Kaguya was the biggest one, an actual goddess whose desire to triumph over humanity had led to countless deaths. Madara, who’d been so desperate to bring peace to the world that he’d brought destruction and pain instead. Obito who had loved so deeply he was driven to insanity from its loss (could that have been her in this life had she not found Sasuke?). Orochimaru whose greed broke one of the people Sakura was closest to, who hurt and hurt and hurt without any care of the consequences.
Quirrell was no monster. Quirrell was a misled man on a quest for something he would never find. Quests for immortality were doomed to fail. Orochimaru had proven that much.
Then Quirrell showed her the face on the back of his head.
“Miss Potter,” the raspy voice belonging to the succubus said. “I believe you have something which belongs to me.”
“You’re Voldemort,” she said, only mildly surprised, the puzzle pieces clicking into place with surprising speed. “So, you didn’t die.”
“No, but you see now what I must do to survive?”
He wanted pity. For what? He was the reason that she had no parents in this life. He was the reason that so many people (those born from muggles, those who couldn’t trace their wizarding ancestry back four generations, those not fully human) had been hurt. He had caused a war and war—
(broken bodies; blood, entrails and feces; men and women crying for their parents and children; a constant splash, bang, thud as jutsu went off in the distance; every earth-shattering boom could be their last; palpable fear; missing limbs, skin sloughing off from burns; just endless, horrific violence)
—war was never painless.
He didn’t deserve an answer. Let him interpret that as he saw fit.
At her silence, the man in the back of Quirrell’s head seemed to grow angry. “Where is the stone?” Voldemort hissed.
“Couldn’t tell you,” she replied coolly. “And even if I could, why would I bother?”
Voldemort smiled at her, his sunken face doing nothing for the illusion of kindness. “I can bring them back.”
It may have only been a second before her common sense caught up with her, but she froze. She froze until the shock at his confidence faded into laughter. Harsh, cold, incredulous laughter. She threw her head back and laughed and laughed and laughed.
When she regained her bearings she straightened and eyed him icily. “No, you can’t. No one can. They’re gone. Long gone. So don’t pretend that you can manipulate me. I may look young, but I am not stupid. But you, apparently, are.”
Voldemort growled. “You are a presumptuous little girl, Cherry Potter. Quirrell!”
The possessed professor turned back around and made a run at her, but she jumped around him. Wizards who relied on their wands had nothing on shinobi who relied on their own body’s versatility. It was like outpacing a child—she ignored that she was still, by most people’s standards, a child.
However, she had no plans on allowing for the fight to be drawn out. Confidence, no matter how well placed, led to sloppiness and even untrained ‘dark lords’ could get lucky.
As much as she desired to summon an oversized, unnecessary imitation of Susanoo, her magic in this world could never seem to grasp the ultimate defense’s intricacies. She settled for the next best thing, in her opinion. She pulled her fist back and allowed a modicum of her magic gather there, the muscle memory falling into place from months of training with Sasuke. For the first time, Sakura felt like she could actually belong in this world.
Quirrell screamed and howled when she released her fist, the flesh where she made contact crumbling and ashy. A laugh bubbled to the surface and she didn’t fight it.
(freedom from the strength that her teacher gave her, the strength to belong, to walk not behind her teamfriendsfamily but beside them, and that was a joy she thought she would never learn to replace)
Still, whatever possessed Quirrell was unforgiving. Despite his chest turning to ashy stone, the Defense professor came at her again, screaming in agony, hands outstretched. Once more, channeling magic to her fist, Sakura met her attacker head on, punching him with enough force that he went flying across the room and into the wall. She shook the ash from her fist, feeling a flood of joy as the memories of Before washed through her. She never felt so powerful as when she was punching through her enemies and sending them halfway across the battlefield. And she hadn’t lost that. (She was strong.)
Quirrell’s screaming stopped abruptly as his body fell, lifeless. Her joy faded with his life. What lay there on the ground, now more dust and dirt than flesh and blood, forced something in her to shift. Killing in the Before had been so easy, but here she had been as close to innocent as she could be. And yet… she’d thrown that all away.
Now that Quirrell was dead, Sakura identified the Mirror of Erised in the centre of the room. She fought her need to stare into it, but in a moment of weakness she looked. It was not her family nor her friends that greeted her in the reflection, but herself. Alone, amidst an empty background, the reflection smiled at her and dropped something in her pocket.
Frowning, the real Sakura did the same and felt the hard cold edges of a rock. Feelings she couldn’t identify flittered through her. What the hell?
The Stone in her pocket weighed her down and exhaustion was upon her like the shadows of night, darkening her vision. Gravity’s fingers dragged her down and the ground greeted her harshly.
“Sakura!” someone screamed.
She smiled, finally letting her eyes close.
(She could be strong, too.)
.
They were on the train, London bound. Hermione sat beside her, watching from the corner of her eye, while Sasuke sat across from her, having ditched his Slytherin groupies almost too easily.
It was a mostly silent ride filled only with the sounds of page flipping and scattered sighs.
Upon arriving at the station, Hermione introduced the two of them to her parents. They were polite, but they were civilians. Civilians had no place in a world that was still fighting for the freedom of its own people. At least they were safer here than Before.
As Sasuke and Sakura bid Hermione and her family goodbye, the two headed off in another direction. Sasuke opened his mouth to speak, appearing to hesitate. A single eyebrow raise from her was all that he needed to speak.
“Question.” He was speaking the language from Before meaning he didn’t want anyone to overhear them. He had spotted his parents across the way and the two were walking towards them.
“Hm?”
“Back at the beginning of the year, how did you know who I was?”
She bit back a laugh. This was the question he wanted to know? He must have been wondering all year if that were the case.
“Easy. The Hat told me.”
He frowned. She just laughed and laughed and was happy that she wasn’t alone.
“I’ll see you next year, Draco,” she said, bopping him on the nose before he could stop her. He scowled and marched off, muttering something along the lines of you, too.