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Chapter Text

When we last saw the boys:

“Thank you, my boys for settling an old man’s mind,” Dumbledore told them, “I hope you can find it in yourselves to enjoy the rest of you day with this hanging over you.”

Harry smiled at him pleasantly, leaning forward to pinch a lemon drop as he stood.

“I think we’ll manage, sir.”

Making a swift exist, the two time-travellers barely managed to contain their snickers until they reached the end of the hall – just out of sight of the Dumbledore’s guardian gargoyle – before they burst into laughter. Staggering away, leaning on each other as they struggled to breath past the hysteria, the sound travelled like ripples in a still pond after a stone has been thrown in. It radiated pure and free, so childish despite their mental years.

And thus, their last week of school continued unimpeded.

Rumours flew of course, as rumours were want to do, but that’s all they were – rumours. No one knew exactly what happened that night. A whisper of an epic battle here, a mutter of prank gone terribly wrong there. Most people seemed to be of the opinion that Professor Snape had conspired with Hagrid and his creatures to assassinate Professor Quirrell in his secret bat lair because the man had given him advice on how to deal with greasy hair. There also seemed to be a small minority who were convinced that the Dark Arts teacher had torn off his turban in a fit, driven to insanity by the ever present stench of garlic and thus unleashing the terrible world devouring eldritch horrors that had been bound there by ‘Aincient Magiks’ – whatever the hell that was.

(Harry could hear the unnecessary capitalisation and pompous misspelling as he eavesdropped on the surrounding Slytherins.

“Is that even a thing or–?” he whispered to his left.

“. . . no Potter,” winced Draco with pain filled eyes, “it really isn’t.”

Harry snorted; “Embarrassed of your people, are you?”

“No; I’m insulted you think I’d claim people vacuous as that as ‘my people’.”)

While Harry had learned to discard Hogwarts rumours very quickly in his beginning years, there had always been a small part of him both impressed and disturbed by how very wrong some rumours could be whilst also being weirdly. . . right?

In other good news, Harry had bounced back quite quickly from his encounter with Voldermort (incinerating Dark Lords took a lot of effort, but he had practical experience and 17 years of being a horcrux on his side). This meant that Harry was not unconscious in the hospital wing for the Quidditch Cup unlike some other time when he, for example, was slatted to play the last Quidditch match of his first year but was unavailable due to, oh he doesn’t know, being unconscious in the hospital wing for three days straight because he burned a man to death with his mother’s love.

No, Draco, he’s not fucking salty.

Harry shot into the sky like a Hungarian Horntail chasing a thing, and Ravenclaw never stood a chance.

He knew the resulting win wasn’t enough points to drag across their house onto the winner’s podium for the overall House cup (that went to Slytherin much to Draco’s competitive, smug pleasure), but as Harry looked around him (at Wood half-blinded by tears; his team tangled together in a many-armed hug yelling hoarsely, “We’ve won the Cup! We’ve won the Cup!”; the wave upon wave of crimson supporters pouring over the barriers onto the field; thumping pats on their backs) he couldn’t find it in himself to care. He cast his gaze around and there, jumping up and down like a maniacs, all dignity forgotten as they fought their way toward Harry, were his friends. Ron. . Hermione. . Neville. . . Draco.

Harry beamed and they beamed back.

It was a beautiful time to be alive.

.

.

.

.

. 

June 5^th, 1992

       Dear, [redacted]

We have something you want.

Waiting your reply,

       A friend        An Ally        Someone you can trust 

      Someone who is getting annoyed

      M + P

Chapter Text

Harry was screwed. Fucked. Up shit-creek without a paddle in sight, just him and his paper boat steadily approaching their impending doom.

“Utterly ridiculous,” Draco sneered at the bustling crowd. “I can’t believe you roped me into this.”

“If I’m going down, you’re going down with me,” hissed Harry, swallowing back nausea caused by the number of people pressing in. “Besides, this is entirely your fault, if you’d have just found–”

“My fault?!” eyes wide in outrage, Draco emitted homicidal rage like a foul stench. “Oh, I ought to–!”

Two hands emerged from the menacing abyss crowd, landing solidly on Harry’s shoulder.

“There you are!” exclaimed Arthur Weasley cheerily, “Thought I lost you permanently for a second there- could you imagine? That would’ve been just awful!”

He says, as if Harry and Draco hadn’t bolted as far away from the ever-growing queue of people, desperate to leave the store immediately upon entry. Alas, said queue now extended outside the store, and leaving would put them in direct sights of their enemy; a risk neither was willing to take.

“Yeah, just awful,” Harry agreed half-heartedly. Draco sneered.

He was quite good at that.

Leaving Draco behind, Mr. Weasley nudged Harry forward, somehow forging a path around the adoring crowd until they joined with the rest of the Weasleys and Mr. and Mrs. Granger.

“Oh, there you are, good,” said Mrs. Weasley breathlessly. She kept patting her hair. “We’ll be able to see him in a minute. . . .”

Desperate to be anywhere else, Harry searched the crowd for Draco.

He couldn’t find him.

The other boy had escaped.

Fuck.

Betrayed, Harry looked up to the rafters in despair as Gilderoy Lockhart emerged from the back rooms, seating himself at a table surrounded by large pictures of his own face, all winking and flashing dazzlingly white teeth at the crowd.

"Out of the way, there," a short, irritable man with a camera snarled at Ron, moving back to get a better shot. “This is for the Daily Prophet —”

Harry closed his eyes and begged the magic that brought him back in time to reverse the process. Let him battle Voldemort again. Please, just, anything but this —

“It can’t be Harry Potter?” Gilderoy positively shouted.

Draco, having hidden taken post at the back of the store, could only watch on as Harry endured his torture.

Over the years, Draco realised he would do just about anything if Harry asked it of him. He’d fight battles, he’d wage wars, he’d even a be shoulder to cry on. But this. . .

Draco averted his eyes as Lockhart threw an arm around Harry’s shoulders and clamped him tightly to his side.

. . . this was something Draco couldn’t help him with. Harry would have to shoulder this section of the plan alone.

What a poor bastard.

#

Already exhausted by the day and staggering under the weight of Lockhart’s entire collection of works, Harry managed to make his way out of the limelight to the edge of the room, where Ginny was standing next to her new cauldron.

“You have these,” Harry grunted at her, tipping the books into the cauldron. “I’ll buy my own.”

Ginny stared at him with wide eyes. He fought back a wince.

He’d nearly forgotten how uncomfortable it was the experience it was being Ginny's 'celebrity crush'. 

Draco, suddenly emerging from whatever hole he’d hidden in, goaded him, "Bet you loved that, didn't you, Potter?"

Harry gave him a flat look, not deigning him a response.

"Leave him alone,” Ginny told the blonde, glaring at him fiercely, “He didn't want all that!"

“Don’t worry Gin,” Harry reassured her. “Draco’s just being mean ‘cause he can be.”

“Yeah, relax Weaslette, it was a joke” drawled Draco. Ginny went scarlet and Harry whacked him as Ron and Hermione fought their way over, both clutching stacks of Lockhart’s books.

“Oh, it’s you,” said Ron, looking at Draco as if not sure casual conversation was a thing they participate in. “Thought you said you were going to get your books later, once the crowd went away?”

“Yes, well apparently Harry needed someone to hold his hand,” replied Draco with an eye roll.

“I’ll give you hand-holding, you backing-stabbing, double-crossing piece of –” Harry started toward Draco, but Ron and Hermione grabbed the back of his jacket.

“Must you always be so violent towards each other?” exclaimed an exasperated Hermione.

“He started it!”

“Children!” said Mr. Weasley, struggling over with Fred and George. “What are you still doing here? It’s too crowded, let’s go outside.”

“Well, well, well. Arthur Weasley.”

It was Mr. Malfoy. He too had emerged from the crowd, somehow exuding an aurora of poise and composure despite the chaos of shop-goers. He stood with his hand on Draco’s shoulder, not quite sneering but not exactly smiling either.

Harry locked eyes with Draco.

Truthfully, this was why they were here. Merlin knows Harry would’ve preferred side-stepping Lockhart by going to Flourish and Blots any other day, but they were out of options and desperate.

After returning home for the summer break, Harry had tasked Draco with finding the diary.

Tom Riddle’s diary. Voldemort’s horcrux.

The first of seven.

Granted, they didn’t have the means to destroy the thing as of yet, but the boys were determined; they would not let Hogwarts halls be terrorised again.

Unbeknownst to them of course, the diary had already been removed. Malfoy senior, spurred by the horrific and (from his perspective) sudden night terrors Draco had experienced just before starting Hogwarts, decided to hell with his late father’s wishes. It was all good and prestigious for your family to be trusted by the Greatest Dark Lord in wizarding history to safe-guard one of his personal artefacts, but once proximity to that artefact (seemingly) starts to harm your only child and heir? Well, the Dark Lord has been gone for years now.

What would he care if Lucious relocated the stupid diary to a more remote location?

And so, Draco searched the manor; left to right, top to bottom, inside and out. He found nothing. All summer he searched until:

“Did you find it?” whispered Harry. 

Draco shook his head, eyes frustrated.

Harry cursed softly, lifting his gaze to scan the environment. The leaky cauldron was pleasantly full and none of the Weasley’s were paying attention, already used to seeing the two have private conversations. 

“What are we going to do?” Draco didn’t respond, tapping the table as he thought. Harry continued, “If we don’t do something –”

“I know,” Draco hissed, hesitating before saying decisively, “It’ll have to be today. Make our play at the bookshop. We’ll grab the diary after my . . . after my father slips it in the Weaslette’s cauldron.”

“Draco–”

“That’s what you said happened last time, yes?”

“. . .yeah.”

“Then it’s settled. I doubt anyone will be paying attention, but you’ve got a better notice-me-not so once the fight starts, you cast and I’ll go after the cauldron and diary. Failing this, you do everything you can to get it off Weaslette before you return to the Dursleys. Got it?”

“Yeah, got it.”

Thus, it was decided. The diary wasn’t at the manor. It wasn’t in the Malfoy vault. It’d be suicide to swipe it off Draco’s father. This was their last chance. They had their plan, they had their ministry grade Anti-theft Lockbox for Cursed Items, and they were ready.

“Lucius,” said Mr. Weasley, nodding coolly.

“Busy time at the Ministry, I hear,” said Mr. Malfoy. “I hope they’re paying you overtime for all those raids?”

Here it comes , thought Harry, readying his wand in his pocket. He felt it warm against his palm, an ever-present comfort.

Any moment now,  Draco told himself, hyper-conscious of the weight on his shoulder.

They were ready.

Lucious hesitated. It wasn’t noticeable to others, but he did.

He didn’t know why; there was hardly any getting around it. He had to do it. He couldn’t abandon his duty to his Lord for the sake of sentiment.

Besides, the Weasley’s were a disgrace to the name of wizard and a right thorn in his side. If any family were to deserve to take the fall, it should be them; two owls with one stone.

Imperceptibly, he found himself glancing at the Potter boy. The boy was looking at Draco, eyebrows moving up and down minutely in silent conversation, eyes swimming with a near-violent level of determination and –

Lucious paused, thinking.

He’d never seen Draco as he has been today. As a child, he’d always been more prone to playing alone and holding himself above other children his age (as he is, being a true Malfoy). But, around the Potter boy, he seemed free in a way Lucious never thought to consider. He seemed. . . happy.

Mr. Malfoy made an aborted gesture with his hand as if he were about to reach out. He grasped his cane firmly and continued speaking, “All those hours?” he gave Mr. Weasley a disparaging smile, “I would simply hate for good for work to go to waste,”

Harry’s stomach dropped.

He felt vaguely sick as Mr. Weasley replied with something vapid, eyes frantically searching from person to person as if they would suddenly provide answers. Draco could only stare up at his father in unnoticed stupefaction.

“Come along Draco,” said Mr. Malfoy, after bidding a barely polite farewell, “we still have more shopping to do.”

And they were gone, leaving Harry in a spiral of despair and confusion as their last chance to steal the diary disappeared into a cloud of smoke.

Chapter Text

For Harry, the next few weeks progressed too quickly and not quickly enough.

Life had been brutal blend of monotony, anticipation, and disappointment. Each day without results fuelled the flames. Something had changed Malfoy seniors’ actions that day and they were no closer to figuring out what the bloody hell had happened.

The consequences of our actions are always so complicated, so diverse, that predicting the future is a very difficult business indeed.

Harry scowled at the wall. He couldn’t remember where he’d heard it, but that phrase rattled itself known every few or so days.

It sounded annoying like Professor Dumbledore.

Harry had tried to distract himself from their failures and Dursley life with the life ramblings of his friends. Letters came pretty consistently throughout the remaining weeks. It left Harry immensely glad that Dobby hadn’t-

Dobby-

On strict orders from Draco, the house elf had been forbidden from interfering. Harry felt-

Neither boy wanted to deal with the underage magic infraction from the ministry. that would be sure to follow. The most immediate benefit of this was the absence of bars on his window and (relatively speaking) less enraged relatives. The most immediate downside to this, reflected Harry, meant there had been no month at the Burrow to pass the time. And he wanted to see Dobby, to make sure

No hanging out with Ron or Ginny or the other Weasley’s, no cheeky Filibuster fireworks set off in the kitchen, no mug of hot chocolate just before bed.

No casual hugs or warm smiles.

Just Harry, the hot summer sun, and the weeds in Petunia’s Garden. Lying awake each night waiting for Draco’s word, only to be told the diary was still nowhere to be found.

Despite the passage of time and his disdain for feeling this way, Harry sometimes found it difficult to reign in his jealously of the others. He had always fought hard against the sickly-choking feelings, but as feelings were wont to do, he couldn’t always stop jealously from running its burning course.

It always happened when he thought of the Dursleys and moonlight streaming through a steel barred window.

When he thought of dark nightmares and screams in the night.

When he thought about all the little girls and boys who went home each night and didn’t lie in their dark cupboards and wonder what made them so unlovable.

Harry digressed.

No matter what it felt like, time did pass and soon Harry found himself and Draco on the train to Hogwarts. Secluded away in a compartment, door locked and charmed, the two time-travellers sat across from each other and panicked discussed their options.

“Nothing?”

“Nothing.”

Harry cursed viciously.

“I don’t understand,” seethed Draco, slumping most un-Draco-like into the seat. “Of all things, why has this changed? Nothing should have changed his mind.”

“Maybe he felt pity, thought twice about using a little girl. I don’t know, he’s your father.”

“Yes, exactly. He’s my father, and my father wouldn’t let pity get in the way of doing the Dark Lords work.”

Harry removed his glasses, pressing his palms to his eyes. The overwhelming darkness was comforting. “It could be different this time?”

“Obliviously, but why? What changed?”

“I said I don’t know,” snapped Harry.

They both fell silent. Palms still pressing his eyes shut, Harry traced the blooming spots of with muted curiosity before sighing. He let his hands fall and blinked to clear away the brightness.

“. . .sorry,” he said, “you didn’t deserve that.”

Draco looked stubbornly out the window. The train was close to departing time, and families were rushing about with flurried hands and waving handkerchiefs. “Forgiven, I suppose.”

Harry smiled weakly, also turning to watch families smother their children in affection.

This time 7 odd years ago, he was embroiled in the utter panic of smashing against the platform barrier and the excitement of racing after the train in a flying car (a flying car!). It was. . . strange (absurd, to be honest) that he was here on the Hogwarts Express, about to embark on a pleasantly normal journey to the castle with no well-meaning house-elves in sight.

His memories of those events were confusing and disjointed under the haze of adrenalin, but he'd never forget the feeling of success and camaraderie for ‘outsmarting’ whatever force had conspired to keep him from Hogwarts. It made him nostalgic for the days when simple problems had been countered with outlandish solutions.

They had been kids playing grownups.

Now he and Draco were grownups playing kids, submerging themselves into subterfuge and word games in the hopes they wouldn’t fuck everyone over in the long run.

“Do you ever,” Draco began. His voice was quiet, weak with remorse for the words to come. “. . .do you ever wish we could just forget?”

Harry let the question linger, chest tight with unspoken longings. With a heavy heart, Harry abandoned his seat to join his friends’ side. Shoulder to shoulder, the battle against the sinking despair that threatened to drown them.

Draco continued in a faint whisper.

“I don’t want to let him win. I don’t want anyone to-” Harry pressed more firmly against Draco’s side and the boy heaved a shuddering breath.

“I know.”

They lapsed into further silence.

“We need to start thinking forward,” said Draco eventually, once again composed and acting as if the two of them hadn’t already exhausted themselves doing just that. “Starting today, we inspect everyone. Someone will have that diary, and they can’t hide it from us.”

“Draco, we don’t even know if the diary will be there,” stressed Harry. “Maybe. . . maybe this year will be okay.”

“Do you really believe that? With your kind of luck?”

Harry rolled his eyes, telling him to shut up. “Despite popular belief, I don't go looking for trouble-” Draco laughed loudly and was thoroughly ignored “-trouble usually finds me.”

“Say we can’t find the diary; why can’t we just enter the chamber this weekend-”

“No, absolutely not-”

“We need the Basilisk venom for the horcruxes, Draco,” Harry cut off, ruffling his hair in frustration. He stood up and paced (as well as one could in a 2x2 shitbox of a train compartment). “There haven’t been any sightings of a Basilisk in Britain for the last 400 years, so we can’t buy it locally. The shortest waitlist anywhere else is years and the restrictions for getting on that waitlist are so ludicrous even Snape wouldn’t be about to sneak his way pass.”

“And fiendfyre is out of the question,” murmured Draco. He shook his head after a moment of thought, dispelling what could’ve been (agreement?). “No, Harry, we find the diary and remove it from the equation. Get the diary, and no one opens the chamber.”

“Kill the snake and no gets petrified anyway,” Harry countered.

“It was sheer serendipity that allowed you to put that sword through that thing’s head. What makes

“Fine!” exclaimed Harry. “No fighting the giant bloody snake. I’m still a parselmouth – we can talk to it or something! Convince it to not attack students, tell it give us its venom.”

“Are you insane?” Draco hissed, looking as if he wanted to lunge forward and shake Harry’s brain loose from his skull.

“Maybe,” taunted Harry, somewhat nonsensically. “Without Riddle there it should be easy – the Basilisk will think I’m the heir. Boom, easy.”

“Easy? Boom? Easy!?.”

“What are you two talking about?”

Harry’s heart lurched violently and he swore, hand pressing to his chest. Catching his breath, he ignored Neville’s question and Hermione’s scandalised reprimands. He and Draco had been sloppy. No matter what magical measures they put in place, the Hogwarts express was no place to discuss Horcruxes and threats to the student body. Given Harry’s history with eavesdropping, it seemed certain that someone would overhear, that something would slip through the cracks of their defence. He didn’t want to fall prey to the same hubris of other before him.

He caught Draco’s eye; their conversation would continue later. Until then, they would continue the search for the diary separately.

Harry shook away his frustration and dread.

It wouldn’t do worry their friends.

#

Neville was extremely worried.

Okay, so that might not exactly be news at this point. Everyone and their mother knew Neville was a nervous boy. He had a wealth of insecurities ready to near consume him at any point. About himself, about his friends, about his ability to live up to his Grans’ expectations. Things that he would build up in his mind and leave a tight in his chest but could tentatively dismissed as overthinking (especially if his wonderful new friends became involved).

It was lovely and exciting experience to have people there for him to pull him out of his head and into the real world. His gran tried sometimes but Neville knew that she could never quite understand. He didn’t blame her or anything, but life had felt so. . . lonely before Hogwarts.

But with the addition of his lovely new friends, came new worries with higher stakes.

Such as suspecting two new friends of involvement in the mysterious disappearance of the defence against the dark arts professor last school year.

Oh, Neville felt so awful thinking about it, but the ___ just wouldn’t stop poising his mind!

Practicing a Herculean feat of restraint (for a child his age), Neville fought valiantly against the urge to look at Harry. He rebelled against every ounce of concern (and curiosity) in his body and refrained from even glancingat Harry.

The whole span of events had been suspicious enough without taking the disappearance into account. Harry and Malfoy had been skulking about for weeks prior, not to mention all those strange, hushed conversations throughout the year and that whole fuss about the philosopher’s stone!

Neville hardly dared to think that either boy were responsible for the disappearance, but they definitely knew something! He thought perhaps they’d gotten caught up in the mystery and been told to keep quiet about it by the professors – or maybe Aurors had been involved. He definitely got the sense that both boys had been trying their best to keep the rest of them out of it (for which Neville was mostly grateful. He had discovered a sense of curiosity in himself last year, but that didn’t mean he wanted any part of dangerous adventures, no thank you). Neville had been most prepared to let the whole thing lie until-

Well.

It’s not his fault the other two boys always actually so bloody suspicious!

Neville chanced a peek Harry, but quickly looked forward again. Ron nudged him in the ribs and said not so quietly:

“Mate, what’s up with you?”

To which Neville hushed him.

“I’ll tell you later,” he whispered.

When he’d interrupted Harry and Malfoy on the train, Neville realised immediately that he’d cut through the most awful tension. It felt like the two had been shouting at each other but didn’t to let their friends know that anything was wrong. It’s something Neville noticed they did with alarming frequency. The secrecy, not the shouting. Usually, he was content to blissful ignore the behaviour, as it seemed the situations quickly resolved themselves.

Usually.

No matter how hard they’d tried to hide it, the rest of the train ride saw both boys fiddling and anxious. He’d say Harry and Malfoy were nervous – scared even – but that couldn’t be right. If Neville hadn’t already clocked their behaviour, the boy might not have noticed the way Harry was scanning the dining hall, not even paying attention to the sorting.

His careful eye was highly concerning and somewhat unnerving.

Neville could feel Ron staring at the side of his face in contemplation before the boy shrugged. “If you say so.”

Neville didn’t have to wait long for his chance, but it sure felt like eons.

First, they had to get through double Herbology with Hufflepuff – he’d been so excited to work with Mandrakes, but dear Merlin, he fainted! When he woke up in the hospital wing, Neville decided he’d never felt more mortified and disappointed in his life! The only highlight of the morning had been the way Harry had bolted into the greenhouse with a squeak after spotting Professor Lockhart lingering outside. He wasn’t sure what that had been about, but it went on his list of unusual behaviour.

Then came Transfiguration, which had Neville despairing. The class had never been his strong suit, but with the help he’d been getting from Hermione last year, he’d hoped class would come a little easier for him now.

. . .no luck. They were supposed to turn a beetle into a button but instead, all Neville achieved was watching it scuttle over the desktop to avoid his wand. Harry (who had, of course, achieved the spell first try) had sworn the beetle “looked shinier” but Neville was sure he was just being polite.

It was nice that Harry had tried to cheer him up, but it didn’t distract Neville from noticing the way he kept a careful watch of people around him.

Lunch had been mostly normal, with the exception of Ron teasing Hermione about the hearts she’d doodled on her schedule and Colin Creevey.

He was a very small, mousy-haired boy. Neville vaguely recalled seeing him when he sorted last night, if only because he’d been staring at Harry as though transfixed. The newly minted first-year approached the group shortly after they’d migrated to the courtyard.

“All right, Harry? I’m — I’m Colin Creevey,” he said breathlessly, taking a tentative step forward. “I’m in Gryffindor, too. D’you think — would it be all right if — can I have a picture?” he said, raising the camera hopefully.

“A picture?” Ron repeated incredulously.

“So I can prove I’ve met you,” said Colin Creevey eagerly, edging further forward. “I know all about you. Everyone’s told me. About how you survived when You-Know-Who tried to kill you and how he disappeared and everything and how you’ve still got a lightning scar on your forehead–”

“Colin, yeah?” Harry interrupted.

He was smiling at the kid but – it seemed strained. It was sincere enough but Neville – it – there was something –

“Yes!” the first-year confirmed, bouncing up and down on the spot, almost vibrating in excitement.

Harry’s smile relaxed into something more real.

“I don’t really do that kind of stuff? But you can come around to the quidditch trials Saturday morning if you really want some cool pictures.”

Instead of being disappointed, the kid gasped in awe.

“Really?”

“Yeah,” encouraged Ron. The younger boy’s enthusiasm was contagious. “You’d get some pretty sick photos out if that I’d reckon.”

“Awesome!”

And with that he was off.

Hermione nodded approvingly. “That was really kind of you Harry. Of course, it’s concerning that he thought it was okay to come up and start saying those things. Oh, someone ought to let him know it’s insensitive and not proper to-”

“Selling photos of yourself, Harry?” Quiet and thoughtful, Draco Malfoy’s voice carried gently to the group. At some point he had stopped right beside them in complete silence. “Should I be worried?” He and Harry looked at each other and in the shortest of seconds, a whole conversation seemed to happen between them.

Harry shook his head with a small smiled. It was softer than the one he’d given Colin Creevey, but no less genuine.

“Nah,” he drawled, “You should be more worried about other things.”

“Like what?”

Harry’s smile transformed into a vicious grin. “Like how Gryffindor is going to trounce Slytherin in the quidditch cup again.”

Malfoy merely smirked in smug satisfaction.

“We’ll see.”

After lunch came Defence Against the Dark Arts with Professor Lockhart.

Neville. . . well, he wasn’t sure if Professor Lockhart had obtained any kind of qualification that would approve him for teaching students, but he didn’t exactly have a high opinion of whoever signed him off. The class had been nothing short of a disaster.

1. What is Gilderoy Lockhart’s favourite colour?
2. What is Gilderoy Lockhart’s secret ambition?
3. What, in your opinion, is Gilderoy Lockhart’s greatest achievement to date?

Neville had despaired for the coming classes if the first quiz was any indication of the content.

54. When is Gilderoy Lockhart’s birthday, and what would his ideal gift be?

Neville whimpered quietly to himself, but it had only gotten worse from there.

“Now — be warned! It is my job to arm you against the foulest creatures known to wizardkind! You may find yourselves facing your worst fears in this room. Know only that no harm can befall you whilst I am here. All I ask is that you remain calm.”

Lockhart placed a hand on the cover. Dean and Seamus had stopped laughing, and Neville cowered in his front row seat.

Merlin, why hadn’t he sat at the back with Harry and Ron.

As the whole class held its breath, Lockhart whipped off the cover.

“Yes,” he said dramatically. “Freshly caught Cornish pixies.”

Seamus couldn’t control himself. He let out a snort of laughter that even Professor (?) Lockhart couldn’t mistake for a scream of terror.

“Yes?” He smiled at Seamus.

“Well, they’re not — they’re not very — dangerous, are they?” Seamus choked.

“Don’t be so sure!” said Lockhart, waggling a finger teasingly at Seamus.

Neville didn’t find it very funny.

“Devilish tricky little blighters they can be!”

The pixies were electric blue and about eight inches high, with pointed faces and voices so shrill it was like listening to a lot of budgies arguing. They had started jabbering and rocketing around the moment the cover had been removed, rattling the bars and making bizarre faces at the front row.

Neville swore that one of them looked him dead in the eye and made a throat cutting gesture. He paled significantly and clutched white knuckled at his desk.

“I must ask you not to scream,” said Lockhart in a low voice. “It might provoke them.”

And with that, Lockhart opened the cage.

Pandemonium was a tame word for the sheer chaos the pixies caused in the classroom.

The pixies shot in every direction like rockets. Several shot straight through the window, showering the back row with broken glass. The rest proceeded to wreck the classroom more effectively than a rampaging rhino. They grabbed ink bottles and sprayed the class with them, shredded books and papers, tore pictures from the walls, upended the wastebasket, grabbed bags and books and threw them out of the smashed window; within minutes, half the class was sheltering under desks.

Two of them seized Neville by the ears and lifted him into the air, quickly hooking hiss robes on the iron chandelier in the ceiling and leaving him dangling above the destruction. His heart seized and all he could hear was white noise. He could see Lockhart gesturing around and saying something as he brandished his wand, but one of the pixies seized it and threw it out of the window.

To his utter horror, Neville felt the chandelier jerk downwards.

“Immobulus!”

The pixies froze.

“Wingardium Leviousa!”

Neville detached from the chandelier and was floated gently downwards.

In the centre of the classroom stood Harry, feet firmly planted and wand expertly brandished.

The sudden silence was defining.

“Perhaps, Professor,” said Harry quietly, scorn dripping from the formal address, “you should teach us how to ‘round them up’ before releasing them on us.”

“Well – I – I wanted to give you some hands-on experience!” the professor said with a winning grin. “Nothing like learning from experience, eh Harry Potter? You’d know all about that, mister boy-who-lived.”

He chuckled and winked at the wider class.

Harry stared at him with a terrifyingly blank expression.

The bell rang and everyone made a mad rush toward the exit.

No one wanted to get stuck packing the frozen pixies back into their cage.

And finally, finally, after relaxing and hanging out together all day, on Saturday night Harry lifted himself from the couch with a groan.

“Where’re you going?” asked Ron, not daring to take his eyes off his potentially explosive cards.

With a tired and smothered yawn, Harry mumbled something about “tired – arse-crack of dawn – quidditch trials – Malfoy and his fucking brooms-”, ambling away mid-sentence with a goodnight thrown over his shoulder.

Neville seized his chance, dropping his cards and forfeiting the game. Ron cheered as Hermione tutted, a careful flick of her wand banishing the soot and smoke.

“We need to talk.”

Ron and Hermione stared at him expectantly.

“Something’s up with Harry and Malfoy.”

Ron shrugged. “Agreed, but how’s that any different from normal?”

Neville took a deep breath. “I think Harry and Malfoy are hiding something about the end of last year.” Hermione opened her mouth to – argue? He wasn’t sure – but Neville bolstered his resolve and rushed out. “They’ve always been a bit mysterious, but I feel like it’s more than that. Like they know exactly what happened because– because maybe they were there. . .”

“That’s,” Ron hesitated, his sentence trailing off into the relative silence of the common room. His first instinct was to defend his first friend, but, well. Harry made that difficult sometimes. Very difficult.

“I know,” Neville moaned head falling into his hands. “I feel awful.”

Hermione hummed thoughtfully, fiddling with her quill. She’d already completed half the assigned homework. “You think they had something to do with Professor Quirrell disappearing?”

“No,” said Neville, as confident as one could be given the people he was talking about. “I think they were definitely involved, but in a not evil way, you know?”

“That’s a bit hefty mate. . .”

“You don’t think they were being suspicious?”

“Obviously,” Hermione dismissed easily, the question almost not worth answering. “But were you not the one who said, ‘sometimes it’s better not to question those two’.”

“Yes, but that was about the little stuff,” Neville twisted his fingers. “You know, like their inside jokes and when they’re being weird. Not for when they’re being weird. I- I’m worried about them.”

“Why bring it up now?”

“Because they’re being weird again!” Neville exclaimed before lowering his voice in paranoia. “They were being weird last year, but then they were fine during the last week or so and now. . . it’s almost like they’re scared of something – but that can’t be right.”

Ron tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Harry did seem a bit high strung, didn’t he? Didn’t even touch the treacle tarts.”

“Well,” said Hermione primly in her no-nonsense, do-what-I-say-because-I-know-what-to-do voice (it was extremely effective). “It’s clear what we have to do.”

“How?” Ron complained. “We barely know anything – this is – this is just conspiracy theories.”

Hermione rolled her eyes.

“The we watch and wait for them to slip up.”

#

The third-floor Serpentine Corridor under the cover of night was an intimidating place at the best of times. The fire-lit torches lining the walls had a tendency to throw dark and misshapen shadows along the floor. Generations of students whispered about unnatural rumbling and scraping of stone against stone from within the walls themselves. Patrolling professors fought hard to ignore sensation of freezing eyes tracking their every breath, attributing the feeling to an abundance of ghost stories (if you’d pardon the language).

These days the whole experience often became a way of hazing; daring year mates to brave “the spooky haunted corridor” (somewhat of an on-the-nose joke, given that the castle was haunted by a multitude of ghosts anyway).

Had anyone been passing outside the DADA classroom corridor that night, they might’ve remembered that monsters took physical form.

Lingering and lurking as they were, the ‘monster’ could instil the most terrible fear in any witch of wizard. Chilling the bone marrow, an aurora of freezing-cold venom – any passer-by would instantly know to run the other way. . . if they’d been able to see them.

“Come . . . come to me. . . . Let me rip you. . . . Let me tear you. . . . Let me kill you. . . .”

The figure bowed its head.

With barely a whispered sigh, they were gone.

Chapter Text

Molly sighed in irritation, opening and closing her jaw, but the problem persisted. Maybe if she wiggled it around? Would rubbing her ears help? What if she yawned – no, that’s for high altitudes. . .

“What are you doing?” Barnaby exclaimed in bewilderment, side-eyeing his friend with a significant amount of judgement.

“I think I’ve got tinnitus,” Molly explained, now massaging the area just in front of her ears, in hopes of relief.

Barnaby’s mouth screwed up in disgust, “What-itius?”

“Ti-nuh-tuhs,” Florence corrected. “Tinnitus. It’s a muggles condition–”

“–a muggle disease? It’s not contagious, is it?!” Barnaby panicked in disgust, “In that case, stay away from me.”

Molly rolled her eyes, “Oh my god, Barnaby, no. It’s not contagious. It’s just a word for constant ringing in your ears, really.”

“Oh. Ringing in your ears? You sure it’s not a jinx or a hex?”

“Could be, I don’t know. It’s usually caused by hearing loss, but I haven’t been blasting my Walkman recently (yes, Barnaby, the funny little muggle box). I just keep hearing this faint humming sound? Well, not a hum. More like, stone grating on stone, but from pretty far away. It’s also not all the time? Just sometimes.”

Florence tilted her head in consideration, “Isn’t Tinnitus is usually, a high-pitched ringing though? Maybe you should go to Madame Pomfrey. . .”

Draco blinked back into reality, bored beyond tears. If only his peers weren’t so dull – maybe, then he wouldn’t be stuck eavesdropping on the world’s most-boring-conversation-to-ever-occur to pass the time.

So far, the first week of the term had passed by in a mostly uneventful blur. Professors had already begun piling up homework for every year level, holiday assignments grades were quickly distributed, and Draco fought the urge to disappear into the Black Lake each time someone in his year level tried to drag him into a conversation about blood politics they had zero understanding about.  It was amusing at the very least to watch as Harry attempted every method under the sun to avoid being in the same vicinity as Gilderoy Lockhart. Often, his efforts were thwarted by the appearance of that first-year camera boy: Harry didn’t seem to have the heart to shake him off most days, which would only get worse now that Quidditch season was starting back up.

Speaking of.

“You’re an utter prick,” declared Harry, unapologetically squeezing himself between Draco and Molly-with-tinnitus. The entire table grumbled, but obligingly shuffled down. It seemed that not even a newly ignited Quidditch fuelled House feud could stop the boy-who-lived from doing as he pleased. Secretly, Draco could almost cry in relief. He’d been three seconds away from doing something drastic to alleviate the boredom (do not tell Harry that).

Draco rolled his eyes and stated blandly, “Rude.” Honestly, he wouldn’t be surprised if the other boy hadn’t heard the word decorum in his entire life. He certainly acted like it.

“Prick,” Harry repeated slowly and emphatically, thus proving Draco’s point. “The brooms? Really?”

Draco merely smirked at him and continued to butter his toast. “Jealous?” he taunted.

“Disappointed actually,” Harry replied. He gestured up and down at his friend with a loose wave of his hand. “All that ‘talent’, and for what? To just buy yourself on to the team anyway?”

Further down the table, a fifth-year Slytherin went to interject with a scathing comment (perhaps something about the state of Harry’s unkept appearance or general lack of parents – he hadn’t decided yet), but was thwarted by an elbow to the gut. The gut-puncher hissed to their friend to just leave it alone! Those two are crazy: it’s not worth getting in the middle of their shit!

Unhearing and unseeing of this, Draco merely rolled his eyes again. A hint of true annoyance broke through, dissolving his rich brat facade. “It was hardly my idea,” he sighed. “Father was particularly insistent. And keep your voice down; everyone is staring at you.”

“Ha! Tell me something new.”

“Wood is staring at you too,” Draco (un)helpfully informed him, and Harry scowled petulantly. “And whose fault is that?” the boy-who-lived-to-annoy-his-peers accused.

“Certainly not mine,” dismissed Draco, “You’re the one who decided to impose your presence upon us.”

“Imp– impose? I’m not imposing! I’m having breakfast with my very best friend in the whole wide world!”

“Never call me that again,” demanded Draco. “And you’re over here far too often.” To which Harry countered: “Then come sit at the Gryffindor–” and the Slytherin interjected “–to be mauled by your attacked dogs? No thank you.”

“Draco,” Harry lightly reprimanded.

“No, you’re right, my apologies. I meant to say–” but before the boy could say something infinitely worse, he was cut off by and indignant “Draco.”

“Yes, Harry, that is indeed my name– can I help you?”

Harry turned his gaze to the enchanted ceiling and blew out a big sigh of exasperation. This would have been an effective display of annoyance, had it not been for the small grin tugging at the edges of his mouth. He was truly fooling no one.

“Fine, let’s agree to disagree. I want to talk about something else.”

“Then talk,” Draco instructed, with a somewhat dismissive bite of his toast. “I’m hardly stopping you.”

“Somewhere more privately?”

“Trying to get me alone? Conspiring with the enemy? How scandalous. What would Wood say?”

“Harry?” Ron called from the Gryffindor table. He seemed to be trying his hardest not to glare at Draco. How adorable. “I thought you were sitting with us today?”

“Hm? Oh, right,” the boy-who-lived-to-have-extremely-territorial-friends winced. “Give me a few minutes? I just need to–”

“But you promised,” Neville reminded him, not unkindly.

“I–”

“Harry?” Hermione questioned.

“Tell me later,” Draco offered, quite magnanimously if he might say so himself.

Although clearly conflicted, Harry caved in, and stood up from the Slytherin table. “Meet at lunch?” he sought to confirm.

“Lunch it is,” Draco agreed, and went about finishing his breakfast.

Except, there was no lunch.

Well, there was lunch, obviously, but the moment lunch rolled around, Hermione announced that she’d organised a picnic to celebrate the passing of their first week back. And of course, Harry, emotionally compromised idiot that he is, could hardly bring himself to decline. And so to the picnic Draco is dragged, at no point to he and Harry get a chance to discuss. . well, whatever it is Harry wanted to discuss. This, of course, wouldn’t bother Draco too much, however, much to both their growing ire, the rest of the weekend passed in a similar manner. Very quickly, Draco realised that the three increasingly clear that the three have an agenda.

Granger unnervingly managed to pop up the moment Draco and Harry though they’d caught a second to themselves, eyes intent with a truly worrying glint.

(“What are you two talking about?”

“Merlin’s– nothing!” Harry exclaimed, leaning away from her sudden invasion of his space.

“Then you wouldn’t mind me joining?”

“Sure, Granger,” Draco snorted, “make yourself at home.”)

Longbottom seemed to perform his group role by earnestly inviting both boys to the group activities throughout the next two days.

(“You worried us last night,” Neville explained to Harry in a mumble, face flushing red. “You went missing from the dorm and we didn’t see you return.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Nev,” apologised Harry, “I just, ah, needed some fresh air,” he explained, extremely believably.

He was not believed.)

And Weasley. . . well.

(Weasley gave Malfoy a stink eye, before pointedly look away from him.

“Alright there, Weasley?”

“Eat slugs, Malfoy.”)

The boy was still upset about the quidditch pitch stunt. And the brooms. And Draco’s overall smugness about the incident. And the fact the Harry didn’t seem to have any problem with–

The point is, unbeknownst to our time traveling duo, their three very much twelve-year-old Gryffindor friends had, in all their wisdom, decided upon a foolproof plan to worm their secrets out of them. That is, to keep them (or more specifically, Harry) from conspiring so that, come Monday, he’d be so desperate to tell Draco whatever he secrets he’d been holding on to, neither boy would be paying enough attention to notice Hermione eavesdropping. Thus, the trio would finally understand what had been plaguing their friends since the end of last year.

To their credit, the plan almost worked.  It was ultimately foiled when Monday rolled around. Nearly in time for first period to start, when still bleary-eyed students were milling about outside the Potions’ classroom (oh so very reluctant to go inside), Harry seized his chance to talk to Draco – alone.

(Mostly)

“Draco, partner?” asked Harry, not waiting for an answer. “Great, let’s grab a seat.” And he latched on to Draco’s arm, near propelling them into the classroom to get away from Hermione. Dragging them deep into the heart of the Slytherin half of the classroom, Harry threw his book bag to the ground and all but collapsed into his seat. He scowled at the workstation. The group of Slytherin second years’ that trailed in behind them stared at him in wide eyed confusion, like a herd of startled Mooncalves, but also took their seats. Draco followed his partners’ example much more gracefully – and with a lot less angst.

“Honestly, Potter, you’re so barbaric sometimes.”

Harry pouted and slumped even further into his seat.

Draco could take pity. . . or not. Casually, he spoke in a thoughtful undertone. “Granger is staring at you,” he watched her painfully pretend to be focusing literally anywhere else but failing miserably. “Weasley too, and Longbottom – by Merlin, he’s even worse at this than the other two. Not surprising, but what are you teaching them? This is just pathetic.”

“I haven’t been teaching them anything,” came Harry’s answering groan. “They’ve been doing this all weekend.”

“You might want to reconsider that. Do I want to know what this is about?”

“Probably not, but I have some idea.”

“Oh?” Draco drawled, finally looking away from the Gryffindor trio to give Harry a smirk. “Do tell.”

“Later,” Harry dismissed with a shake of his head. He took a deep breath and straightened up. A sickly sort of dread began building in Draco’s stomach. “We need to talk quickly before Snape gets here and we can’t.”

Draco felt the shift, the change in conversation from something relatively harmless to something serious. Taking initiative, he slipped out his wand and, hidden from even the nosiest of the peers by the bulk of their workstation, Draco began casting muffliato and other spells of the like. Within six seconds, their little area was a secure as could be (without casting something needless dramatic like Protego totalum, of course).

“Okay, there. Secure as can be. Now tell me what’s got you in such a huff.”

“Well, someone definitely has the diary,” the other boy began, “because the basilisk is awake.”

“What?” Draco hissed in alarm. “How do you know? When exactly were you going to tell me? When did this – is this what you were trying to tell me the other day? Tell me you did not going into the chamber on your own–”

“Calm down, I’m telling you now aren’t I?

“Calm down? Harry–”

“And I didn’t go into the chamber,” Harry snapped. “I’m not that stupid.”

“I didn’t say you were stupid,” Draco corrected. He pursed his lips. Harry was right; he needed to calm down. Getting worked up would help neither of them right now. “I’m sorry. Tell me what happened.”

And Harry does, keeping a careful eye on the classroom door for Professor Snape’s eventual entrance.

“. . . so, I went to that corridor because last time I had detention on that night, and that’s the first time I heard it.”

“So, we’re fucked,” Draco sighed. “You should’ve told me what you were planning.”

Harry winced, eyes flickered to Draco, regret clear in his expression. “I didn’t exactly plan anything. I went to be early to because I had practice the next morning – screw you for that, again, by the way – and it only occurred to me before I fell asleep.”

“My point still stands Harry, you can’t be going off galivanting on your own without telling me what’s going on.”

The classroom door slammed opened, and Professor Snape came billowing in. Draco dropped the protection charms quicker than a Diriclaw disappeared at the sound of a thunderclap.

“I would’ve told you earlier, by the way,” Harry muttered later, cutting up the mandrake roots after Draco brought back their ingredients. “I wasn’t expecting the others to be dogging my everything footstep.”

“Whatever it is they’re hoping to achieve, let’s just hope they give up sooner rather than later.”

#

October arrived, bringing rain.

Their efforts to wear Harry down hadn’t quite been going as Hermione planned, but that was hardly reason to give up! Sure, he and Malfoy still managed to conspire under their noses most of the time. And okay, they were never able to overhear said conspiracy sessions. But the first plans hardly ever end up succeeding! That’s why professors have students write draft essays. Some of the smartest minds in the world failed loads of times before finding success! Afterall, “there is no failure except in no longer trying.”

And so, it was time review, revise, and restart!

Lost in her thoughts of subterfuge and espionage (she felt just like the spies in her mystery novels at home!), and hidden beneath the sound of thundering rain outside, the scraping of not-stone against stone, grinding and rumbling ominously down the corridor escaped Hermione’s notice.

As the young Gryffindor witch ruminated her way along the deserted corridor, she came across somebody who looked just as preoccupied as she was. Nearly Headless Nick, the ghost of Gryffindor Tower, was staring morosely out of a window, muttering under his breath, “. . don't fulfil their requirements. . . half an inch, if that. .”

“Hello, Sir Nicholas,” Hermione greeted.

“Hello, hello,” the ghost replied, turning around. She had startled him, evidently, but it made him no less welcoming than usual. He wore a dashing, plumed hat on his long curly hair, and a tunic with a ruff, which concealed the fact that his neck was almost completely severed. He was pale as smoke, and Hermione could see right through him to the dark sky and torrential rain outside. “Odd sort of thunder we’ve been having today,” he commented.

“Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

“That’s not very like you! Although, I do say, you look troubled, young Miss Granger,” said Nick, folding a transparent letter as he spoke and tucking it inside his doublet.

“So do you,” gently prompted Hermione.

"Ah,” Nearly Headless Nick waved an elegant hand, “a matter of no importance.” In spite of his airy tone, there was a look of great bitterness on his face. “It’s not as though I really wanted to join thought I'd apply, but apparently, I don't “fulfil requirements”. But you would think, wouldn't you,” he erupted suddenly, pulling the letter back out of his pocket, “that getting hit forty-five times in the neck with a blunt axe would qualify you to join the Headless Hunt?”

“Oh - yes,” said Hermione, who was obviously supposed to agree.

“I mean, nobody wishes more than I do that it had all been quick and clean, and my head had come off properly, I mean, it would have saved me a great deal of pain and ridicule.” However, Nearly Headless Nick shook his letter open and read furiously, “We can only accept huntsmen whose heads have parted company with their bodies. You will appreciate that it would be impossible otherwise for members to participate in hunt activities such as Horseback Head-Juggling and Head Polo. It is with the greatest regret, therefore, that I must inform you that you do not fulfil our requirements. With very best wishes, Sir Patrick Delaney-Podmore.” Fuming, Nearly Headless Nick stuffed the letter away. “Half an inch of skin and sinew holding my neck on, Hermione! Most people would think that's good and beheaded, but oh no, it's not enough for Sir Properly Decapitated-Podmore.”

“Oh, that’s awful sir,” Hermione comforted.

Nearly Headless Nick took several deep breaths and then said, in a far calmer tone, “So, what's bothering you? Anything I can do?”

“No, not really, I don’t think, ” said Hermione. “Not unless you have any idea on how to–”

The rest of Hermione’s sentence was drowned by a high-pitched mewing from somewhere near her ankles. She looked down and found herself gazing into a pair of lamp-like yellow eyes. It was Mrs Norris.

Drat.

“You'd better get out of here, Miss Granger,” said Nick quickly, “Filch isn't in a good mood. He's got the flu and some third years accidentally plastered frog brains all over the ceiling in dungeon five; he's been cleaning all morning, and he’s on a bit of a manhunt I’m afraid. . .”

“Right,” said Hermione, backing away from the accusing stare of Mrs Norris, but not quickly enough. Drawn to the spot by the mysterious power that seemed to connect him with his foul cat, Argus Filch burst suddenly through a tapestry to Hermione right, wheezing and looking wildly about for the rule-breaker. There was a thick tartan scarf bound around his head, and his nose was unusually purple.

“Aha!” he shouted, his jowls aquiver, his eyes popping alarmingly as he pointed Hermione. “You can’t fool me! Fleeing from the scene of potential crime, caught red-handed! Follow me, Granger!”

Trying in vain to protest, Hermione waved an absent goodbye to Nearly Headless Nick, and followed Filch back downstairs, arguing the injustice the whole way.

Hermione had never been inside Filch's office before; it was a place most students avoided. The room was dingy and windowless, lit by a single oil-lamp dangling from the low ceiling. A faint smell of fried fish lingered about the place. Wooden filing cabinets stood around the walls; from their labels, Hermione could see that they contained details of every pupil Filch had ever punished. Fred and George Weasley had an entire drawer to themselves. A highly polished collection of chains and manacles hung on the wall behind Filch's desk. It was common knowledge that he was always begging Dumbledore to let him suspend students by their ankles from the ceiling.

He was quite a barbaric man, in Hermione’s unbiased opinion.

Filch grabbed a quill from a pot on his desk and began shuffling around looking for parchment.

“Dung,” he muttered furiously, “great sizzling dragon bogies frog brains. . . . rat intestines. . I've had enough of it. . . make an example. . where's the form. . . yes.” He retrieved a large roll of parchment from his desk drawer and stretched it out in front of him, dipping his long black quill into the ink pot.

“Name. . Hermione Granger. Crime–”

“–I didn’t even do anything!' Hermione protested. “You have no grounds to–”

“–oh ho ho, don’t think I don’t know about you cretins and your scouts and your lookouts!” shouted Filch, a drip shivering unpleasantly at the end of his bulbous nose. “Crime. . . loitering suspiciously. . . suggested sentence. .”

Dabbing at his streaming nose, Filch squinted unpleasantly at Hermione who waited with bated breath for her (unjust) sentence to fall. But as Filch lowered his quill, there was a great BANG! on the ceiling of the office which made the oil lamp rattle.

“Peeves!” he roared, flinging down his quill in a fit of rage. “I’ll have you this time, I'll have you!” And without a backwards glance at Hermione, Filch ran flat-footed from the office, Mrs Norris streaking alongside him.

Now, Hermione didn't much like Peeves, but couldn't help feeling grateful for his timing. Hopefully, whatever Peeves had done and (it sounded as though he'd wrecked something very big this time) would distract Filch from Hermione. She hoped he didn’t make that much of a mess though; or that nothing he broke was too valuable in the grand scheme of everything.

Thinking that she should probably wait for Filch to come back, Hermione’s gaze awkwardly flickered around the tiny office, lingering upon the moth-eaten chair and resting finally on the desk. There was only one thing on it apart from her half-completed form: a large, glossy, purple envelope with silver lettering on the front. Unable to curb her curiosity, with a quick glance at the door to check that Filch wasn't on his way back, she picked up the envelope and read:

KWIKSPELL

A Correspondence Course in

Beginners' Magic

Uncomfortable, Hermione didn’t dare to read any further. What had she been thinking? His mail was none of her business. He might be a mean, bitter old man, but that gave her no to intrude on what was clearly very personally, and very private matters. She carefully placed the letter back. She couldn’t bite back the guilt. Opening someone else’s mail; what was wrong with her? And also, very, very illegal.

Drat.

Oh dear, she seemed to be doing a lot of snooping recently. Not that she felt guilty for tailing Harry and Malfoy. They were clearly up to something, and it was her duty as their friend to make sure they weren’t going to get themselves hurt. And it wasn’t like she was violating their privacy. She was just making sure they were getting themselves into any danger.

Then again, wouldn’t it make more sense to just tell a professor? If she was so worried? Oh, but she didn’t want to get them in trouble.

. . . maybe her and the boys should ease off a little bit. Not give up! Just, give Harry and Malfoy some space. Lull them into a false sense of security! Yes! If they think that she and the others had given up, they might relax enough to let something slip.

(Hermione, extremely clever witch that she is, sadly did not think to factor in that fact that Harry, resident time traveller, knew that Hermione had never let go of a mystery in her life, and would not start to do so now. Therefore, he, nor Draco, would be easing up on their security measures any time soon.)

She looked back at the large, glossy purple envelope, double checking that it was back in its original position. . .

. . . just in time to hear shuffling footsteps outside; Filch was coming back. She stepped further away from the desk. Filch opened the door, and his triumph was immediately apparent.

“That vanishing cabinet was extremely valuable!” he said gleefully to Mrs Norris. “We'll have Peeves out this time, my sweet.” His eyes fell on Hermione he grinned.

Hermione stared at him, somewhat alarmed; Filch had never looked madder. His eyes were popping, a tic was going in one of his pouchy cheeks and the wide spread of his lips didn’t help, stretching uncomfortably, as if entirely unused to the movement.

“It’s your lucky day girlie,” he cackled, “Go now, I have to write up Peeves’ report. . . go!”

Amazed at her luck, Hermione sped out of the office, up the corridor and back upstairs. To escape from Filch's office without punishment was probably some kind of school record. She’d have to ask Ron’s brothers; they’d certainly be the ones to know. Perhaps they’d even be jealous? Merlin knows they rarely ever escape punishment for their escapades, no matter how minor the consequences.

“Miss Granger! Miss Granger! Did it work?” Nearly Headless Nick came gliding out of a classroom. Behind her, Hermione could see the wreckage of a large black and gold cabinet which appeared to have been dropped from a great height. “I persuaded Peeves to crash it right over Filch’s office,” said the ghost eagerly. “Thought it might distract him.”

“Was that you?” said Hermione, tearing her eyes from the mess of what used to be (if Filch was to be believed) an “extremely valuable” magical object. She hid a wince. “Yeah, it worked, I- I think. Thank you, Sir Nicholas.”

They set off up the corridor together. Nearly Headless Nick, Hermione noted, was still holding Sir Patrick's rejection letter. “I wish there was something I could do for you about the Headless Hunt,” she lamented.

Nearly Headless Nick stopped in his tracks and Hermione walked right through him. She wished she hadn't; it was like stepping through an icy shower. “But there is something you could do for me,” the ghost said excitedly. “Miss Granger - would I be asking too much - but no, you wouldn't want – most rude to –”

“What is it?” Hermione queried.

“Well, this Hallowe'en will be my five hundredth deathday,” said Nearly Headless Nick, drawing himself up and looking dignified.

“Oh!” Hermione softly exclaimed, instantly and completely fascinated. “That’s incredible; congratulations!”

“Thank you! I’m holding a party down in one of the roomier dungeons, and friends will be coming from all over the country. It would be such an honour if,” he paused, expression turning sheepish, “well, do you think it possible that your friend Mr Potter could find it in himself to attend? You and Mr Weasley and Mr Longbottom would be most welcome too, of course,” he rushed to assure, “but the idea of Harry Potter, at my Deathday Party! Oh, but I daresay you'd rather go to the school feast, yes?”

Hermione was conflicted. On one hand, what an incredible opportunity! She’d never known that ghosts celebrate their deathdays, although in retrospect, she supposed it made a morbid amount of sense. On the other hand, she wasn’t the biggest fan of how Harry’s fame seemed to be a large factor. It made her feel. . . distressed.

How awful, that such a terrible event in her friend’s life is what made most people want to be in his presence.

“No,” said Hermione slowly, “I’m quite honoured to be extended an invitation, Sir Nicholas, but I don’t feel comfortable accepting on anyone else’s behalf. . .”

“Of course, of course! Silly me,” he laughed, “how terribly rude of me. Yes, yes, go off and speak to your friends.” And, he hesitated, looking excited, “do you think you, if do manage to get Mr Potter do come, he could possibly mention to Sir Patrick how very frightening and impressive he finds me?”

“Of course,” awkwardly reassured Hermione.

Nearly Headless Nick beamed at her.

Hermione was still thinking about the pros and cons of declining when she finally made it back to the common room. Oh, she can’t believe she got caught out of the tower so late! It’s not like she had meant to, but she’d gotten distracted. Befriending those boys been made a terrible influence on her adherence to school rules: this time last year she would’ve never have. . . well.

This time last year, she didn’t have any friends.

It’s early evening by the time Hermione managed to trek her way across from one side of the castle to the other. The common room was far cozier than outside, the warm fire and gentle lighting a stark contrast to the lashing rain and near impenetrable darkness. She hardly got a chance to enjoy it however, as mere moments after stepping through the portal hole, Harry descended upon her with worried hands and. . . a panicked expression?

“Hermione, where have you been!” Before she could a get a word in edgewise, he was already corralling her through the room, all the way to the stairs leading up to the second-years girl’s dormitory. “Never mind that, you must be tired. All that studying and homework doing; you work so hard! I think you deserve a nice early bedtime.”

He nudged her forward and up the steps, hands shooing her to keep going, and in her befuddlement, Hermione kept walking. Well, she had been working quite hard recently, and she did just have a somewhat close call with authority. Not that she’s one to believe in omens, but maybe it wouldn’t hurt to rest early tonight.

Harry was already leaving, muttering something like “too . . . to be out this late. . . early grave. . . fuck,” under his breath.

Oh, she didn’t get to tell him about the deathday party.

Tomorrow then.