Chapter Text
“I think it would be good for you! If it’s anonymous, then we can set aside previous biases and find some common ground. If nothing else, it could keep you and Malfoy distracted long enough to stop you two from bickering like an old married couple…” Hermione says, a rebuttal to Harry’s indignant groaning just moments before. He didn’t want to write letters to somebody he may or may not know that well, he just wanted to finish this year out and get on with his life. One argument with Malfoy and here he is.
Harry rolls his eyes, not even trying to be discreet about it, “Alright, fine, fine. If it will get you off my back.”
“It won’t!” Hermione smiles sarcastically at him, beginning her list on a piece of parchment.
Making an effort to pretend this isn’t happening, Harry stares into the fireplace of the Gryffindor common room. It felt odd, without Ron here next to them in their usual spot. It wasn’t like he was gone forever, he was just already working. This got Harry thinking about being an Auror, and he scrunched up his nose a bit. That familiar feeling of indecision churned in his stomach. He had spent so much time trying to survive these past few years, he’d barely thought about the future. Everybody treated this like the obvious option, but –
“Alright!” Hermione chimes, “I have all the eighth-years that have signed up here, so I can put these names in a bowl and we can all draw after dinner. Sound good?”
“No,” Harry fakely sing-songs, looking at her with a purely sour expression.
“I miss when you were less belligerent, you know.”
“Sod off, ‘Mione,” Harry finally breaks a smile.
Hermione rises with a sigh and separates all the names into individual slips of paper with a flick of her wand. Harry gets a good look at her now, seeing her lit up by the fire. She looks tired, the lines under her eyes a little deeper than they were before the war. Despite them, she still looks young, just mature. Harry wonders if he looks that way to her, too.
“You okay, Harry?” She asks, bringing his train of thought to a screeching halt.
“Ah, uh – Yeah, I’m fine, why?”
Her eyebrow quirks up, “You look… tired?”
That answers that question! Harry just shrugs and turns back to the fire. She knows not to press too hard, so the room falls quiet. Hermione sinks back down into the sofa, a bit closer than before. Her hand falls onto Harry’s shoulder, a silent I’m here. Harry turns to her, a forced smile that he’s sure she sees through on his face.
After a long, slightly uncomfortable silence, Hermione whispers, “Go get some rest before dinner.” She slips her hand off his shoulder, and then stands, gathering her things with her wand and waiting for him to go before she leaves for her room.
Harry sighs, stands, and looks back at her with tired eyes. “Thanks, Mione.”
With that soft utterance, he heads to his dorm.
The eighth-year dorms are… sparse. Having been thrown together as if they were a last-ditch effort to allow them to graduate traditionally. There's a small rug next to the bed that's reminiscent of Harry's bed in his first year. It's not as comfortable, but maybe he just found it much nicer when he first got here. Some parts of Hogwarts never lose their novelty, but the mattresses aren't on that list. The dorms aren't separated by house, instead all being in the same small wing. This has been the cause of almost all the fights Harry and Draco have gotten into. He can't help but blame the headmasters for this penpal thing. At least a little.
Harry unceremoniously flops down onto his bed. His mind is somehow both racing and entirely empty. The penpal idea isn’t as bad as he’s made it out to be, not really. But he still dreads it – the effort and energy required isn’t something he has at this point, and on top of that he’s awful at writing. What do you even write to a penpal? Diary entries? Favorite colors? Ugh.
On top of that, Harry is thinking about his future. Being the boy who lived didn’t come with a lot of time for planning. There were points – many points – when Harry wasn’t even sure if he would live. His stomach churns at that. It always does.
He’s always been told that being an Auror would be the best path. Not always directly, though. It was just a given. Harry didn’t want to be an Auror, not even with Ron’s entrancing stories of being on the field in his letters.
The stress somehow manages to lull Harry to sleep for a couple hours up until dinner.
Or, up until a knock on his door.
“Harry?” It’s Hermione, softly calling for him on the other side. She knocks again.
“Coming,” He groans. Harry crawls out of his bed, nearly trips on the sheet and then again on his own feet, his eyes glazed over from unrestful sleep.
The door swings open, and Hermione looks a bit surprised, then pitying, and then neutral.
“I take it your rest wasn’t that great?” Her eyebrows draw up as she says it, her mouth curling down into a slight frown. Even from Hermione, Harry is tired of getting that look from people.
“Was lovely,” He mutters, wiping his eyes. “Dinner?”
Hermione smiles, “Yeah.”