Chapter Text
.o0O0o.
“There’s no harm looking. It could have had the perfect gift all along, and we walked right past it,” a shivering Hermione said through her scarf as she hurried them towards the tiny Hogsmeade shop with its sign covered with snow, though Harry suspected the urgency had more to do with the weather than anything else.
Harry shrugged in agreement, wishing he’d had thicker gloves.
Maybe he could get Ginny a good pair of enchanted gloves of some sort?
‘Gloves seem too practical and impersonal after nearly five years of dating,’ he thought, kicking the idea back to a standby gift for Ron or Hermione. It’d be like Hermione to get him gloves too though, after watching him shiver his way here, and their friends have joked before that the two of them must be buying their own gifts for the other to wrap and gift them on the day. Accidentally giving each other the same gift wouldn’t do anything to dispel it.
Harry had begun to hate giving gifts, mostly because he was so bad at it.
‘Maybe a new stout cloak for her instead?’ he wondered as he followed his still–bookish best friend inside.
Crossing the threshold, it was pleasantly warm, but Harry was surprised at how forcefully reminded he was of the Department of Mysteries. Slightly glowing orbs filled the various shelves lining the shop’s walls. Some showed somewhat foggy depictions of witches flying on broomsticks or children playing, though most of the orbs were clear.
“Rememberalls,” Hermione said, examining the display nearest them as he put his hardly–warming gloves away. “You think this shop deals with memories?”
“A wise guess,” a voice said behind them.
Spinning around, Harry saw a large kind–looking bald man with a mustache and tiny goatee.
“Oh! Didn’t mean to spook you, officer,” the man said with a smile, noticing Harry’s auror robes, having come straight from work. “I always forget how quiet I am, even without meaning to be. The name’s Mister Norrell, welcome to the Memoriam Emporium.”
As if to lighten the mood, the man pulled out a red Santa hat and plonked it on his own head.
“Happy Christmas!”
“Happy Christmas,” he and Hermione said in return.
“Are these created with manually extracted memories or are they enchantment–induced?” Harry asked, gesturing to the shelves around them.
“I’ve got orbs for each,” Mister Norrell replied, “though you’d be hard pressed to coerce a memory from someone. If they’re potioned or not in their right mind, the person usually lacks the focus to recall a memory with real clarity, if that’s what you’re interested in.”
“Er–sorry, no,” Harry caught himself saying. “I wasn’t asking in a professional capacity. The serious tone’s an occupational hazard,” the auror in him explained.
“Have you provided many of these for the Ministry?” Hermione asked, perhaps to smooth things over. “They look very familiar.”
Mister Norrell gave a tight–lipped smiling shrug, as if to say any secrets are safe with him.
“I’ve sold orbs to many families, businesses, and organizations for a great many years,” he said finally. “They’re a great way to memorialize big events in life – especially the ones where you forgot a camera.
“I’ve got orbs to recover forgotten childhood events,” the man said, gesturing to the far wall, “and ones to brace up chosen memories, so they’re never forgotten. I’ve even got some for romance in the back that’re more akin to fantasies,” Mister Norrell added quietly, gesturing to the two of them. “–For the young married types who’re into such things.”
He and Hermione quickly did the “We’re just good friends” chorus, as they often had to do.
“Ah, well,” Mister Norrell said awkwardly. “I guess I’ll let you two browse for a bit, eh? If you have questions or need anything, just let me know,” he added before walking away with barely a whisper to his step.
“So what do you think?” Harry asked as they browsed the shelves, wondering if Ginny would like a memory of their first date, or maybe their first kiss in the common room.
‘Or maybe when I saved her in the Chamber of Secrets?’ he thought, curious if a more action–related memory would appeal to the sports star in her better. ‘No,’ Harry concluded. ‘It’s probably still too traumatic for her to think positively of.’
“Having a special memory could be a touching gift,” Hermione said, perusing a small shelf of orbs marked ‘Memories where you’re proud of someone.’ “But I don’t know if it’d fall within Ron’s narrow gift window.”
“What do you mean?” Harry asked, Ron being the one person he had never had a problem getting a gift for.
“Ron can be... prickly sometimes,” she explained. “If it’s not nice enough, he thinks you don’t care about him, but if it’s too nice, he thinks you’re saying he can’t afford to buy nice things himself. I don’t want to have a repeat of his birthday.”
Harry hadn’t noticed that himself, but he’d always just gotten Ron something they can play around with. It must be a longtime boyfriend/girlfriend difficulty, like his was with Ginny.
“In my case, I have to think about how it’d look at my place,” he explained, “because Ginny’s not around very often and anything I get her always seems to be left there.”
“She silently moving in?” his friend suggested with a teasing smile. “It’s about time she did.”
“I thought so at first,” Harry sighed, “but every time I bring it up she does her whole ‘I want to be independent’ shtick and what clothes she’d left there disappears. So now I think she just doesn’t like what I get her.”
“I’m sure it isn’t that,” Hermione replied quickly, looking like she knew more than she was saying.
“Have you talked to her?” he asked.
“I see her even less than you do,” she pointed out, not answering the question as she turned to look at a line of orbs called Forget–me–nots. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t put myself in her situation.”
“What situation?”
“Think about it, Harry,” Hermione said, like the whole thing was obvious. “You two have been dating for – what, five–and–a–half years? A year less, if you don’t count the war? – and you’re not married yet. There’s bound to be pressure mounting on her to do it.
“She may even want to do it,” she added, “but at the same time, that doesn’t mean she’s ready for everything else that comes with it: Settling down, ending her Quidditch career, having kids–”
“She doesn’t have to quit her job and be a housewife,” Harry said, the very idea of Ginny turning into her mother overnight being completely at odds to everything he knew about her. “I’d just like to have her around more.”
“And that’s likely what she wants too,” Hermione agreed, “which is why she leaves some of the things she likes behind, like those gifts. But just because she’d like to take that step doesn’t mean the pressure to do the whole thing isn’t there, and that it doesn’t get worse when she thinks you’re pushing for it when you’re not.”
It was sounding like a very sensible fear on Ginny’s part, if what Hermione said was true, and she was bound to be winding up to a ‘You should have a talk with her’ finale, but if she saw his girlfriend even less than he did, then how could she know–
Then it clicked: Hermione had been dating Ron even longer than he’d been dating Ginny.
“You’re going through this yourself,” Harry said.
Hermione’s eyes darted to him, before turning away.
“Quite the opposite, actually,” she said embarrassed.
“The opposite?” he asked. “You want to break up with Ron?”
“The opposite of getting married isn’t breaking up,” Hermione said with a look. “It’s not getting married.”
“I don’t understand,” Harry replied. “Wouldn’t the same pressure be building for you as it is Ginny?”
“It might’ve been,” she replied, “but it turns out our situations aren’t the same at all.”
He was going to ask her what she meant, once again, when she spared him from it.
“Before you get married, it only makes sense to have everything in your life lined up,” Hermione explained. “You and Ginny mostly have that with your careers, but Ron and I don’t.”
“What are you talking about? You’re doing great at the Ministry,” Harry replied, since everyone knew she had Minister Shacklebolt’s ear and support for her legal reforms.
“And what’s happened with Ron?” she asked in return.
Harry felt a kick in the gut in remembering how Ron had quit the Auror program nearly a year ago. No amount of telling him he was mad for feeling that way had made the man feel any more suited for the job, or that he wasn’t ‘just being tolerated because he’s the friend of Harry Potter.’ Neither of them had told Hermione the reason behind it, but smart girl as she was, she probably figured it out.
“Nothing,” Harry deflected. “He’s doing great at the joke shop. He’s never been happier.”
“He’s surrounded by jokes and gags all day,” Hermione said, “of course he seems happier, but that doesn’t mean he’s happy. He thought he’d be taking Fred’s old place, as half–owner and equal partner, but he’s not. He’s an employee stocking shelves and working the register.
“He didn’t help save the world from Voldemort to be stuck in an entry level job, so I know he’s not happy,” she explained. “In terms of a career, he’s going backwards. And it may sound shallow, but it’s not the trajectory a woman wants her partner to have when it comes to settling down.”
“He could still get more involved, after he learns the basics,” Harry pointed out, wondering if he should have a talk with George.
“Or he could be stuck in a dead–end job forever, unless he quits and does nothing with his life at all,” Hermione replied. “I’m hoping he excels there, but until I know it’s not the latter, marriage – or even moving in together – is off the table. You can’t have a lazy do–nothing for a husband, and I doubt he’d fancy being a house–husband any more than Ginny would volunteer to be a housewife.”
What she said sounded like the depressing reality he’d come to expect from adult life – not that Harry would ever say that. It was sad to think how much life was better when you were a kid… even if you did have a dark wizard trying to kill you every year.
“What are you talking about? It’d be an honor to be your house–husband as you’re out there changing the world,” he said instead to lighten the mood.
“That might work for you,” his friend said with a smile, though not one he could say was a happy one, “but Ron’s a very different creature. Sorry, Harry, but I don’t think I’m in the right mood for Christmas shopping this year,” Hermione added quickly before raising her hood and hustling out of the shop.
The blast of wintery air coming in did nothing to make the situation feel any colder.
‘I didn’t mess everything up,’ Harry tried to tell himself with a sigh. ‘All I did was show how messed up everything already is. It’s not my fault it’s this way.’
Looking ahead, he couldn’t really say he was much in the mood for Christmas either.
The prospect of having serious conversations with Ginny about what they expected out of their relationship, where they thought it’d go, and when it’d get there made him feel like they’d be trying to plan out their lives like it was one of Hermione’s old study schedules. And would it really be right for him to talk to George about Ron’s future, just to try to get everything between him and Hermione to work out, when it should be Ron figuring things out for himself?
‘If it was meant to be,’ Harry thought, ‘would it really be this much work?’
Thinking he might not be in the right frame of mind to go digging through his memories, Harry thought he might come back to see what he could come up with later. There was still a few weeks until Christmas after all.
Motion at the back of the store showed Mister Norrell entering through a small door behind the counter. Strangely, he was carrying what appeared to be a muggle clock, with only three hands and no moons around the sides – unless you count the smaller orbs taking the place of where the numbers should be. It’d been so long since he saw a muggle clock he was surprised how quickly the other had become normal to him.
Harry walked over to the counter as Mister Norrell was preoccupied with finding the clock a suitable place on the back wall.
“Interesting piece,” he said, spooking the shopkeeper into almost dropping it.
“Oh dear!” the frightened man said, taking off his Santa hat to wipe his forehead. “So that’s what that feels like. I thought you two had left.”
“You were half–right,” Harry replied, hoping to put the man at ease. “But that one does look interesting.”
“Oh, thank you,” Mister Norrell said happily, holding it up for them both to see. “An experimental product, made it on a lark, but I don’t know if there’ll be much of a market for it.”
“Because of the muggle design?” he asked, thinking a muggle–inspired gift might be just the thing for Hermione.
“Oh, you caught that?” the man smiled. “Not many would, I think. But yes, the muggle nature of the clock might keep the market for it niche.
“The muggles celebrate Christmas too, you see,” Mister Norrell went on to say. “And they have this song ‘The Twelve Days of Christmas,’ where the presents they give get more and more outrageous and bizarre. And I thought, ‘What if I chained twelve memories together, so I could capture one vaguely Christmas related memory a day for twelve days? Wouldn’t that make a smashing gift?’
“The problem is big memories don’t really happen every day, as most days are filled with fluff,” the man said sadly. “But then I thought, ‘What if I made it Twelve Years of Christmas instead?’ Taking one big Christmas–related memory from twelve separate years could really let the sentiment build over time, don’t you think?”
Harry did some quick math in his head. He’d only known Ginny for around eleven years, and hadn’t really paid attention to her for the first several, least of all at Christmas. He’d known Hermione for twelve Christmases though, if you counted this one, so it’d work well for her.
“All that time–related stuff made me think of setting them into a clock,” Mister Norrell went on, speaking to himself more than anyone else. “But now I’m thinking perhaps I should have gone for a wreath.”
“Or you could have gone with Christmas baubles, and people could be hang them from their tree,” Harry offered.
“Baubles?” the man asked, looking at him like he’d sprung antlers and a glowing red nose. “Oh, why did I never think of baubles? I could have been selling them for years! Well that settles it,” Mister Norrell said with a smile. “I’m not selling it, but I’ll give it to you if you’d like.”
Harry shrugged.
“How does it work?”
“Well first,” the man said with a twinkle in his eye, “if it’s a gift for someone, you’ll have to think of what life was like for the two of you twelve years ago…”
.o0O0o.
He leaned against a wall, breathing deeply as footsteps died away. It was night, and the room was dark and cluttered with old desks, chairs, and upturned wastepaper baskets. He could feel a cloak around him, but it didn’t take him long to realize what room he was in, for propped against the wall was a magnificent mirror, as high as the ceiling, with an ornate gold frame, standing on two clawed feet.
Harry smiled as he walked towards it enough to read the inscription carved around the top.
Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi, it said.
I show not your face but your heart’s desire, he decoded it to read, picking up on a missing apostrophe that likely would’ve given the game away.
Taking off his dad’s old invisibility cloak, Harry stepped in front of the mirror, eager to see his family, once again, for the first time.
For a second he couldn’t believe how young he was, but was quickly distracted, for there, reflected behind him, were at least ten others. A very pretty woman with dark red hair and eyes just like his, cried and smiled at the sight of him next to a tall, thin, black–haired man with his arm around her. He wore glasses, and his hair was very untidy, sticking up at the back, just as Harry’s did.
The powerful ache of half–joy, half–terrible sadness welled up in him again in a way he didn’t know how to express as he looked into the faces of the other people in the mirror. Seeing other pairs of green eyes like his, other noses like his, even a little old man who looked as though he had Harry’s knobbly knees. He knew they were his family, but he still didn’t know anything about them.
He’d go on to tell Ron about this later, Harry knew, but he’d never told him how it felt to stand here want something so much, even if he knew that getting it was impossible.
That’s when he remembered Hermione.
‘She would have known,’ Harry thought, ‘but she spent this Christmas at home this year. It’s too bad.’
He had forgotten that.
In the mirror, his reflection looked off to his right before a brown mane of hair bolted into view to hug him, almost knocking him flat. It was Hermione, as he once knew her. Energetic but polite, she shook his mother and father’s hands when his reflection silently introduced them.
Her wild hair and somewhat overlarge teeth was rather endearing in hindsight, but what truly struck him was just how happy she was. He missed seeing her happy, and missed spending time with her, like they did when they were kids. Harry hoped they could be like that again…
.o0O0o.
Pinching his nose and swallowing, the taste of overcooked cabbage flooded his mouth and immediately his insides started writhing like he’d swallowed live snakes. Doubled up in the dark room, he felt like he was going to be sick before a burning sensation spread rapidly from his stomach to the very ends of his fingers and toes.
Gasping on all fours came a horrible melting feeling as the skin all over his body bubbled like hot wax, and before his eyes, his hands began to grow. His fingers thickened, his nails broadened, his knuckles bulged like bolts, and his shoulders stretched painfully. A prickling on his forehead told him that hair was creeping down toward his eyebrows as his robes ripped and his chest expanded like a barrel bursting its hoops. His feet were agony in shoes four sizes too small…
With great difficulty, he pried off them off when everything suddenly stopped.
Harry lay on his back on the stone–cold floor as he took in the blurry room around him. The peeling painted stall and otherworldly morose gurgling told him this could only be Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom. He couldn’t quite remember what came next, it’d been bad enough living through it the first time.
“You two okay?” asked Crabbe’s deep grunting voice to his right.
“Yeah,” Goyle’s low rasp answered from his mouth as Harry took off his now–unneeded glasses before noticing the spare robes he was supposed to change into.
He heard Ron’s door open as he pulled off his old robes, now hanging nearly a foot above his ankles, and pulled on the spare ones.
“This is unbelievable,” said Ron from the other side of the door as Harry laced up Goyle’s boatlike shoes.
Unlocking his door and stepping out, he saw Ron staring into a cracked mirror. He was indistinguishable from Crabbe, from the pudding–bowl haircut to the long, gorilla arms.
“This is really unbelievable,” the boy said, prodding Crabbe’s flat nose before turning to stare at him. “That’s wicked. You look like Goyle!”
Harry checked himself in the mirror. He reached up to brush his hair out of his eyes, and met only the short growth of wiry bristles low on his forehead as Goyle’s reflection stared back at him out of dull, deep–set eyes doing the same. It was even more eerie this time around.
“Er – I suppose we better get going?” Ron mentioned. “We still don’t have a clue where the Slytherin common room is.”
“I suppose we could find someone to follow,” Harry replied as he loosened his watch that was cutting into Goyle’s thick wrist. “We’re bound to run into Malfoy at some point,” he added vaguely remembering how this night originally went.
“You don’t know how bizarre it is to see Goyle thinking,” Ron said before banging on Hermione’s door. “C’mon, we need to go–”
“I–I don’t think I’m going to come after all,” a high–pitched voice answered him. “You go on without me.”
Harry got a squirmy feeling in his stomach that had nothing to do with Polyjuice.
“Hermione, we know Millicent Bulstrode’s ugly,” Ron prodded. “No one’s going to know it’s you–”
“No – really – I don’t think I’ll come,” Hermione repeated fervently. “You two hurry up, you’re wasting time–”
“We really should get going,” Harry said seriously, wanting to get Ron out of here before he pried too far. He looked at his watch to see five of their precious sixty minutes had already passed. “We’ll meet you back here, all right?” he told Hermione through the still–closed door.
Harry barely waited for Ron to check if the coast was clear before hustling Ron out of the bathroom, and set off.
“Don’t swing your arms like that,” Harry muttered to Ron, remembering an exchange they were supposed to have.
“Eh?”
“Crabbe holds them sort of stiff…”
“How’s this?”
“Yeah, that’s better,” he replied, barely bothering to look.
Every step they took getting further from the girls’ bathroom made Harry feel increasingly ill. He couldn’t help feeling that this wasn’t the sort of memory he wanted Hermione to have of him. He didn’t want to be the guy who abandons her to chase wild theories when she needed his help.
Harry stopped when they got to the marble staircase.
‘If this is my memory, I can remember it however I want, can’t I?’ he asked himself, coming to a decision.
“What’s wrong?” Ron asked, noticing him just standing there.
“I’m going to see to Hermione.”
“Hermione?” the other boy asked, looking more like Crabbe in his confusion.
“She’d be here unless there was something wrong,” Harry explained, “so I’m going to check on her. You go on and question Malfoy.”
“And how am I supposed to find him?” Ron asked, looking a little panicked. “I don’t know where their common room is.”
“They come up from the dungeons, right?” he reminded him. “So go around and tap the walls, saying something Slytherin–like.”
“Slytherin–like?” the boy repeated, looking as if he’d gone mad.
“Yeah – er – you know, like ‘pureblood,’” Harry offered, fairly certain it was something like that. “I’ll try to catch up to you,” he added before darting off back down the hall.
Back in Myrtle’s bathroom, nothing had changed, so he knocked on Hermione’s stall.
“Go away!” the girl squeaked.
“Hermione, you can come out,” Harry said through the door.
“What are you two doing here? You’re supposed to be questioning Malfoy,” she chided.
“It’s just me,” he replied, before wondering if she could tell Crabbe’s voice from Goyle’s. “I sent Ron ahead to do it. I came back to check on you.”
“But Malfoy’s–”
“Malfoy’s not the Heir of Slytherin,” Harry declared, and he could hear her silent shock, so he thought he should explain. “The Heir wouldn’t be parading around like some obvious villain, telling people they’ll be next, they’d be hiding and trying not to draw attention to themselves. Malfoy is just trying to look good in front of the other Slytherins.”
After a moment, Hermione spoke.
“T–that does sound like him,” she squeaked hesitantly, mulling things over. “But if that’s true, why’d you still send Ron to question him?”
It took him a moment to figure out how to answer that.
“Well, I could be wrong,” Harry replied, not wanting to tell her he didn’t want Ron to be as much of a prat to her this time around. “Maybe Malfoy really is that dumb,” he added, trying to lighten the mood.
“It could be worse,” Hermione said morosely. “I made a mistake with the Polyjuice Potion,” she tried to explain. “It’s not supposed to be used this way.”
“It worked for me and Ron,” he replied, still in Goyle’s raspy voice, trying to pretend he didn’t know what happened. “So if you made a mistake, anyone else would’ve done worse. Come on, Hermione,” Harry prompted. “Come out.”
Harry thought he was making progress, at least until Myrtle glided through the stall door, looking happier than she’d ever been since her death.
“Ooooooh, wait till you see,” the ghost said. “It’s awful–”
The lock slid back and Hermione emerged, sobbing, her robes pulled up over her head.
“It can’t be that bad,” Harry said bracingly.
Hermione let her robes fall. Her face was covered in black fur, her eyes had turned yellow, and there were long, pointed ears poking through her hair.
“It was a c–cat hair!” she howled. “M–Millicent Bulstrode m–must have a cat! And the p–potion isn’t supposed to be used for animal transformations!”
He tried to think of something reassuring to say when Myrtle chimed in.
“You’ll be teased something dreadful,” she said happily.
“No she won’t,” Harry snapped back at the ghost with a look.
“It’ll be okay,” he added as he patted his friend’s shoulder with Goyle’s meaty hand. “We’ll go right to the hospital wing. Madam Pomfrey never asks too many questions, and she’s sure to have you sorted out in no time.”
Moaning Myrtle sped them on their way with a hearty guffaw that made him really wish he could punch a ghost.
“Wait till everyone finds out you’ve got a tail!”
“Shut up!” Harry fumed, even more stubbornly determined to make Hermione’s recovery better than before, even if he had to take good notes in class for her to copy in order to do it…
.o0O0o.