At the Hour - Book Two

Harry flipped through the pages of his photo album. Not Hagrid's- in the summer he had transferred all the photos from Hagrid's to the one he got from Millicent last Christmas. The denim cover pressed against his legs.

It was a warm morning in late July. Well, technically morning. It was 5:00 am. Harry was feeling sentimental and had taken out his photo album, just looking through the pictures. His parents. Ivan's birthday. Him studying with Theo, him reading with Millie, him doing Pansy's hair, arm wrestling Blaise, chatting with Ivan, playing chess with Tracy, playing exploding snap with Daphne, and all of memories he wanted to keep. There were even pictures of him playing flute and piano with Draco.

He sat of his mattress, stroking Cepheus' fur. Hermione slept soundly. The moon was just beginning to sink below the horizon. Soon, the sun would take its place.

During the summer, Harry and Hermione wrote letters to all of their friends. Ron was planning to visit today, too. Harry thought about the summer. Dumbledore had not tried to remove Harry from the Grangers' home, strangely enough.

Harry rose from the bed, walking to the doorway. He licked his teeth, thinking how he should brush them. Harry stole another look at Hermione. Her thick, frizzy curls fanned out like a halo. Her features were peacefully asleep. The blanket rose and fell softly with her breathing.

Harry smiled to himself. He wished nothing but the best for her.

…

The front door swung open, flooding the hall with sunlight and a gust of hot, dry air. Ron ran in and grinned wildly.

“Guess who!” he grinned. Harry ran to him, arms outstretched, embracing him fiercely. Ron returned the hug with equal enthusiasm- so much so that they collided with Hermione.

“Merlin- you absolute- boys!” she cried exasperatedly. Harry could feel her rolling her eyes as he and Ron laughed. Suddenly, Harry winced, feeling something like a needle sinking into the skin of his shoulder.

“Blimey, Ron. Have you got a knife in your shirt pocket or something?” Harry sat up, red bleeding into his white shirt.

“Oh, that’s just Scabbers, the stupid thing.” Ron pulled him off of Harry, shaking him around a bit.

As Hermione stroked Cepheus’ fur, who had just come down the stairs, Harry had a sudden realization: the rat was not Scabbers. Harry had never, in either timeline, known Scabbers. It was Peter Pettigrew. Suddenly, a blazing, half-irrational rage overtook him. All of his hatred for Pettigrew flooded back, unsatisfyingly flood-like, rushing in his ears like the current of a river.

One never truly forgives and forgets, least of all people who have been wronged. And Harry had experienced injustice against him and the people he loved time and time again.

Cut him some slack. Sue him if he was still half-coping with everything from last timeline, sue him that he hadn’t healed yet.

Frederick and Bella led Ron to the backyard as Harry excused himself to the bathroom.

Hadn’t healed yet. That thought haunted him. He was a little open with Hermione, who had simply thought all his trauma was from the Dursleys- he was still coping from that, too- but he would never be able to tell her the full story. On many occasions, he tried screaming, “I’M FROM THE FUCKING FUTURE!” at the top of his lungs for the whole bloody world to hear, but it never worked. It was as if his throat was stolen from him, and he would go into a violent coughing fit. On the worst times, he hacked up blood.

Harry wasn’t stupid. He knew he could get better- from the war, from the Dursleys. There were millions of people who suffered and bounced back, but that thought made him numb. Was he just pathetic, weak, too awful to get better?

He splashed cold water on to his face. A year ago, he would’ve slapped his face to bring himself back to reality. That has to count for some progress, I suppose.

He inhaled deeply, reveling in the way the cold droplets pricked his cheeks. Get it together. Ron’s here, it’s been ages since you saw him…

As he reached for the doorknob, a memory of Ron flashed in his mind. Last timeline’s Ron, expression unreadable as he comforted Harry by the cliff, moments after the war.

He found a part of him missed that Ron, familiar and constant.

He shoved those thoughts away, and ran through the kitchen, into the backyard and chased Ron around the gardens, whooping elatedly as Hermione rolled her eyes fondly and sat on the patio with Cepheus in her lap.

…

Hermione heaved a sigh as Harry flopped on to his bed. He had begged and pleaded Hermione’s parents to allow Ron to stay the night. He had dragged Hermione into the conversation, too, who was a bit less enthusiastic but pleaded all the same. They were unsuccessful. Extremely.

“I can’t believe they threatened to stick me in the guest bedroom. You told me it smells like mothballs and all that,” Harry whined.

Hermione snorted, not looking up from her book. “You’re lucky they like you. I was surprised they let you stay in my room all summer at all, until they told me they suppose you’re a friend of Dorthy-” she stopped abruptly.

Harry raised an eyebrow, sitting up. “What on God’s green Earth does that mean?”

“Oh, nothing.” Hermione returned to her book, and Harry would’ve believed her- she was a fantastic liar- but he’d grown to see the signs- controlled intake of breath, blinking only every three seconds.

“Hermione,” he said in a sing-song voice. “If you don’t tell me I’ll ask your parents myself.”

“Harry!” she whined, shutting her book louder than necessary. “If you do, I think I’ll die.”

“Go on then,” he grinned.

“Being a friend of Dorthy just means you’re LGBTQ+, is all. Mum’s younger sibling is non-binary and they’re married to Aunt Tricia. I think you’ve seen a photo of them and Mum in the hallway.”

“Oh, cool. I’ve got to meet them soon.” Harry absentmindedly traced nonsensical patterns into his sheets with his fingers.

Hermione began, “So, are you?” Her voice was sure and steady, no malice, just curiosity.

“Yeah. I’m about as fruity as they get. I don’t think I’ve ever been attracted to a girl. But your dad-”

“Harry!” she moaned, chucking a pillow at him. He let out a muffled oomph. Hermione was a lot stronger than she let on.

“What about you? Close to Dorthy yourself?”

A pause, which Harry hadn’t expected.

“Honestly, I’m not really sure. I’ve never had a celebrity crush, or anything like that. I can tell when someone is conventionally attractive, but I don’t think I’m attracted to them.”

Harry nodded. “No need to label things. Bi or pan or omni or any sexuality name is just to describe, not to confine. Besides, what’s the rush? We’re only second years, after all.”

She shrugged contently, features relaxed as she opened her book again. Harry smiled to himself, turning his head to look out the window and watch the moon rise.

A week later, Harry and Hermione hopped into the back seat of the Grangers’ car. Hermione’s mom chatted excitedly.

“We can look for a local little place to have lunch, and after we can get your school supplies. Aurther told me there’s a sale at the bookstore too...”

Fred and Bella Granger were very kind people. They were good, and generous and cordial and everything parents should be. They treated him like a son, as Hermione treated him like a brother. They all made him feel safe and welcomed and loved. That was all good in itself, and Harry was thankful, and he appreciated them all so very, very much- but that was overshadowed by devestating guilt.

He was guilty that they took him in. That they were so welcoming. They were supposed to be focusing on Hermione, only Hermione. He was also afraid. What if Voldemort was taking so long to kill them because he had something awful, gruesome beyond imagination prepared for them? That must be why it was taking so long, and definitely not because Harry didn’t dare look the alternative situation in the eye. That was what Hermione had said when summer break started: Harry was protected by their love.

That was stupid. They couldn’t possibly love him. Even if they did, one question gnawed relentlessly at his mind: how? Harry Potter, too big for his britches that he was fine with going to Diagon Alley, where the Grangers would be harrassed (Harry wouldnt admit they were too busy to go another day other than the day school started), and where he would have his shoes kissed by the arrogant abomination that went by the name of Gilderoy Lockheart. Harry Potter, too stupid to realize he was a puppet to Dumbledore’s game. Harry Potter, who-

“Ooh, Harry, ‘Lady Stardust’ is on the radio! Sing with me!” Hermione exclaimed. Harry grinned to her, and stuffed all those annoying feelings down, knowing full well that he couldn’t just have a mental breakdown, right now, right here.

It was a delicate balance. He had to keep track of how long until he came crashing down on himself. But it was relatively easy to be happy. He could handle the black-and-white rollercoaster, as long as his friends weren’t there to witness it.

“…They laughed at his long, black hair
His animal grace
Lady Stardust sang his songs
Of darkness and disgrace…”

…

Harry and Hermione were linked arm in arm, sporting matching smiles of equal joy. They chatted easily, not noticing Hermione’s parents smiling fondly and whispering something that sounded a lot like “twins.”

Harry, at last minute, had tried to convince them he’d forgotten to buy parchment and quills, but they insisted they could buy it later. Hermione was very stubborn about this, and Harry couldn’t figure out why for the life of him until he remembered her crush on Lockheart.

That still didn’t sit right with him, though, not after their “friend of Dorthy” talk. As they entered the bookstore, Harry tried to figure it out in his mind as Ron and Hermione greeted eachother. Eventually, Ron went off to chase George for some reason or another. While Hermione’s parents greeted Ron’s, Harry led her to a quiet corner of the bookstore.

“Do you actually like him?” Harry blurted out.

“Do you like me?” Hermione snapped. Harry stepped back. “You went stiff as soon as we were in the bookstore’s vicinity. You heard about Lockheart, and now you’re- you’re-”

“Hermione,” he began slowly. “Is something wrong? What happened?”

Hermione stepped back, turning away. “Nothing. Everything’s fine.”

“I’m sorry I’ve upset you. I’m sorry.” Harry was confused. Hermione sniffled.

She choked out a broken sob. “No, no, I should’ve have lashed out like that. It’s just-” she inhaled deeply. “When I went to the loo, I ran into Lavemder Brown and Parvarti Patil. They were gushing over Lockheart, and I didn’t understand why. I’ve heard about him, but I couldn’t comprehend why they were so excited about him. It must’ve shown on my face, because they started laughing at me. They said I was blind and stupid. Lavender said I was less of a girl and more of a- a- they called me homophobic slurs- which by the way- didn’t upset me like I was offended, it just really hurt to hear that some people think of other people like that for something as superficial as attraction.” She pressed her back to the wall and sank to the floor. “I guess I just wanted to feel like I was normal, but to answer your question, I don’t like him. For Merlin’s sake, I don’t even know him, how am I supposed to like him!” Harry sat down next to her. “Harry, what’s wrong with me?”

“Nothing. That’s awful they said those things to you, Mio, I’m sorry. Can I tell you something that’ll make you feel better?”

She nodded, wiping her eyes with her robe sleeve. Harry squeezed her shoulder. “There’s a Hufflepuff in our year, Peter Johnson. He told me he’s demisexual. That means your not attracted to people you don’t have a close relationship with, and it’s a spectrum. You might be attracted to someone you’ve talked to for a few months, or you might not like them until you’ve known them for years. I don’t think there’s a time frame, I’m pretty sure its about your emotional bond. Do you think you could be demi?”

It was like a light went off in her head. She faced Harry, and when she nodded, Harry could feel something bloom in her eyes. Understanding. Some poet said there was nothing better than learned about yourself. He knew Hermione knew it, too.

Hermione rose, hauling Harry up and they returned to her parents. Draco was standing by, and Harry had the urge to rush forward and hug him. Unfortunately, in front of him was Lucious Malfoy.

Harry fixed his posture and raised his head before they came into Lucious’ plane of view. He nudged Hermione behind him a bit.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Malfoy.” Harry tried to ignore that awful walking cane with its abundance of silver. It reminded him of Remus.

“Mr. Potter,” he sneered, malicious interest in his voice. “What a pleasure to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you- only good things, I assure you- but what a…privilege…it is to meet you face-to-face.”

Draco shrank back at the words, “so much about you.” He was clutching his hand. His face was masked in that stone-cold indifference, but Harry could see he was miserable.

Draco’s hand was red with dried blood, two puncture marks on his knuckles that looked eerily similar to the cobra teeth on Lucious’ cane.

“You flatter me, Mr. Malfoy. Please, call me Harry.” Harry didn’t care if disgust was noticeable in his voice. He put himself in Draco’s shoes. He must’ve told his parents all about Harry Potter. He was just a boy, after all. Of course he would be excited that the Wizarding World’s savior was one of his closest friends, and if he felt it safe enough, of course he would’ve told his parents. Except at least one of those parents used his elation against him, a mockery. No wonder Draco’s eyes were so sad.

The whole interaction with Lucious went as expected. As he and Arthur bickered, Harry really did want to hug Draco, to comfort him. Instead, Harry kept his eyes on Lucious, guarding Hermione. He didn’t trust that nasty motherfucker.

At last, final words were exchanged and Lucious dumped Tom Riddle’s diary into Ginny’s cauldron.

Harry didn’t take his eyes off the diary. He stared at it so intensely it wasn’t until Lockheart wrapped an arm around his shoulder that he realized he’d been lost in his head.

“….my bestseller novel; Magical Me!” Lockheart grinned, displaying his straight, white teeth. The crowd erupted into applause. Hermione clapping politely but her expression bored. Ron looked happier than he did last timeline. Harry hoped he’d spoken normally. The last thing he needed this year was a Daily Prophet articles saying the Boy Who Lived was bonkers. Second year had not been fun.

Harry shook his hand and squeezed harder than necessary. Lockheart paid no mind, other than slightly wincing through his big, fat, fake grin.

He chatted with the Weasleys and Hermione on the way to the nearest Floo station. A part of him wondered if Draco was alright, but he didn’t want the others to notice his anxiety.

Ginny blushed furiously as Harry knuckled her scalp, which was weird, because Fred and George did it to her every chance they got. He frowned, but used her reaction as a distraction to nick the diary from her cauldron. He also took the pages that had fallen out of the book.

During his time in Grimmauld Place, Sirius taught Harry how to pickpocket things, much against to Remus’ better judgement. Harry did a quick sweep of everyone’s cauldron’s, easily recognizing the difference between parchment and the thick, smooth pages of the diary.

They parted with Ron, Molly hugging Harry and Hermione, but Harry noticed the faint detestation as her eyes were cast on his Slytherin tie.

…

Harry woke bright and early on Sunday morning, giddy as if he were a toddler waking on Christmas Day. It felt a lot like that. Hogwarts was like a huge present he would never get sick of. He shook Hermione awake, who was a light sleeper, and dashed into the bathroom to change and get ready for the day. A few moments after he shut the door, Hermione whined sarcastically about “girls first,” but Harry knew she was thankful for the opportunity to skim through their textbooks once more.

Hermione really was a genius. She had taken Harry up of his challenge and had successfully learnt nearly a dozen third and fourth year spells by the end of July. On his birthday, Harry had toasted her accomplishments. She had smiled brightly.

Harry spit his toothpaste in the sink, rinsed his mouth and failed at taming his unkept hair. Draco loved playfully teasing Harry about every little feature, from his hair to the beauty mark on his neck to the way his middle finger bent slightly at an odd angle. As Harry changed, he took a look at his finger and thought, as bent as I am.

He dramatically strutted into Hermione’s room, posing theatrically in random ways before she threw her slipper at him. She tied her hair into a low bun carelessly, grinning at him and dodging his attempt at throwing the show back at her.

They chased eachother down the stairs, giggling as Dad and Mum laughed about something in the kitchen. They scarfed down the steaming-hot breakfast sandwiches on the counter and swallowed whole cups of juice.

They raced back upstairs, checking and double check their things. Cepheus hopped into Harry’s hood. As Hermione scribbled one last note in her Trnasfiguration textbook, she raised an eyebrow disapprovingly to Harry. He shrugged, as if to say, “Got a better idea?” Hermione humphed, rolling her eyes before closing her trunk.

They clamored into the car. Soon, they reached King’s Cross Station fifteen minutes early and Hermione’s parents ran through the barrier with them. Frederick and Bella had to leave soon, though, and left as Hermione sand Harry climbed on to the train.

“C’mon, let’s go find Draco,” Harry said, tugging Hermione’s sleeve gently.

“Alright, I hope Daphne’s with him.” She fell into step with him. “We’ll look for Ron later,” she added.

Harry swallowed weakly. He hoped they got to the station earlier, probably they would since Harry wasn’t with them.
A head of bright, blond hair stuck out in the wave of students. Harry ran toward him-

Except it was not Draco, not even a him. It was Luna Lovegood.