Possibilities

The next few weeks pass in a steady swirl, the school teeters on the cusp of autumn; leaves flushed a striking yellow, some already a buoyant orange. Midday grappled with the remaining heat of the season, the nights chilling, most students opting to wear thicker jumpers in the later hours. Despite the relentless cold permeating the castles walls, ironically, Harry has never felt warmer.

He feels at home. 

It’s at breakfast one day in mid October that Ron suggests his idea. Harry has hurriedly changed the topic of conversation away from Snape and onto something new - an occurrence that has happened often over the past weeks. He can see Ron’s - and likewise Draco’s, and perhaps slightly Hermione’s - irritation towards Harry’s avoidance increase. 

He didn’t want to believe it. Hermione and himself had spent the past few weeks convincing themselves Slytherin we’re not evil. He couldn’t help but feel Ron was unfairly pouncing on the professor due to his green robes and aversion to children. 

However, Ron shakes his head and moves on. Nothing else has happened, it’s not a pressing matter.

“I have an idea,” Ron announces, piling his second portion of food onto his plate. Harry can’t fathom being able to eat that much food, his meagre first portion left unfinished.

His announcement, however, has caught the attention of the other three. Hermione has finally looked up from her book, looking ever so slightly nauseous. And Harry is pretty sure he can hear the alarm bells going off in Draco’s head.

“Oi, mate,” he signals to Draco to pass the plate of sausages, sizzling with steam rolling off of them. Draco looks less than pleased with Ron’s informal ‘mate’. Scowling, yet obliging.

“Why don’t we have a midnight feast.” 

The three share a glance before their gaze returns to Ron’s hopeful face, emblazoned with a boyish grin. It’s Harry that speaks first: “I - Why?”

“What do you mean - why?” Cries Ron, throughly baffled. “It’s fun, of course.” 

“I have to agree with Potter on this one,” Draco sighs. “I don’t see the point - rather, it’s an awful lot of effort just to eat food. Can’t we just eat it at dinner?”

“It’ll be exhilarating,” Ron battles. “We need to liven up, break some rules.” 

Hermione looks as though she’s about to dive into a rant that goes something along the lines of, ‘rules, Ronald, are meant to be followed’. However, Draco cuts in.

“I’m all for breaking the rules, but not if there isn’t any point. If you break rules just for the sake of, it’s stupid.”

Harry had never met someone like Draco. He was so honest, yet never vulnerable, he always said what he meant. And he had a certain perceptive clarity that ought to have belonged to a Wizard such as Dumbledore as opposed to the pale eleven year old it did. And on top of that, he was kind; blanketed by sarcasm and banter but Harry had seen it’s glimmers. He was slightly in awe, truthfully.

“What’s the harm,” Ron cried jovially, his arms waving wildly around him, nearly taking out students left and right. “It’s fun. Fred and George say people do it all the time.” 

Harry raised his eyebrows, wondering if Fred and George are really the best sources. He shares a grin with Draco, neither having to speak, simply understanding the other. Friendship, Harry is coming to discover, is truly a beautiful thing. 

Draco rolls his eyes and relents and Hermione dives back into her novel. A silent surrender. 

Ron looks at Harry, eyes gleaming. He’s bouncing on his seat like a puppy, anxious for a walk. Harry grins, “Alright, fine.”

Harry trudges through the rest of the day, and admittedly as the evening hours draw closer the feeling of childish excitement rises up within him.

Transfiguration passes, Harry is secretly in complete admiration of McGonagall. The fiery teacher, although fiercely protective of her house has never shown any bias or held the snake emblazoned on Harry’s chest against him. 

There aren’t words for the appreciation he feels.

Then, History of Magic. A dull class, yet perhaps one of Harry’s favourites. Him and Draco sit up the back of the class, half shrouded in darkness, whispering; just talking and joking and laughing. 

Harry oftentimes finds himself smiling fondly when reminiscing about conversations between the two inside those four walls. It’s special. It’s theirs. 

He's found himself growing close to the blonde haired Ravenclaw, a silent understating between the two of the trials of life. 

He aches at the distant loneliness of the past eleven years.

Finally, it is night. Shortly after half past eleven, Harry and Hermione meet in the Slytherin common room. It’s desolate, the embers in the fire dying; smalls sparks in the suffocating ash.

Harry think there’s something rather poetic about that.

Their bundled up in cosy Pajamas, jumpers, fluffy socks, slippers and dressing gowns. The Slytherin common room is buried deep in the castle; like it’s something to be ashamed of, Harry thinks. Nestled in the edge of the Dark Lake, and the castles heating left much to be desired. He’s gotten used to many layers of clothing. 

Hermione rubs her eyes and yawns, clasping on to Harry’s arm. “Hiya,” she murmurs. 

This late at night any makeup the young witch had been wearing was washed off. It showed the slight bags under eyes, and a cluster of spots situated on her chin. She looked so real.

He thinks, this is probably not something to mention to Hermione. However, he thinks she looks alive. A compliment in his eyes, but probably not well received by the tired witch resting on his arm.

They make their way through the castle to the designated meet up spot. Ron is already there, bouncing on the balls of his feet in anticipation. He looks ready to explode in joy when he sees the two Slytherin round the corner. “Hi,” he greets them.

“Blimey, this is fantastic!”

In his hands he is clasping a large and rather inconspicuous basket. When seeing Harry’s eyes on it, Ron explains.

“Mum bakes, a lot.” Harry grins.

Draco is last to join them, he’s scowling and dragging his feet. “I hate you all.” 

Harry smiles up at him, teasing the grumpy Ravenclaw. Draco pats Harry’s head, “Potter, there’s no need for that amount of energy at this time of night.” 

The four, lead by a prancing Ron, make their way to a small classroom on the second floor. “Hardly used,” Ron explains. “I asked Fred and George.” 

The four of them sit in a huddle in the middle of the room, dishing out food. Ron scarves down muffins, chocolate and varying assortment of pastries. Hermione sips on a mug of tea, enjoying a muffin. Draco cradles a bar of chocolate; Harry wonders how much chocolate Draco has been permitted to indulge in throughout his life. Probably not much.

Harry plays with a croissant. Unsure as to eat it or not. He still felt dinner sitting heavy in his stomach. 

They spend the next hour sharing stories and often erupting into fits of laughter that leave Harry shaking and gasping for air, before relapsing into the hilarity. 

He feels warm and safe here in this huddle. Like he could tell them anything and everything and it would be fine. 

For the first time, Harry feels that if he were to fall someone would catch him. 

After another hour of hilarity, they retreat to their dorms. The four of them shuffle along, huddling together for warmth. They hear a distant yowl and freeze.

“Filch,” Draco hisses.

“Bloody Hell.”

They take off in a sprint away from the cat and hunched shadow of a figure coming around the corner. In the darkness, Harry admittedly finds the whole thing quite spooky. 

They pay not attention as staircases swing them about dropping them at random onto new levels, portraits hissing and cursing at them. 

Draco shoves open a door, herding the other three into a corridor. They relax against the wall, breathing out at long last. 

However in the eery quiet they can still hear the ominous tap-tap of Filch coming closer. Harry feels trapped, the inability to escape suffocating the boy. Draco grasps his wrist tugging him along, Ron and Hermione on their heels. 

They reach a door at the end of the corridor, that Ron fumbles with before cursing and announcing: “It’s locked”. 

Hermione shoves past him, flicking her wand and whispering an incantation. The lock opens and they pile in slamming the door in their wake. 

The four press their ears to the door, listening with bated breath as Filch enters the corridor. Mrs. Norris follows him but hangs back with trepidation. 

Filch huffs, mutters and leaves. 

Harry wonders what made the old man give up quite so easily. It’s strange. He swivels round and sees just exactly why. 

They were as good as dead anyway.

Lying before the group is a monstrous creature. Sleek black fur, with sharp canine teeth coated in layers of thick slobber protruding in a growl from each of the creatures three heads. 

It begins to rise. It’s humongous. 

Larger than Privet Drive, surely. It towers above them, and a huge glob of slobber lands at their feet. 

Harry’s screams is caught in his throat. He doesn’t want to die, not now he’s finally found solace in this unbelievable place. He’s discovered a home in the bricks of this castle, he doesn’t want to lose that. 

Suddenly he is hurtling backwards as Draco’s strong grip pulls him through the doorway. The heavy iron door clangs shut leaving them in the cold silence, alive.

They walk away in silence. Harry can see a blazen anger in Hermione’s eyes, and a quiet concern in Draco’s. The Ravenclaw’s icy blue eyes check his friends for injury. 

“Harry,” Hermione bites out, “Let’s leave.” 

Harry goes to leave with her, in solidarity of the witch. “Oi, what’s got your knickers in a twist?” Cries Ron as he hurried to keep up with the two Slytherins. 

Hermione stops, dead still. Her back is rigid. She slowly turns round, trembling with the hot rage that courses through the young witch’s veins. 

“Excuse me?”

Ron steps back, in face of the witch. “I mean just - rather - it’s not a big deal. So, why are you so mad?”

“Not a big deal,” Hermione fumed. She laughs coldly. “We could have died, Ron. Died. That sounds like a pretty big deal to me!”

“But we didn’t!”

“But we could have! And we could have been expelled, too!” 

Ron scoffs, “Not likely.” 

That, as it turns out, was the wrong thing to say. 

“Maybe not for you,” Hermione growls. “You and Draco are from pure blood families, your brother is a prefect! Dumbledore wouldn't dare. Harry is: Harry Potter. But me? I’m a nobody, a muggle and a Slytherin no less.”

Hermione stares in cold fury at Draco and Ron. Harry feels a pang of anger at the witch for being up his famousness as an excuse, but it’s quickly followed by the realisation of truth.  

“Don’t you dare,” her voice is low and slow, trembling with the immense fury and emotion behind the words. “Don’t you dare suggest we are in the same boat here.” 

She stalks away, leaving three boys behind. 

Harry runs after her, and in the quiet cold of the dungeon he watches the young witch tremble and fall apart.