Diving
Chapter 4: Diving
“ WHAT?! ” Harry and Ron both yelled in tandem.
Theo shied away from their unexpected volume, which made Harry think he really hadn’t a clue as to what kind of reaction they would get with that particular bomb.
“What do you mean bring them back?” Ron shouted desperately. “You can’t bring anyone back from the dead! We’re not going to do any kind of necromancy, and I’ll turn you into the Aurors if you even try–”
“We’re not literally bringing them back from the dead, Weasley,” Pansy scoffed, offended by the implication. “Some of us have some semblance of creativity and more than two brain cells to rub together.”
Ron started his own retort, his face purpling, but Harry cut him off, “What exactly are you planning on doing then?”
Theo ignored the irate ginger completely, his eyes locking in on Harry’s– green met green, but where Harry’s were luminous and jewel-toned, Theo’s were darker, like evergreens deep in the forest at nighttime…just a halo of gold around the center… Harry cleared his throat and his mind in one fell swoop.
Well that was weird.
“We, uh, well…” Theo seemed just as lost as Harry was because Pansy had to elbow him harshly in the ribs to get him back on track. “Right, Potter, you remember our third year?”
Harry nodded, still a little thrown off by the weird sensation of his stomach flipping. He was so filled with anticipation at just the thought of having her back. He would do this for her–whatever it was. No questions asked.
“What about third year? We barely had any contact with Slytherins,” Ron pointed out.
Again, Ron was silenced, this time by Luna. “No, Ron, you and Harry barely had any contact with them. Hermione punched Draco in the face,” she smiled dreamily.
Pansy snorted indelicately, covering her mouth with the back of her hand as she tried to stifle her laughter. “She did, didn’t she?”
“Why are you laughing at that? Wasn’t Draco your boyfriend, or betrothed , or whatever?” Ron mocked, and at his assumption, her laughter burst out, unable to be contained any longer.
“Merlin, no, Weasley. Draco was not my ‘boyfriend or whatever ’, but I find it interesting you don’t know who he actually belonged to, didn’t sh–”
“Pansy, stop,” Theo gave her a stern warning look and Pansy flipped her dark hair over her shoulder, walking away to clean up the broken china that still littered the kitchen, leaving more bloody footprints as she went.
“Who?” Ron questioned Theo, but his eyes followed the small, posh witch as she lazily flicked her wand around the flat, righting anything out of place, and erasing her dried scarlet steps behind her.
Theo ignored him again, “It doesn’t matter, it’s not particularly pertinent to my proposal for the moment.”
“Well, get on with it then,” Harry huffed impatiently. He wondered if Theo could repeat what he just said five times fast…Whatever it was, he was all in. He just needed to know how much trouble he’d be in afterward.
“Granger’s extra classes,” Theo said slowly.
“Yes!” An imaginary lightbulb illuminated over Harry’s messy black hair. “But they were all destroyed. I saw it!”
Theo smiled knowingly. “Yes, Potter, but—“
“What d’you mean but ? You can’t just make a time turner, it’s impossible!” Ron scoffed.
“It’s not impossible , Weasel,” Pansy snarled, “obviously. Someone had to make them the first time around, didn’t they? Or did they just pop into existence according to your pea-sized brain?”
Ron’s cheeks reddened. He knew she had a good point, but he also wasn’t willing to let her know she was right. Harry almost chuckled at his friend’s inner turmoil flashing so blatantly across his face like a neon sign spelling out his exact thoughts in electric red letters.
“How?” Harry questioned, knowing the Slytherins had figured out some way to get their hands on one, or they wouldn’t have proposed it in the first place. Bunch of cynics, their lot, no hopeful optimism, just cold, hard facts.
Theo shared a meaningful glance with Pansy before she returned to her angry staring at Ron. “Theodore Nott Sr. was rather intrigued by the idea of using a time turner to bring the Dark Lord back from the dead…or the past as it were.”
“Great, so you wanna use something meant for He Who Must Not Be Named to rise back to power? What if we bring him back instead of Hermione?!” Ron’s voice tripped over his own words in his flustered state.
“And Draco,” Pansy added forcefully, practically begging for Ron to argue so she had a reason to hex him.
He didn’t bite. “Whatever,” Ron grumbled.
“We won’t bring the Dark Lord back because we won’t be changing anything except Granger and Draco’s participation in the final battle,” Theo said proudly.
“I don’t know…” Harry said skeptically. “Hermione said every tiny action can have huge effects. Like the whole ripples-in-a-pond thing.”
“The what?” Theo looked confused for a second then his mind obviously caught up because he finished with, “Oh, right, nevermind. It won’t be like that, though! We’ll just tell them to disappear earlier in the fighting and hide out somewhere until the end!”
“I still don’t see how that’s any different…” Harry mused, trying to think through the whole battle and what would or could change. “Though, I’m not sure I can really imagine how their absence versus death could really have more of an impact on anything.”
Ron was running through every move like a chess match. Harry could see the strategies flying behind his eyes, whizzing around all the possibilities each piece would render.
“It’s too risky.”
Harry’s head whipped around to look at Ron so quickly his vertebrae crackled. “Ron. This is Hermione’s life we’re talking about.”
“She’s dead, Harry. She’s already dead. Changing that fact could lead to—well Voldemort not dying, or the Order losing, or someone else dying, or her death being more painful. We don’t know!” Ron’s voice grew frantic.
“I do,” Luna’s dreamy voice reminded them that there were still three other people in the flat. “I can see it will have a good outcome…just not in the way we expect,” she smiled serenely as she ran her fingers through Blaise’s curly hair.
“You can’t possibly know that,” Ron scoffed dismissively.
“She’s…a…Seer…you…twit,” Blaise coughed from his place across the room.
“Yeah, right, and I’m Merlin,” Ron snorted, but he was ignored in favor of the injured man who was now awake and attempting to sit up.
“Right on time,” Luna smiled, earning her a weak chuckle from Blaise that broke into deep coughs.
Harry knelt next to the couple, “Do you remember what happened?”
“Sheesh, let him breathe Potter, he just woke up,” Pansy said, her voice drained of all the venom she had been focusing on Ron.
“I was just…walking in downstairs..,and I heard my name called behind me. I turned around…then I was on the ground…after that…nothing. I didn’t see who did it,” he frowned, trying to recall any details. If anyone could catch the culprit and actually bring them to justice, it would be Harry Potter.
“That’s alright, just let me know if you remember anything.” Harry tried to keep his disappointment from coloring his words, but he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t hoping for a lead.
That Auror position was seeming more and more inevitable. Would he ever just rest? Let someone else take over the investigating and snooping?
Probably not.
“Can you stand?” Luna knelt in front of Blaise, offering her hands as support.
With some difficulty, Blaise was able to slowly clamber to his feet, clutching at his chest. Pansy pulled a pain relief potion out of her pocket, wordlessly pressing the phial into his palm. He nodded gratefully, then downed the liquid in one gulp.
“We should get you home. Daddy will be able to help,” Luna said gently. The two of them wobbled to the Floo, and disappeared into the flames.
“Potter—“
“I’ll do it.” Harry didn’t hesitate, he knew in his heart of hearts, he’d do anything for Hermione—to get Hermione back. His life without her so far just wasn’t going to work for him. He wouldn’t accept it.
Ron was gobsmacked. “Harry, you can’t really—“
“I’m in. Whatever the plan is, I’m in,” Harry said resolutely.
“See, Theo? The hero can’t resist the chance to hero,” Pansy taunted. “Though I’m a bit surprised your sidekick isn’t scrambling to volunteer, Potter.”
“Go fuck yourself, Parkinson,” Ron bit back.
“Well, I could, but where’s the fun in that? I’d much rather you—“
Theo pinched the bridge of his nose, “Pans, enough. You can flirt with him later.”
Flirting? Harry was sure she was about to tell Ron to go fuck himself instead, but now her words were taking on a whole new meaning…
“Flirting with a filthy Weasel? I’d never stoop so low…disgusting!” Pansy scowled, though not as deeply as before, making Harry wonder just how much truth was actually being thrown around.
“Right, well, I’m off then,” Ron muttered, stomping out of the flat, muttering about them all being complete nutters.
“What now?” Harry asked, eagerly.
“Longbottom?” Theo queried.
Harry had completely forgotten Neville was still with them. He’d gotten so caught up in Pansy and Ron’s bickering, and Theo’s eyes…well, it was safe to say he felt like a shite friend…again.
Neville joined them hesitantly. “You’re sure about this?” He eyed the tall Slytherin scrutinously. “You’re absolutely sure it’ll work?”
“Positive. The Arithmancy was done by Granger herself years ago, I just tweaked the Portkey part,” Theo nodded. “Potter can give me the coordinates and we’ll arrive safe and sound.”
“And returning?” Neville questioned with a bit more concern, but Theo responded with nothing short of unyielding confidence.
“We’ll have two magical tethers here to pull us back.” He explained, noting Harry’s immediate confusion, “We’ll each need a magical tether to guide us back to the correct place and time, just in case the coordinates aren’t exact. Don’t want to get lost in space.” Theo’s voice was cheery, but Harry could see a crinkle of fear ripple through his features.
He wasn’t sure. Even Hermione’s maths could be wrong…it was rare, but it had happened. What would it be like to be lost in space and time? Would they end up in the future, or even further into the past? Someone else’s timeline? It was much too complicated for his tired brain to comprehend right now.
“When do we go?” Harry decided. He wouldn’t worry about the details, he’d never even taken Arithmancy, so who was he to judge how well the calculations had been done? He knew he wouldn’t leave Hermione behind. Never.
Theo’s face morphed into a more relaxed state at Harry’s words. “I’ll need time to input the coordinates and set the time. We’ll need to pick a day to arrive first, then a location based on where both Draco and Granger would have been at the time. You and I will split up, and try to guide them back. The day needs to be close enough to the Battle of Hogwarts so that they aren’t noticed when they go missing. We can’t change too much—well, you already know.”
“So who are the anchors?” Harry had just assumed it would be Pansy and Neville since they were the only two left in the flat.
“Obviously, I’ll be the anchor for Theo and Draco,” Pansy volunteered.
“Yes, and we had hoped Weasley would be the anchor for you and Granger…” Theo awkwardly shifted from foot to foot.
“Yeah,” Harry rubbed at the back of his neck, “I don’t think Ron’s gonna go for this one. But Nev, you could do it, right?”
Neville stepped up eager to help, but Theo shook his head, “Sorry, mate, your magical signature is too wonky right now—unfamiliar, even to you.”
Neville’s face fell, distraught. Harry felt so ignorant to what his friend must be going through. He couldn’t even be allowed to help keep his friends safe—he was too unstable.
“It has to be Weasley. Someone who’s magical signature you’d recognize from a mile away with your eyes closed, and same goes for Hermione. He’s the only option aside from Draco, but that would be counterproductive to say the least,” Theo trailed off mumbling.
Why would Malfoy’s magic be recognizable to them? Harry supposed he and Malfoy had attacked each other enough at school that he would probably be able to hone in on his signature, but Hermione wouldn’t. Would she…?
“I’ll work on the coordinates, but you’ll have to work on getting Weasley in on the plan. Understand? Without him, Potter, we can’t do the time jump,” Theo watched him imploringly, pressing upon him the importance of his task. He knew all about important tasks. Just when he thought he was done, he always seemed to find a new one…
They spent the next three hours pouring over whatever bit of a pre-battle timeline they could put together from Harry’s lack of access to a calendar at the time…and the incredibly strange way time moved in war…
Sleep came easily that night. He no longer felt so alone in his grief.
…
Four in the morning came much too soon. The pounding in his skull echoed his thoughts: you’re an idiot…should’ve slept more…you’re an idiot…your best friend’s brother is dead…you’re an idiot…you smell, go take a shower…
The shower wasn’t much different. While his headache abated somewhat, the metronome of water droplets falling from the juncture of the leaky shower head beat loudly over the collective sound of the rest of the water. Steam fogged his senses, enveloping him in a false sense of calm.
It was over too quickly. He dressed in robes—not black. Fred would’ve hated that. Instead, Harry rummaged through his trunk for the bottle green dress robes he’d worn to the Yule Ball. They were the perfect combination of colorful and ridiculous for the occasion.
He arrived at the Burrow when it was still dark, the twilight peeking out over the treeline. He’d chosen to apparate this time. It exerted more energy, but he needed the time to arrive slowly—to prepare for what he was about to witness.
Harry approached the back garden just as hints of orange bled into the purple-tinged sky. Ginny was exiting the back door and greeted him somberly. She was wearing a summery, golden yellow sundress, with a single daisy tucked into her hair.
“I’m glad you're here,” she said in lieu of a greeting. Her arms lifted ever so slightly before dropping back to her sides, and Harry’s heart lurched—not in longing, but in sympathy. He knew she needed someone to lean on, but Harry wasn’t convinced he was the one to do that anymore. He averted his eyes, instead pretending to admire Molly’s azaleas blooming nearby.
To Harry’s relief, Ron slipped out of the kitchen only moments later, followed by Percy, Charlie, and Arthur. It seemed everyone had the same idea when it came to attire—nearly every color of the rainbow was represented in Fred’s honor.
Ron wore a vibrant red sweater Molly had knit for him with worn maroon robes. Percy was adorned in several shades of blue—from lapis to royal to navy. His horn rimmed spectacles perched precariously on the end of his nose. Charlie’s robes were akin to that of a pumpkin on fire, orange and blinding. Arthur’s lime green reminded Harry of the Healers at St. Mungo’s…it was always possible he borrowed them just for the occasion.
When Bill walked out of the house, his turquoise jumper was in stark contrast to Molly’s frilly, fuschia pink dress. A handkerchief was dabbing at her eyes as she sobbed on her eldest son’s sleeve. George was last to join them, wearing the twins’ signature violet and orange Weasley Wizarding Wheezes robes, with a matching top hat. His face was red and splotchy, and Harry could only imagine he’d been crying the entire night.
How would it feel to say goodbye to half of yourself? How could one possibly do such a thing? Harry’s stomach churned at the concept.
They processed into the apple orchards, where they often played pickup games of Quidditch. The verdant tree tops were glowing in the rising sun’s glittering rays. The whole area was covered in gold, and Harry imagined Fred’s mischievous grin. It was too picture perfect, and he’d definitely be scheming to start some sort of riot—maybe even invite the gnomes to lead a rebellion.
The casket was laid in the middle of them, levitated by Bill, Charlie, Percy, and Arthur. Ron and Ginny had taken their places comforting their mother and other brother. Harry awkwardly stood to the side—he didn’t really belong there. While the Weasley’s would always be his family, this was such a private moment, and he was uncomfortable intruding.
As though reading his mind, Ron and George pulled Harry to them, the three boys embracing like they were children again. Suddenly he was back in the Gryffindor common room. They were eleven and twelve, Ron was homesick and Harry was dreading going home. Fred and George finding ways to cheer them both up with joke after joke and unending prank proposals.
A smile almost graced his lips—almost.
He watched as Fred’s casket was lowered gently into the freshly dug earth, and Harry’s heart clenched. Mrs. Weasley’s heartbreaking sobs grew louder and louder, until her cries pierced the very core of his being. She fell to her knees as her son’s body finally rested at the bottom of the grave.
George was falling right along with her. Harry and Ron supported his weight as he sagged onto the lush grass beneath them, a guttural groan escaping from his soul and shaking them all deeply. He was so incredibly broken, and he knew right then and there, that George would never truly be whole again.
Arthur was choking back his own tears as he started to speak, his voice breaking every few words. “My boy…our little Freddie…you were taken too—too soon. We could never express how proud we are of your bravery and accomplishments in this life. Your inventiveness, your humor. You could always bring a smile to any face…while putting a scowl on your mother’s.”
They all chuckled sadly, and Molly burst into a fresh wave of sobs.
“You were a wonderful brother, Fred,” Bill said, moving them along. “You were always willing to try out a new way to get into trouble—“
“Yeah, and you were a great Beater—always up for a game of Quidditch,” Charlie added fondly.
Then, it was Percy’s turn. His voice was quiet, almost inaudible, as he spoke. “Fred, this is all my fault. I’m sorry I was a terrible brother—I should’ve come home sooner—been there for you sooner. I should’ve stood by your side, and fought alongside you.” His face puckered with internal anger, and Harry saw the dullness take over him. It had taken over them all.
Harry could understand that—the rage. Letting someone you love down in the ultimate way was unforgivable. That’s why he had to do everything in his power to get her back…he had to bring her back. This was the only lifeline he had left. Otherwise he’d be Percy.
He couldn’t be Percy.
Ron and Ginny said their peace, and Harry offered his own kind words, reminiscing about their days on the Quidditch team, and when they passed on the Marauders Map to him.
“Bye Freddie,” George said sadly.
They each threw handfuls of dirt into the grave, and Arthur moved the rest over the top, smoothing it cleanly. Molly pulled herself together enough to conjure a large array of vibrant flowers to lay on top.
Just when the family started to bid their final farewell and begin the trek back to the house, George whispered something under his breath, and Harry barely caught the tail end of it.
Whizzing and fizzing and banging erupted all around them. Brilliant greens, violets, and indigos erupted into the mid-morning sky just as beautifully as if it were night. Fireworks blasted from every corner of the orchard, raining glitter and confetti all around them as they popped and crackled.
There was a smile on every single face.
Fred .
…
The fireworks had gone on for nearly an hour before the last one fizzled out. An inevitable, and bittersweet ending, but the sendoff he had deserved.
He should have felt some semblance of relief, now that the funeral was over. But for some reason, Harry’s anxiety spiked. His pulse quickened the moment he crossed the Burrow’s threshold, and anticipation lingered, wrapping around the edges of his brain, tingling in his fingertips. With all the pent up sensations, he felt sluggish; dragging. His muscles strained to move his legs to one of the chairs in the kitchen, and his arms hung limply at his sides.
The coldness that was settling in his chest slowed his thoughts. It was so hard to follow the small conversations around him. He almost pictured Hermione sitting next to him at the table, whispering about how inappropriate a joke was, or making sure he ate enough.
“Harry?” A voice spoke in his ear, only loud enough for him to hear. “Can I talk to you for a minute out front?”
Harry nodded, obliging the eldest Weasley brother. He followed Bill discreetly through the living room, and out the front door.
“Have you spoken to Neville?” Bill asked without preempt.
“Er—I saw him last night, why?” Harry awkwardly tried to get the words out. His brain was still moving several beats too slow. Why would Bill ask about Neville? Did he even know him?
Bill’s lips were pulled in a tight line. “Did he say anything about the moon? Or where he’s going to shift?”
“No, he—he didn’t mention it,” Harry suddenly understood. Bill wasn’t a werewolf himself, but he had enough of the curse that he would be sensitive to the moon’s phases and recognize the needs a new wolf might encounter. Neville had mentioned Bill spoke to him after the battle.
“I think—I think you might be able to help him. Grimmauld Place has a reinforced cell in the basement. It’s where Remus went…the last couple of years,” his voice grew somber at the mention of their fallen comrade.
“Like a cage? I can’t do that to Neville,” Harry took a nervous step back, but Bill matched him, stepping forward.
“You’ll have to. Until the Ministry gets its head out of its arse and opens some sort of sanctuary, he’ll need a safe place to go. Everyone who matters when it comes to creature rights will be waiting for just one person to step a toe out of line—make one, single mistake.”
“Right.”
Bill stayed for only a moment longer, looking like he wanted to say more, before thinking better of it and returning to the house, leaving him alone to contemplate his next move. He was getting really tired of everyone just demanding the best out of him.
Of course he would help Neville. Of course he would save Hermione. Couldn’t they see that without jumping down his throat about it? He knew what the stakes were and he wasn’t jeopardizing any of his friends’ lives.
The sun had risen into the sky, the golden glow gone and replaced with a bright freshness to everything around him. Harry crept back into the Burrow to escape the sweat beginning to bead and roll down his spine.
Re-entering the kitchen, he began to take empty, used dishes over to the counter. The Weasley children had migrated back out to the yard, soaking up the warmth of the day. Dropping a few plates into the sink, Harry heard a clink.
Under the plates were three empty phials rolling against the drain. “What—?”
“Oh, just a bit of Calming Draught, dear,” Molly’s chipper voice startled him from behind, a stark contrast to her breakdown only an hour ago. “Oh, I’ll get those, Harry! Not to worry!” She ushered him away from the sink, humming a soft, upbeat melody as she looked for busywork to occupy her.
“Are you sure I can’t help with anything?” Harry offered.
“Oh, no, no, I’ve got it,” she said cheerily. “I’ve been meaning to ask you, but we’ve just been so…overwhelmed…by Fred’s arrangements it must have slipped my mind… Have you planned anything for Hermione yet? I don’t mind if you’re not up to it, dear.”
Harry recoiled at the thought. Suddenly his depressed sense of life earlier all made sense. It was dread. Now that he had a name for it, he could see it for what it was. Fred was buried and laid to rest, now there was nothing left to stand in the way of doing the same for Hermione.
Her parents were long gone—she never really explained where, but he knew she’d made it impossible to find them, and for good reason. She loved the Weasley’s, sure, but Harry knew he was her only real family left. It should be him.
“Oh, er—no thank you—I’ll do it,” he answered awkwardly.
“Of course, just let me know if we can be of any help, then. Maybe Arthur should go with you to fetch her things from the Ministry,” she said absentmindedly as she went back to fluttering around the kitchen.
Harry hadn’t even thought about getting Hermione’s affects from the Ministry. To be frank, he didn’t know where he was supposed to even go to do that. He just knew he wanted to do it alone. The only other person who should be coming with him was Ron, but he had enough on his plate today.
And it felt like it had to be today. He’d already wasted too much time. The pressure was sudden and immense.
Harry hastily bid his goodbyes, telling Ron he’d catch up with him later, and left the family to their reminiscing.
…
The trip to the Ministry was a blur—as if his brain had shut down completely, running only on autopilot. One moment he was walking up the lawn from the Burrow, the next he was marching up to Kingsley’s office, hand raised to knock on the large wooden door before him.
The secretary, an older witch, prim and proper like a stern grandmother, had assured him that the Minister would see him and he could go on in, but… For some reason, Harry found it difficult to knock. His hand wouldn’t move. It was like one moment he was plowing through whatever blockade was in his way and the next, he was frozen—locked in a state of uncertainty.
“Harry?” The door opened from the inside, and Kingsley’s large frame stood in front of him.
Harry dropped his hand back to his side, embarrassed at being caught in such a state. “Er—Minister,” he greeted.
“It’s Kingsley to you,” the man corrected heartily. “Come in!”
Harry stepped into the large office, recently filled with new, more plush furniture than surely someone as stuffy as Fudge or Scrimegeour had acquired during their terms. The room itself was much more quaint than Harry expected.
Kingsley’s desk was cluttered, much like Harry’s would’ve been—if he had any sort of work desk, that is. He had no personal belongings in the room aside from his long black coat hanging over the back of his chair, and a small picture frame propped up along the corner of the desk, turned away from visitors, so only he could see who resided within the silver edges.
“Have a seat, Harry,” Kingsley gestured to one of the cozy armchairs across from him as he settled into his own chair. “What can I do for you?”
“Well, er—Kingsley, I guess I need a favor?”
“Anything,” the man smiled genuinely back at him.
“I need to collect Hermione’s things,” Harry rasped out, the words feeling like sandpaper against his throat. She should be the one getting her own belongings. Not him. He had no business running this errand at all.
Kingsley’s smile faltered, turning down ever so slightly in the corners. “Of course,” he stood primly from his desk, crossing the room in only three strides before he was opening the office door and leading Harry through the maze of hallways and doors, deep into the Ministry.
They finally stopped in front of a door with a plaque next to it that read Department of Magical Law Enforcement . The door was ajar, and several voices overlapped from within. Harry could make out one gruff voice, just barely louder than the rest, seeming to control the flow of conversation.
“Robards,” Kingsley greeted the gruff man as he led Harry inside.
“Kings! Or should I say Minister now?” Gawain Robards boasted loudly.
“You know it’ll always be Kingsley to you,” Kingsley boomed a laugh. “I need a favor here—“
The burly man—Robards—noticed Harry’s presence at last. “Now, Kings, I already told you he could join us but he absolutely can not skip the training!”
“It’s not about that,” Kingsley waved him off. “He’s here to collect a loved one's belongings.”
“Ah,” the man schooled his features into a more profession expression. “For Miss Granger, I presume? We were unable to contact her next of kin we have on file.” He disappeared into a room a few doors down.
Harry nodded dumbly. He didn’t really want to think about what he was doing there, or the fact that the man before him with obvious pity in his eyes was probably going to be his boss someday soon. If anyone didn’t need another reason to be pitied or given special treatment, it was Harry. He didn’t want it—never had—but it didn’t seem to matter to anyone else what he wanted. There was always pity. There was always favoritism. He knew as much.
Robards returned after a few moments, carrying Hermione’s denim jacket stained with blood and dirt from the battle, her vinewood and dragon heartstring wand, and her small, purple beaded handbag.
“I know it’s a bit of an ask, given the state of things, but I need you to go through the belongings and sign off that it’s all there,” the Head Auror said beleaguered. “It’s protocol, sorry Potter.”
Kingsley nodded in agreement, having been an Auror not all that long ago himself. “If you’d like, you can take them in the interrogation room to your left and have a moment alone.”
Harry clutched the items to his chest like a life preserver in a tumultuous sea. He followed Kingsley’s suggestion, taking a sharp left and closing the door behind him.
He would save her.
He would.
He had to.
Harry felt in the pockets of her jacket, but they were empty. He felt something wet roll down his chin. Apparently he was crying now. That was fine. If anyone was worth being mocked in their future place of work over, it was her. She’d have done it for him, and in the middle of the bullpen no less.
She’d have set them on fire for making fun of him for crying. That made him laugh.
He opened the beaded bag. He wasn’t sure why he thought he’d be able to see anything in there, but he stuck his arm down inside and felt around. He could feel a ridiculous number of books, and there was a tinkling as he knocked against several glass phials. The sharp corner of Phineas Nigellus’s frame sliced one of his fingers as he was withdrawing his hand, and he winced in pain.
It was silly to think that something small like that could still cause him pain after feeling the effects of the Cruciatus Curse…or the death of nearly all his loved ones…
But it did.
He stuck the cut in his mouth, pulling out his own wand, “ Accio Dittany!”
Nothing came.
“ Accio Dittany!” Harry tried again, a bit more forcefully, but nothing came out of the bag.
“Accio phial!” He tried again, hoping something useful would make its way into his hand before his other one dripped blood all over the floor.
Three small phials flew from the handbag and into his palms. Gracefully grabbing them, so as not to break them, he inspected what he’d just caught.
The three glasswares had glowing blue whisps floating in them, and Harry’s chest squeezed uncomfortably. They were memories. Possibly her memories… If he knew Hermione—and he thought he did—she left them to be found. Because of course she would, just like the page on the basilisk he found in her petrified hand.
…
“Professor McGonagall,” Harry said, “thanks for seeing me on such short notice. I’m sure you’ve got a lot of work you could be doing instead.”
“I am rather busy these days, Potter, but it’s always good to see you,” the matronly witch smiled kindly. “What can I do for you?”
The words were so simple, but Harry had heard them over and over again today. Everyone was always doing, doing, doing everything for him…fighting for him, dying for him…
“I—er—I need to use the Pensieve,” he stumbled over his words.
McGonagall’s eyebrows shot up in response. “Potter, I don’t think re-living memories will help—“
“They’re not my memories,” Harry interrupted. “They’re hers…I think.”
The new Headmistress looked more curious than shocked, but she said nothing further and led him to the Pensieve. Once it was ready for use, she backed away quietly.
“I’ll leave you to it, just let me know if I can be of any assistance.”
“Thank you, Professor,” Harry said softly as he approached the large stone basin.
He looked at the unlabeled phials, choosing the one with the most murky whisps inside, and poured the contents in.
Harry was dropped into the Great Hall—but it was decorated to the point it was nearly unrecognizable. Hermione had just entered the Yule Ball, and every pair of eyes were on her. She had been beautiful that night. She was always beautiful, but this was something different, a side of her she rarely let be seen.
He looked around, wondering why this particular memory was chosen. He, his past self, was nervously preparing for the champions to dance and worrying about stepping on Parvati’s toes. And Cho. He was watching Cho and Cedric with obvious envy, and he now wondered what he ever saw in her. She was pretty, for sure, but held poor company and was extremely awkward to talk to…though he wasn’t much better at the time.
Following Hermione’s line of sight, Harry saw Viktor Krum approaching her for the dance, but her eyes were locked with another, her face portraying the puzzle she was working out in her brain.
Draco Malfoy was watching her. His face was stoic, but more in an appreciative way than judgemental. He ignored every word Pansy was saying as she tugged at the cuff of his sleeve. Without even looking at his date in her ridiculous pink frills—Harry would have to tease her about her fashion choices later—Draco took a few steps toward the woman he’d tormented for the last three and a half years…like he was about to ask her to dance…
Disgust was the first emotion he registered. Harry couldn’t even fathom what would’ve happened if Malfoy of all people had asked Hermione to dance. She’d have laughed in his face and punched him in the nose again! Maybe it should’ve happened after all, Harry would’ve paid good money to watch that showdown.
The scene shifted to later in the evening, and the party was winding down. Hermione was twirling around on the dance floor with Krum, and he finally left to get them drinks with a kiss to her hand. The smile on her face was a mile wide, and Harry’s heart swelled at how happy she had been that night. She deserved memories like this—golden ones, where she was the star and everyone else just revolved around her.
A loud scoff from behind him alerted Harry to the fact that Malfoy and the remaining Slytherins were chatting at the table behind him.
“Seriously, Draco? You asked me to be your date and you’ve ignored me all night! What could possibly have you in such a foul mood?” Pansy sneered at the blonde.
“Nothing, just leave it,” he scowled, eyes still fixed on Krum’s retreating back.
Theo, who also sat at the table, chuckled. “Sorry Pansy, I think your date wishes he’d asked someone else.”
“Shut up, Theo!” Malfoy growled.
Pansy sneered at the two boys. “Granger? Really? She looks presentable tonight, I’ll give her that, but she’s a Mudblood, Draco!”
Malfoy wasn’t listening to her, however, his eyes were focused on Ron and Hermione’s loud arguing over her choice of date. When she finally stormed off, weaving back into the still-crowded dance floor, Malfoy stood up and marched in after her, and Harry followed.
“Granger!” Malfoy called to her through the loud voices. “Granger, wait up!”
Harry wracked his brain for any memory of Hermione telling him about some nasty insult Malfoy had called her that evening, but nothing came to mind. Maybe she just never told him… She had definitely had another row with Ron in the common room later, but that was still quite some time away.
Hermione whipped around, taking in Malfoy’s striking appearance—his pale hair and complexion in stark contrast to his black robes.
“What do you want, Malfoy?” Hermione said, exasperated. “I’m really not in the mood right now.”
“I—I was just going to tell you look beautiful…” he said, awkwardly staring down at his overly shined dress shoes.
“Hah. Very convincing, but I’m not falling for that trap. Now if you don’t mind—what are you doing?!”
His hand shot out to grab her elbow as she spun on her heel to leave.
“I’m serious, Granger. I mean it, truly. I’m—I’m sorry.” Malfoy ran a hand through his blonde fringe and sighed. “Forget it.”
He stalked off, back through the throng of partygoers, disappearing from sight. Hermione stared down at where he had been, slack jawed. Her fingers pressing lightly into where he had made contact on her arm.
The scene changed again, and Harry was dropped into a new memory.
“It’s a Protean Charm,” Malfoy was showing Hermione something in a Charms book in the back corner of the library. It looked like it was after curfew with the lack of other students around, and the dim ambient torchlight.
She looked skeptical, though not as much as Harry thought she should be. If he was honest, he wasn’t sure why she would’ve agreed to meet with him to begin with.
“Why should I trust you?” Hermione crossed her arms over her chest, giving Malfoy her best scrutinizing glare.
Malfoy groaned under his breath. “Really, Granger? If I was going to sabotage you, wouldn’t it be easier to just turn you in now, instead of giving you a way around Umbridge’s stupid rules?”
“Well, then why don’t you join us?” She said haughtily.
Malfoy rolled his eyes, “Right, and while I’m at it, I’ll just give Potter a kiss too.”
“I’m serious, Malfoy. If you’re really not as bad as you say, then why don’t you help us?”
“I am helping, or did you not need a covert communication device?” he sneered.
It was her turn to roll her eyes at his caginess. “You don’t have to do that, you know.”
“Do what, Granger, help? Don’t worry I won’t be doing it again.”
“Push me away like that. I appreciate the information. Just—just know you’re welcome at any of the meetings if you change your mind.”
She took two of Fred and George’s fake galleons out of her robes pocket, casting the Protean Charm on them. Hermione pressed one into his palm and slipped the other back into her pocket.
“Right, like Scarhead or the Weasel will let me anywhere near your precious resistance without hexing my bollocks off.”
“I’d vouch for you,” Hermione said softly.
“Goodnight.”
Malfoy swept out of the library before she could respond.
Another shift.
This time, Harry was following Hermione down the corridor. She was running frantically, and he recognized the chaotic scene as Umbridge’s raid on the Room of Requirement.
Hermione turned the first corner she came to, ducking into an alcove behind a tapestry. Harry dove behind it as well—they’d never really talked about what happened and how they all escaped…
An invisible hand clapped over her mouth, muffling her labored breathing. “Don’t scream.”
The voice was familiar, obviously belonging to Malfoy. She nodded silently.
“She’s got us rounding up stragglers. You need to stay hidden. Disillusion yourself, Granger. Please.”
Hermione raised her wand, tapping it over the top of her head. Her feet disappeared just as voices started to sound outside the tapestry.
“Finite,” Draco whispered, canceling his own Disillusionment charm before stepping out from the alcove. “All clear back here.”
“If I find that stupid, know-it-all, Mudbl—“
“Pansy, enough!” Draco growled as he led them away from where Hermione was hiding. “What has she ever done to you?”
Pansy screeched, “Are you serious?! Draco, she’s a MUDBLOOD! What is the matter with you?”
“Drop it, Pans…”
Harry couldn’t hear anymore, the Slytherins had walked too far away. He followed Hermione’s quiet footsteps back to Gryffindor Tower, where she canceled her concealment and waited anxiously with Ron for Harry to reappear.
Harry withdrew from the Pensieve, his chest heaving from a combination of emotions. The strongest one was a monumental urge to track down Parkinson and punch her in the face for how many times she called Hermione a…a slur. The next closest feeling was complete and utter befuddlement.
Had Malfoy actually helped them? Helped her ? Not that it made much of a difference in the grand scheme of things, considering he had the Dark Mark and probably killed someone like Hermione or her parents to get it. No amount of micro redemptions could make up for that.
The remaining two phials sat swirling on the edge of the basin. Harry sincerely hoped the remaining memories were actually focusing on Hermione, but the lead anvil sitting in his gut suggested otherwise.
Harry returned the first set of memories back to their original container and put it back in his pocket. He reached for the closest of the two residuals and poured them into the waiting Pensieve, diving in after.